The CIA is a Real Estate Agency

Had Stokely Carmichael, Bob Moses, John Lewis or any of the other Civil Rights Movement workers been found holding an ashtray of marijuana roaches it would have been a long, miserable prison term in an infamous penitentiary like Parchman’s. All over the South in the days of Easy Rider it was a commonplace, cheap cop trick for the local Sheriff to stash a little baggy from the evidence room in his boot in the event of an opportune moment giving speeding tickets to an out of state long hair. The Beatles came on the heels of King’s murder to plant marijuana in the ashtrays of every single war resistor on the Left and in the center, and you are expected to believe that they didn’t know what they were doing. Even without the benefit of studies concerning the MK-Ultra and British Opium Wars, the fact that the Beatles were a corrupt and glitzy Royalist adventure expecting worship, veneration and loveslavery was perfectly obvious and they bragged with ruthless gurgles throughout their careers of being on a sexual rampage of Machiavellian thrill kill. Even their best press suggests that their acid days made them insensitive, the crash from idealism darkened their visage making them the Neanderthals that we see today. They became the hidden death ray of Ronald Reagan during the AIDS Onslaught, these too holy rockers, whose lost powers of judgment proved fatal, as they sang forth that every Hitler spy also contained Allah.

From the very beginning of this absolutely horrible casework, showing that AIDS was a brutal military operation originating in Hollywood and executed from the higher education establishments of the City of Pittsburgh, an English was present. Billy Rodd knew his name. Rodd used to taunt him, but in the characteristic nature of an English, he responded by threatening me. Rodd was part of the Billy club, Rodd, Billy Beck and Billy Flynn, as the three kids faster than me other than Carmen Colucci. Rodd was with me walking to school the day a terrorist hun brutally punched me blindside, a man I had never seen before, involved in a crime for control of a child’s mind, named Kasper, the friendly ghost.

During the anti-war demonstrations, Hitler’s power in Hollywood, led by then Governor of California, his brother Ronald Reagan, another form of demonstration was being recorded in our theaters and newspapers. One after another the sordid march of films shaping our dreams, picking our pockets, damaging our environment, appeared in the nation’s theaters: Death Camp 7, Don’t Look in the Basement, The Exorcist, Night of the Living Dead, and The Blind Dead, that Italian film of the Ankh that Ian Wattenmaker wanted to go see to get the vomit bag: while they were doing this, George Romero was working with City Police to kidnap, brutalize, and depradate upon my home with letters from a little girl introduced to me in the house of a local magistrate, setting me up for a prison camp Papillon ruled by Yoko Ono, snickering from the streets of Warhol, with a script about the murders of King and Lennon, and a ruse about threats towards a dirty Jewess partnered to the plan, based on letters of rejection extruded using a neuroplasm.

Brian Eno lay in wait, to match wits with the CIA by claiming that his guerilla warfare in defense of those who started AIDS was top sacredly curative therapy on behalf of the victims, and that so long as not one penny of Beatles gold was implicated in liberal causes, he might not start injecting people. Dexter King was on hand vying for a ride in Monaco on the flying carpet of celebrity.

Ono has it good with Leslie Katz and Gail Burstyn. Carnegie Mellon got the idea when Cameron Brown and David McWade, on behalf of Elliott Spitzer and Kathee DiPietro, declared that Midori Goto was a dominatrix who had planted an un-feminist sentiment in the ash tray of queerbait, to be declared morally toxic and off-limits to police investigation on his behalf. In the timeless words of Mr. Ooka, “as they beheld the woman who had betrayed them, she threw her head back in a haughty laugh and they fell to lick her feet.” It was a time for Norman Schwarkopf to call his sister, myuh, as Greg Karl ridiculed Robert Fripp as “Propp.”

 

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