Vaclav Havel: One of Stalin’s Own.

Getting attention from the FBI and US Secret Service for my articles at Pitt News is not in and of itself supporting evidence for the idea that my father’s work on humanism was sufficient to have me spotlighted in a military operation by the Reagan Government as a child. It is however enough to pre-suppose that police profiles were developed to de-humanize me further. We know that Reagan’s malicious, pedestrian and evil Lieutenant Robert Fripp of King Crimson became very intimately personal in attacks of a grudge direction. True to his long-winded history as a self-publicist, he insinuated such convoluted depraves as Steve Hawking and Brian Eno into his brainiac advance on the child of a humanist. That paragraph illustrates something very powerful about how this sad story of criminal molest by surreal police administration is hidden: by the language of academics. There is an inhuman gluttony at work the ravenous criminality of the affair which makes attempts to describe an exercise in madcap popular science, restricted to a few demented readers. It helps them to normalize mutilation, vivisection and child torture as simple and commonplace mistreatment to de-humanize me further by rendering my grip on the subject as academic lore.


I barely have enough money and energy to answer a few clubhouse letters from Seattle, much less lobby this sick Administration through the Department of Justice.   Labor has already flipped out at my claim to victim status, as have the New York publisher’s project. The Ultraclass has its own rulebook, so it’s futile to argue. The murderers control the material world. To stop them means only winning embrace by them. They did not want me to be entitled to my opinion and having failed to destroy all of the evidence, which they tried to do, they announce through back channels that it was a work of art. Fripp has lisped to his crafties of his personal tuition in the matter.   Not that anyone has ever cared, but there seemed to me something left, despite my deafness, to salvage from my hitchhiking all the way to St. Louis from Pittsburgh in 1979 after graduating from high school just to see that rancid Lieutenant of Reaganmania play his shiftless guitar. I had spent my upbringing crying from deafness and peer rejection. There is a reason King Crimson made good and sure that I came to hate them as bitterly as I do. It was in the sincerity of my love for them that my vindication and spirit as a child mutilated by a Manson style that Clinton found so delectable was proven against the sordid and insane tragedy of the morbid identity crime by what Greg Karl recorded as, “construction of a persona” for Hollywood “utility function” in the words of James Dubya Child.   There was, in other words, something to salvage and it was this sincerity they sought to poison. It has gotten so bad that I don’t want anyone to see how dearly I loved them because of what they really are. As a result I have choked the college dissertation on sociology that I discussed with my father Ryland of curriculum development which was to be in favor of King Crimson, studies of Sufism at Temple and all. I did not reckon such heaped up knavery and maneuvering, and do not want to be culpable, but that is the reason they cannot address my humanity as a child, because of my love for them. It falls not only outside the slanderous persona that they pursued, but puts a different spin on the years they spent executing horrible recreational sadism towards someone whom they told, “I love you, man.”


The issue in this caseload goes into the scoundrel condition of the NAACP and the living heirs of the Civil Rights Movement. It’s all very good to blame it on the trickery and manipulation of the white man, but culpability is central to understanding why this testimony and investigation can never be allowed to be brought to light. The strategy of those who murdered King and Lennon is very clear from the text of their confession. They had it all worked out to say that this crying shame would all make good entertainment. In casting the hideous Morlock Martin Sheen in the film: Selma, before whom the imaginary Dr. King, as good a closest continuer as ever conceived by John Rawls as the Walrus, gives his Tom Selleck pout and tearful sniffles for permission to march, Hollywood made a banquet of the dead at a feast of cannibals. Grandstanding in towering ugliness, this monster Martin Sheen granted a posse of actors permission to re-stage a dramatic moment in Alabama history. He did not grant them permission to make a movie about the way he and Vince Eirene lied in Pittsburgh years later to cover up his sordid grab on the amazing grace of the murder papers. Burstyn bragged openly of the Hollywood deals they waved around to instill terror in the hearts of those they exploited, armed with the tattered spectacle of a deaf white suck. “Now I want to know if they really did to some kid,” Burstyn wrote with a laugh.


