LAST TRAIN TO HOOTERVILLE.
After being asked to resubmit a piece called My Superheroines all look like…I was alerted to my uses of hate speech, bigotry, A NEW ONE is out there in the glossary of the sanctimonious, Species-ist , not sure what that means, as just bet Trimalchio and Anderson Cooper share a menu, as if you would have sent as many Dogs to Bush’s quagmire as you did to his Iraq fiasco, as if Bidey would survive looking at his watch at a Dogs funeral, please, …
You know, all the fig leaves now used by those who actually voted for a segregationist while calling other citizens Nazi’s at least before the Gun went off anthrophormistically on its magical own. I think though, using a lot of these things now hated all the time, I remember a preator issuing fat jokes to stay in power and the glee the fat girls used in stoning that Woman, so, all the time, its just when a mention a old italian man named Joe Califano, intrequisngly enough, as he was berated and hated and hectored at one of their whiter restaurants, and berated over not having been a good wop and having expectedly voted for a hag who voted for a goon named Goldwater as she had, that it seems to bother the middlebrows of dark ages lit.
As a cro magnon here in Penns woods, in hoodie and flip flops,one can imagine the horror of the lace curtain Bush family back at the Ponderosa, wishes to assault the marble Senate, and in his commercials shows Rudy Giuliani as a villain, and Doc Oz as a Turk, and has a voice over in jersey shore worse wip vernacular, take that Dante!, , as he speaks openly of the otherness of Jersey, STILL always waiting for the laugh line that Jon Stewart and his minions got over that unmarked grave for those more than did not want to do business with the less than romantic black hand that did, ah as Bill C. could tell you about his wives beloved FBI, there are Salvettis everywhere in their file cabinets, as he was once for the removal of that trasnvestite’s name from their national police precinct, not quite the twelfth is it…? And this lunkhead doesn't even bother to find high yellow milhonkeys to place in his commercials, showing Trumpland Allegheny Co, nwo against mail in ballots, hummmmn, isn't as dilapidated as they had hoped when massacred Italian grandmothers. I have to ask, can anyone here play this Italian game of politics again, and what the hell is this cretin, who is Col Kurtz the neanderthal, the latest barbarian to crash the Roman senate…Tolkien…?
I still as a schoolboy forever, make Cartoons done in a Playboy, Mad, Natl Lampoon style that seems to become passe as clowns on the cyclops television network for some ungodly reason told us all to vote for a segregationist that Sister Cecilia told us to pray for those that this goofball, aluminum siding salesman, save the tiger, nothing goon preyed upon. He apaperd the world with amicus briefs withered Colbert wants to shoot Paar or not,being fore , well, against Busing, to bring back the electric chair, he called it humane ocne, but then what idiocracy didn't Praetor Ucker say in a cycle epic of stoogery, and of course, against Hillary care, but do get your Monkeypox penicilina here, if any is left. When I was a lad and traded in such scurrilous cartoons there was no death penalty much less a bifurcation between various types of cocaine to give some a misdemeanor and some 10 years automatic, but I genius deduce, that when one has a son like he does, one must use the chicken coop he turned the Roman ruins into, to Foghorn’s seeing the cupboard is bare as the winds grow colder, best widow calling upon corruptions.
A Roman sonnet more prescient by the day. The beginning of the end of the empire. the ruins of an old man and his third act. Italian circus among the sanctimonious Samantha Beehive as it is being told to be out of the building by 5. an elegy for Bill Clinton and his library of Roman letters. Saw Roman Bills original brunette honey his Ozark Beatrice, the type of girl he has been chasing after around and among his wife's attempts to be a DAR schoolmarm queen, the lovely first brunette daughter in a reren of Petticoat Junction that slipped back to its monochrome black and white beginnings, after a loop of repeats on the planet of cancellation, a year without Betty Rubble.
I saw the first brunette daughter, pretty and Playboy era type, flippant hair and smart eyes, a great figure under a white Roman dress, McCalls pattern, smart and bookish and Della Streetish, and how when i was a boy Like perpetual senator for life, Manzoni, and who brought that all ip in 2019 after Ma passed, the first of many Italian grandmothers ignored until the socialists started losing on fisherman’s wharf and Castillo streets….humnnnn, Sentaiore Bill, our commadderatore in the commedia dell'arte of politics before it turns into a catacomb with death and sewerage water abounding, there was the Italianate smart brunette seen sometimes, even in Jewish theater, but not now as the affirmative action types think they are owed by their scandalous bag man segregationist curtin. She left after the first year, and eventually the cyclops would make the red haired girl, the producers daughter go from TomBoy to wife and mother, sort of hat happened to Rottensburgher, whose ready made family and wife just where sunlight there to welcome him back from the tank and the timbs where all rapists without portfolio and claws into the NFL Rooney priest hood stew. whose ghost still haunts the stiller's drainboards, scared as they are yet that the second fiddle would be any good and his Margo’s results orientated creed be shown as what it was all along, a pig in a poke, a hostage seige where the sanctimonious were caught in a bathroom door draft, and he had bolted the stalls locked in place to have Love American Style, with happy endings song the toilets. He was all along, pretending to be Roger Staubauch.
