Face to face with something as trashy as Sir Richard Starkey’s benevolent claim that AIDS was a justified act of love for an imperiled earth, it is difficult not to editorialize, knowing what happened. The origins of the AIDS attack are found in judicial scrutiny by officials who privately declared it an action within precedent. Their blueprint and plan (found in Fort Pitt where (Play it Again, Sam) the British General Ahmerst wrote directions to spread smallpox to Indians and get rid of them) stated that the assassination of JFK was friendly fire. My goal is to acquaint you with the digest that the victims are entitled to a defense despite their forfeiture which means understanding who brokered the silence of the lambs and the so-called perfect storm of their pre-packaged hissy fit rebellion. With help this can make sense to you. The absence of guidance in this narrative testifies to collaborators in justice and news media. In due course this summary will lay bare Obama’s secret agenda. Trump is in office to skewer the idea that anything better can be expected.
In Haruki Murakami’s book Underground about the sarin nerve agent attack on a Tokyo Subway, he interviews members of Aum Shinrikyo Cult who speak about another cult that I investigated personally. A member of Aum Cult speaks glowingly of Robert Fripp and the Gurdjieff Cult where I found proof that AIDS is manmade and was brutally and verminously attacked for trying to warn people. A lot of people were taken in by their incredibly nightmarish play within the play, designed to gain sympathy for the assassins. There is quite frankly nothing at all to say for a poison criminal who gives themselves a plague contagion and they turns upon you as a human weapon, but the Gurdjieff Cult amazingly fobbed these fiends off as central leaders of the victim mission. The Council they formed outlawed attempts to warn, and mandated extremely high risk punishment for anyone found sympathizing, while Seattle Queers, comfortable with their senior victim status, voted that this was called for and drastic in-group acceptance hazing. Think it over. We’re talking about suicide troops of the aggressor lobby leading the victims, and I can name names.
The in-group of course have groupies, some of them minor celebrities themselves, or children of celebs, making up an ugly proselytizing faction of bandwagon guttersnipes putting up a wall of deceit and fury. One laughs with puking hatred and scorn at who these tarts put forwards as hero. So we have learned the unimaginable. The irony of it is, excuse me, the bitter, hard bullwhip of perversity is that the clarion call was so epic, so loud and clear, so furiously Orwellian that it slapped us in the face and called it kisses. It was perfectly obvious to anyone not taken in. For all their mania of supremacism, their horrid belch in your face sadism, and the sanctification of poison crime, inducement to school children, the rank name: Beatles can still evoke hysteria and remorseless loyalty, even now, when found out for putrid collaborators and authors of such a bewildering and vile attack. Again one snickers with hatred as they gleam the glamorous shine of their claim it was love.
It is silly and rude not to just expect Black hypocrisy. It’s pointless to reason with the Black intelligensia. Who would have believed that Jesse Jackson’s sordid hold on the holy microphone of ego power was so precious to him that he would gladly and illicitly subscribe to an extermination program in return for a Black Mr. President? The humiliation of African America was finalized with this Faust hand on Executive disgrace. Spect ole ‘bama just bout swore on a stack ‘o Bibles, now. The red carpet was blood drenched. Jesse Jackson was the new Andrew Jackson and it is just meant to put you to sleep.
On December 6, 1830 in his disgusting State of the Union Address, President Andrew Jackson announced, with no supporting evidence, the existence of tombs and memorials “spread over extensive regions of the West” attributed to “a once powerful race, which was exterminated” by “savage tribes.” Then, the offending tribes were in turn “annihilated,” he avows, they “melted away to make room for the whites,” in a kinder, gentler process he calls, “milder” and a testament to “man in their highest perfection”. He speaks casually of extinction being the natural order, announcing at last that if the Indians were even the man the Europeans were they would have the sense to give thanks for their eviction.
“Promise her anything but give her Arpege,” runs the franchise commercial. Such a laugh could have its root in atrocity. Jackson told the Shawnee he would “protect your whole territories against all intrusions,” while secretly honing the backblade with sacred venoms and malice in the confines of The White House. It really doesn’t matter if he’s wrong, he’s right because might makes right. Some men don’t like seeing their friends tortured beyond all imaginable pain. Some men don’t like American history rendered comparable to Adolf Hitler. The hidden truth ransoms our dignity. We’re asked to just accept it as an old bad memory, the ugly story of the ogres known as The Elders, starring Midori Goto as Helen of the Ark. Loathsome is the British Royal family’s middle name.