Did King Crimson care about little Jimmy or did they just want to pursue the life-shattering identity crime: cudda saved John Lennon, and on behalf of who? The AIDS Combine.   Words cannot easily capture the writhing, morphing enigma of hypocrisy that mysterian. Crying and crying for deafness and peer rejection after what they did to me as a child wasn’t a concern when it came to factual legacy. It’s Hollywood now. Black people, of course, never make political mistakes, so we can just forget about it. They got away with saying, well we’ll just give you AIDS then, and blaming me for someone getting branded with schizophrenia, while hissing John Lennon’s last words: “Did they use a ball gag?” on the topic of the rape of deaf Jeannie. This is what we got in return for the deaths of our 60’s leaders, a Martin Sheen scam over bragging rights in the field of heapist plastic reality and civil deception.


The stink and the sneers that attended the rejection of me in high school by Leslie Katz were all mapped out by a Jewish Community clear in their understanding of status denied. This is what gave Bill Clinton such joy in endorsement of the Manson Family.   The death of history being advertised by the cosmopolitan silence of the Publisher’s Project signifies a totality as eviscerating to our heritage as Soviets accomplished in their destructive domain. The rise of a Sovietized America, chilling for its masks of chivalry and flag-waving, in a pact with fascism, has as its highest cunning the mask of love. Joyously lacing the framework of their tapestry with the scavenger fury collecting all things Lennon, they barbed the dialogue with anecdotes allowing the infinite connoisseur Brian Eno to rake the coals with every last maddening request. Much of what transpired is a story they will never tell you, but I can give you a few of its details.


Gail Burstyn came from a society that included Victor Frankl. It was a skull and bones consortium made up of holocaust survivors. Scott Riback was able to show me nuclear documents in high school, while he slipped me asides like, “school daze,” and “a setting for a tragedy.” United in arms with a syphilitic jet set who pass for New Age Illuminati, the Bush errand enjoyed and called upon the convenience of British acid rockers eager to match wits in partnership with the infinite cunning of Greg Karl and Hitler’s revenge. Fripp spoke of nuages, a ridiculous word, while selling walled cities. Dennis Brutus of South Africa could see only race in a sickening entrapment by a Bible cult on campus making great task of their libels during evil hour. The sneers that attended Leslie’s rejection of the queerbait, notoriously the aptly named Michael Exler (pronounced X-slur) were adopted from Gail Burstyn by Lewis Lapham with a dandified grin about the monstrous satan of carrot tapes, lie after cowardly lie, to make joke of Zell’s mission. With monstrous little monsters like Eno and Hawking spinning the enchantment of fleshly mortification for Burstyn and Frankl the AIDS Combine were no longer laughing at you they were laughing with you.


Did those who was gonna give the queerbait what it really wanted ever really know me? Did they adhere scrupulously to any standard of honesty or consistency at all? Not on your life. They had read ahead. They were the ladlers, ladling out the prescriptive information of myth and metaphor in measured dosages to the privileged few who could follow the superwave. When you get to the next part, they laughed, we’ll be there waiting for you. Vaclav Havel, who was the most important voice of the 80’s, shattered our dreams. He turned out to be a psychopath, a fraud, a ripper backstabber, a mutilationist, a coward and a liar, one of Stalin’s. Queerbait lives don’t matter. If you aren’t dead by now, who cares? Vince Eirene as an Honorary Guttersnipe still holds to the task of finding the last tragedy of liberalism castrated and masturbating, disallowed to marry, much less own a weapon, because of imaginary threats attributed to a mental. How convenient that I am non-violent. This renders it a mandate for those who understand as well as proof of its pathology. What a windfall the murderers in King Crimson engineered for the sadistic stupidity of the Fundamentalists. Corruption charges they insinuate by cyberstalking attend the cruel suffocation caused by erectile dysfunction, as though there is something eminently exemplary in gazing at the Asian girls who were all the queerbait had left when Midori Goto triumphed with Ted Nugent.


What Martin Sheen did in Pittsburgh was a thousand times more corrupt, vicious and disgusting than what J. Edgar Hoover did to Martin Luther King and my tears were just as real, but we live in a media world that stops short of reporting stories about girls in human trafficking with an eye gouged out who succumb to HIV, because they are relieved of such duties by the mandate not to scare seniors. Sheen made a grandstanding cameo in Selma as a point of Nazi control in Hitler’s revenge, selling the good apes who went along with the Onslaught over pussyball, giving them passage to the Edmund Pettus Bridge at lost. Over his shoulder, he hisses to the puppet, neuro-hypnotized to cough up parroted renderings of a sincerity that is “terribly entertaining,” “if you wash we’ll be offended.”


Robert Fripp was smart enough to know that a date rape complex wasn’t proof of guilt. He should be prosecuted on criminal charges for what he has done.

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