I felt and looking upon the lovely brunette playmate sort, that CBS wouldn't openly like such as she, and that a show about three daughters would have to be remade into a show about two daughters, by then Beatrice was goine, June was Lost in Hooterville and tomboys are never allowed in Polyphemus’ caves, and Bobby Jo was remade into a cute, pert and bobby soxer bye bye birdie groupie as a tired Edger, fresh from Peckinpah land, just looked for a quiet place to die. And I keep getting come ons from , or all people, the New Yorker, a place had a letter from admiringly when i was 15 over cartoons my poppa told me to send out, alas Roman Supermen were never nothing that the house of Stan and it's barely capable drawers wanted any part of, as they thought, as would NBC that I had some boyish merit but had to go through the channels as it were, a broken and breaking down old Disney Ride then, that I, budding Paddy wanted no part thereof, as now after the planned edmic, rides in fact are breaking down on the magic castellos rides, as they find out that the jesuits who you could call chiold mosletors were in fact bigger fans of Collodi than any imagineer could ever be, though groomers you mustn't call them, much less make jokes about the poor abused sonny boys of main street usa. I hate getting kom ons from the New Amstredamer, their knickerbockers do unnerve me so, what was that high collared man doding at all but looking down on the Ginas and the Vinnies and the Doras and the Ezekeles and the Rubins and the Stanleys and the Rachels and the Eddas that were coming in like rats to their ragtime Life with Father sunday feasts, but with greasy hair and beanie caps and stick balls, to the point that Robert Mosese would reconstruct the city like an Agrippa to get them all on his super via venetos out to the sub urba, and thus create Bridge and Tunnel hair as a acceptable victory that coming from those who married off to every Paula Prentiss they could find I have never understood. He found a city made of brick and turned it into a miasma of causeways, and he left it made of asphalt and Van Wicks and steel girders that after they voted for a segregationist prepaid, lifer praetorians would try to remove the sainted name of Mario Cuomo and the old coot was finding out, once again for the thousandth time in grand opera, a cup holder couldn't play Aneo that well, and they quietly while flagging the Cattalinian dead body of Trump, that they lie in wait to make Biden go back to his Du Pont Capri, ala Tyberius, or even worse.
Well, as I said back to the Knickerbocker's swollen face, Mister Capote is dead and I don't feel so good myslf.As the long pioneer National Lampoon said , we don't have satire now, it all as Father Gore said, give the game away and with this old aging coot the game inst a foot as much as it is asleep. I spent the summer dealing with another of my quarterly crashes, as it seems chases in this HP computer,as I navigated the entirety of the plannedemic, with a old computer and Apache free Word and a Samsung telephone as my tether to the fallen Italian outside, moored in its shutters black death. And I wonder seeing a man who is still fighting the last election two Persiiids showers within his cockeyed and wayward imperium–Roman nomenclature gives even a decline and fall of a reeking class doesn't it…?, I spent the summer doing something I guess called fan fiction, in that write out a Paddy like teleplay called CRY BABIES, where as Perry Mason himself, beloved by me jesuitical gloomy, chubby, hefty, smart ass dark remembrances Raymond Burr went up against the punk and Junkielike , known as Johnny Depp. This may be against the greasy laws of CBS and the mausoleum of Paley, but alas is the fruits of literature, as I said that actually did get western letters out of his dark ages doldrums, whether the klan and the Bush families want to believe it or not. Hell, they were burning the Decameron in Rachel Maddow’s lifetime, girls, so maybe my pop was right about this weedy empire. Who would think through as putting Raymond Burr and PRETTY SMART ASS BRUNETTE with great legs Barbara Hale as juxtaposed against the drunkard it made him look all the worse worse and as a fanfiction of The Good Wife , had a pretty black lawyer in my mind’s Playhouse 90, played by Vivica A., as Virgil, justifiably his name in the play, of course, who else to ferry us through the then about then to balloon dead started it in the Wake of Ma again, that they would make this idiot and his plastic magic kingdom seem all the more vulgarian than it even was. And now, fights erupt and rides break down at the once happiest place on earth, where an Englishman was Nemo and the wooden Sicilian puppet dressed as a little Swiss miss, and its musical chairs of Jewish interlopers into the Grimmest kingdom, show again, this is the year that Thor broke down twice, sorry, Adolph.
But, as my father said, That idiot who didnt attack Brittain, as Mussolini, well read jeuist traiend Machievllian two face told him to, that he got what he desrved from a cretin pig named Churchill, who use the Nazi’s as a way to cleanse himself of Galopolli. My father said of Adolph, that he wanted to restore Germany to its ancient Glory and alas it didn't have any, just an old book by a Roman who created the liberal idea of the nobel savage. Oh look, the Eighth month, hallows eve, war sued for peace as Arrrreccc Barrrrwiin proves again, he was no Maverick to begin with. I hear whistling before the Pantheon, although when Hillary is around, as she seems to be, speaking of Ariosto, she better not catch you whistling or humming So In love,as you know, a reason that Brother Bill has spent half his life under the covers, or quilts as the case might be. My sister was somewhere where they wouldn't let her watch Petticoat Junction, as a respite from this viking hinterland wasteland, as they watched CNN incesstantly and didn't alas get the joke, but it is more fanciful now than Disney and its unisex toilets have become. Gee, there was the pretty brunette at the Shady Gr—rest hotel, first brunette, three graces, daughter, as Adam West did go up with his first great enemy, Peckinpah's corruptest sherriff,Edger Buchanan as The Hick, asking where's my gummit check.... The brunette daughter was gone soon enough, like the daughter on My Favorate Martian, as the Jews of the cyclops then, --sorry as an Italian, the Sicilians would be worse-- then they would only marry brunettes. Now, they show their refracted decency, all of them shywitzers, as an Hispanic girl, with henna rince no less, the American dream, isn't allowed to play a non bomb toying with Bat-girl, as we aren't what we used to be. The plastic gingerbread men, still as poisonous as ever, doesn't fall far from a vulgarian and almost passe, plastic Christmas tree. Goodbye to all of that.