What It’s Like to Be Me

When I was a kid about nine years old some Italian-American was in a fight with a Black kid.  They were dressed differently.  The Italian-American public school student wore dirty jeans and an everyday man’s tee-shirt.  The Black kid was dressed for school.  He was dressed fancy enough to have added a tie.  He wore a vest and a nice shirt.  His notebook had fallen to the ground.  When he got the better of the Italian-American who had started the fight this man did a football kick at the Black kid’s notebook.  The pages flew all over creation.  In tears of fury the Black kid set after his tormenter. 

Peter Gabriel is just like that Italian-American and I am the victim of his serial abuses.  He brutally tortured me, but he is an expert at the sort of terror hate crimes, hitting below the belt, with jeers of spite, which are meant to leave his victim in crying tears of absolute dejection and defeat.  Further, Gabriel is a chickenly, vicious, inhuman monstrosity who only travels in a wolfpack.  He includes enormous names like Obama in his super-rich mob scene, while braying that they are the underdog.  Obviously, having me castrated and my girlfriend raped for reporting child mutilation is the act of a holocaustally sickening nuclear hun.  Obviously.

Do his fans apologize?  Out of the question.  They set upon me with hostile, bitter recriminations, like, “Do they use a ball gag when they rape your deaf chinky?”  I reported being spat upon and called, “queerbait,” by an armed gang who were kicking me in the head as a prelude to kidnapping and torturing me as a child.  Peter Gabriel’s putrid fans said I was using immature language, then accused me of forgery and said I must have been using crack.  A psychiatric crank defending Peter Gabriel wrote in cold blood intonation, “the queerbait believes it was tortured as a child.”  Beat that.

What friends do I have?  Licky chops for victory in Peter Gabriel’s name the people closest to me say things like, I kid you not, “Well-luh, I find it lots easier to believe that someone flew all over the world sending you letters in different handwritings signed:  Jim Marrs, Martha Gellhorn, Eugene Sledge, Lewis Lapham, Milena Czerna, Peter Gabriel, Robert Fripp and Walker Percy than I do to believe these people wrote to you and your mother threw them away while you were screaming in seizures in an Iowa jail.”

What am I supposed to say?

Gabriel has gotten away with privately selling a Green Party line that I am to blame for AIDS while simultaneously denying it is manmade.  In raving attacks, he has used Lennon’s murder for his medium.  I am up against one of the most cruel, despicable and cowardly murderers ever to have secured powers of propaganda from on high.

I have never met anyone who cared.

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