If it galls you to evaluate what really happened, maybe at least you should prepare yourself for the truth of it anyway. Look briefly at Housing and Urban Development, long excluded from deficit spending by the war machine. HUD depends a great deal on the scruples of landlords willing to protect long-standing tenants even when the potential for greater profits beckon. This supposes a certain wisdom on the part of Housing Authorities working with people who are private citizens. They don’t attack landlords, mercilessly tirade that their assets should be taken and their children murdered, they don’t ripper murder innocent bystanders as threats, yet all this was done, by museum hucksters and profiteers, in the name of disallowing anyone to report the truth because they claimed it would violate the C of copyright they emblazoned in a Star of David for their war game. Along comes Larry Flynt, friend of Reagan, a bitter, vicious baboon who gratuitously attacks any vestige of dignity he can find in anyone anywhere, especially in politics, by sexual stigma, and yet he was masqueraded and paraded as a heroic child sex slave trafficker in the helm of holy NAAMBLA who represented the victims of pure parochial evil, adding endlessly to misery and misfortune by campaigning unbearably lies on behalf of the murderers themselves who he laughed had made little Jimmy whimper. With glee he made AIDS attack his weapon, too.
You mustn’t ever lose sight of their lewd sexual obsession about Leslie Katz. They held a brain damaged child in neurotraumatic hypnotic suggestion to inculcate programmed learning by rendering their prey susceptible to caustic suggestion. In turning to King Crimson, the vilest lackeys Reagan ever had, with the story of the frame up, they viciously set upon me to monger the Frame Potential they had drummed up with their horrific false witness campaign, slandering me globally, with hiding exculpatory evidence. So womanly were the U.S. Navy that they cooperated in a demand from Hitler’s martial alliance with Yoko Ono and NEVA Man/cine/ma for an Apology from me as a secret representative of the war at sea in which my father served. The Peace Corps didn’t defend him. The University of Pittsburgh didn’t. Bethany College didn’t. Not one single student or colleague, and the evidence of murder is there for all to see, in La Mer of Ehrlen. The venoms exhibited by those who invented blame for little Jimmy to protect Gail Burstyn and her cult of inhuman traffickers were not just the authors pretending to have found the script, they demanded to be allowed to use me. They said prove it (A female canine animal, especially a dog), demanding an inhuman sacrifice to give vicious pleasure to Yoko Ono.
People are understandably shy of contagion. It didn’t help anyone to have soulless British rock stars bombing and despoiling while publicly calling themselves healers. Who else but Steve Hawking announced that criminal piecemeal mutilation of a serial trauma victim used for a voodoo doll was therapy and empathy, while rippering Shannon Harps dead? Kushner’s book, Why Bad Things Happen to Nice People has factually been tied to the 911 attacks. “U.S. Out of North America,” Dolly Meieren used to say from Guerilla Theater on the corner where I met Leslie Katz. Maybe her friend Ralph Proctor can establish the new Kingdom of Kush with Miles Kirshner.
The murderers bragged that contempt for the child they earmarked by the victims would trick Seattle Queers into confederacy and Seattle Queers said [redacted] you so what? They gyrated with frenetic disgrace as they leered with pins and needles marked positive and negative. The Registered Nurse who poisoned me and caused no end of suffering, putting me on the road to wrongful death, was committing a government abomination every bit as despicable as Russia’s murder of Anna Politkovskaya. Announcing that a child held in coma was negligent, they didn’t even hide that they refused to warn in evil hour because they wanted AIDS to spread, sure of their pretzel logic and structuralist approach. The little viles working with Rosa Monteleone claimed that all the conspicuous manufacture of confirmatory bias terrorizing a child brainwashed by murderers who lied through the teeth over humiliating acts by sexually depraved adults, pushing deranged libels about virginity to justify the AIDS war game and child pornography mongering by the Palace in London, said it was a Klan lesson for hassling someone, and they made up a chicken fight.
Leslie Katz’s best friend Tami Simon wrote, “I, the dreamer clinging yet to the dream as the patient clings to last, thin, unbearable instant of agony in order to sharpen the savor of the pain’s surcease,” these brazen, dirty Jews got away with making the victims into their lightning rods for squeezing someone else, grateful groupies taking it for what it was worth. Selling their violin music, they then hissed through the child blackmailer Lewis Lapham of “tears for sale,” as though simple decency, pity of torment, were a monstrous thing. The victims put forward by Martin Sheen and Mel Gibson could not be reckoned with on their terms, some of them willing to die in a holy war of Two Virgins, allowing any mistreatment, any evil incarnate, any depravity in full view of the school, because Rusted Root says Jimmy Creary, who was dragged through glass, wasn’t brutally beaten, wasn’t bukkaked in his sleep, wasn’t kidnapped horrifically, didn’t have neurotrauma, didn’t love his girlfriend, shoved clay in his (bleep) and his ears, wasn’t gassed by no Pitmen, wasn’t doing right by trying to tell police, and above all didn’t show any sort of initiative in hitchhiking to St. Louis in good faith to hear Robert Fripp play guitar. He’s not deaf, he’s ignoring you…MYAWK! A White!
Teriyaki was a les majeste.