The Hooded English

Foreign English, led by sizzling rock mercenary Robert Fripp of King Crimson welded up an agreement with Pittsburgh Ku Klux Klan minutemen that I am a hate object born to be murdered in a life of near lethal serial abuse and heart-shattering ridicule, nevermind what anyone who knows me may think. What this monster did to my 80 year old mother, daughter of Ward Moore, former distinguished copy-editor of the Post-Dispatch, is so criminal and low that I am a wreck from coping with my own tears of fury. They say hatred is its own punishment, well so is deafness and it is equally inescapable and undeserved. The entire direction of this psychopath’s ordeal was to arrive at the glowering absolution of permanent, agony-driven, smoldering non-violent hatred as though it is some sort of moral victory in pacification of victim trauma. Malediction he laughs with a sneer is healing energy to the wise, lie after lie after cowardly, cowardly, cowardly lie.

Small wonder the CIA, the Beatles and David Bowie fear AIDS riots if people learn how this was contrived and how they were used and misled.

What is particularly revealing about this abuse of Lennon’s faith in primal scream therapy in the cause of peace is that the adoption of his conception is delivered from on high by his assassins, as if to say, good idea, John, and we’ll use you to try it, like Lincoln insisting that a bullet proof vest designer exhibit its value by putting it on before sharp shooters.

An obscure example will suffice, you know how like, you know how I was waved to by Reagan the night before Hinckley shot Brady when Ize tripping on (MK) Kirshner LSD and a beetle crawled out of my eye in a Foggy Bottom pizza shop (or dropped the ceiling or something it was weird)? Like it was with John Currant who poured out a bong in room 711 of Thurston Hall at George Washington University and said, “that was the rudest thing I have ever seen,” carrot lava, in jest. John cure-rant, get it? Someone thought of all these switch and signal nomikers, I didn’t.

Why queerbait isn’t a victim at all, it turns out, he’s their lucky exemplar. Scream, hahahahaha. Maybe the slasher Queers in Seattle and The New York Times will take pity or show remorse for their lies. If not, Reagan will kill you yet for their satisfy.

Frankly, I am a little tired of terroristic threats being issued by the Reagan machine. They already manufactured an alibi by afflicting me mysteriously with schizophrenia, courtesy the wiles of Kzetnik, and silver bullet Silverblatt. What more do you want? Robert Fripp did indeed serially molest me and do serious bodily harm, but he was nothing if not clever. He invented the claim that Jimmy, like Frodo under the stabbing soul-wound of a notched blade of ringwraiths at Weathertop had given Reagan his word not to tell the truth, and Bowie, the two-tongued man, saying anything that sells, cheated in his greed to be Elrond in the movie, instead of removing the cold metal of Sauron’s love squeezed it to drive it deeper.

It is possible to know perfectly well how this operated and that it was obviously Reagan. In the markets for saleable fiction so powerful in our Hollywood news media, Pentagon-Disney, Oliver Stone, the warlord of wild palms, who casts the leer of his greed right and left, from Nixon to Jim Morrison and then back with the slow scowl of LBJ from Alison Crouse to Aleister Crowley, spat that Jimmy had made Reagan the underdog. Only Jimmy is not victim, shrieked Amanda Harcourt, while Martin Sheen intoned, “Who framed Roger Rabbit?” How interesting that George Romero’s daughter Kyra is named in the Burstyn script and that the razor style of his ad for the film: “Martin,” was used when Martin Sheen show up in Pittsburgh, introduced himself to me with the gloat of a Harborview Medical Center nurse, pumped up with the petty rivalry of Vince Eirene, a doofbag who can’t even tuck in his tee-shirt properly, and set upon an impacted neuroplasm in the name of Leslie Katz to bring Jimmy back, as though with a hot poker from the fireplace, to the nature of reality, and isn’t it interesting that this was done for Martin Andelman’s protogee, Leslie Sanetta Katz, Andelman who introduced me to Kirshner, Reagan’s attorney with Wesley Posvar who had me in D.C. that day; Andelman who introduced me to Thos. Gordon, who helped Ringo Starr and Megan Dietz justify raping deaf Jeannie. This situation wasn’t evaluated it was used as a talisman by a finkish Bar Association who justify their terror of power by cheering its abuse.

It was obvious from day one that I was being de-humanized by child mutilationists in a pervert attack on my father’s legacy: Humanizing the School. All of downtown Pittsburgh should have been up in arms, instead they put my father on trial as a Red Witch at the Post-Gazette, to the snickers of Amanda and Martin.

If it isn’t enough that a simpering eel who sold you King Crimson as holy war worked out his egological frustration by raping a retarded deaf girl with epilepsy, invoking HitlerReagan as he zippered up, Fripp spent his reputation as the last unblemished celebrity by joining forces with categorical notoriety from Pinochet to Pitman, and Allen Dulles to Heinrich Himmler, pince nez fast in the eye of his quisling synthesizer guitar, seething to lend cred to Ringo’s Teddy Boy status while empowering the Jewish schaedenfreude of “whatever sells” Oliver Stone.

The only thing that can still bring me to tears about it is that Peter Gabriel claimed to be from Amnesty International.

This is what they did as a function of failure to warn: the beneficial effluvium of a yammer from Senegal.


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