While accusing me of unspoken threats, the thrill kill journeymen online call my academic prose too intellectual, avoiding the word turgid. The idea is meant to suggest self-enchanted confusion of a masturbatory rage. Guided by long-standing experience with the easily manipulated they rode my stolen fiance to their brags. It is their hope to hotwire around my narrative, just as they hotwired around due processes and dignities.
The assassins, as a unit, have always resorted to subtle, arcane advertisement of the billboard variety, in addition to the planned typographical error and codification of name and text methods of conveyance. This landscape or drama stage scenario building is the sadism of murder at work illustrating their hostage-taking impunity and derision, while flaunting surreal cultural support from sophomoric Machiavellians for what seems likelier than ever to be a faction drumming for global apocalypse. The caustic murals they sport are routine with their rigamarole.
It was designed so that paranoia of a sort is required in its detection which creates the paradox of denial that empowers their support lobby negating identification and providing camouflage. Obviously, I cannot do the work of ten ultra-rich punk rock stars and their vast, imperial corporate cornucopia, but in pointing out that other explanations are saying that a monkey typed Shakespeare, I think I can sort out a few preliminaries to necessary research.
It is inadequate just to list the items of advertisement, although for sure the text of simple trickery providing the plot line eases the burden of awareness by providing the comfort of elusive explanation. The inadequacy of poverty row digest does, tragically, lend significant deference favoring the aggressor. I have nothing to bribe my reader with.
The motive are the letters of their crime. Extravagantly declaring them the world’s most valuable papers, suspected of being Lennon’s writ, in partnership with Britain’s Nuremberg team, in confidence with Duke Edward, the abdicated Nazi-sympathizing former King, in confederacy with J. Edgar Hoover, and the OSS, Dulles and Cecil Rhodes, these papers, Axis Unearthed, are deemed more precious than the U.S. Constitution.
The assassins have gotten in the habit of succeeding this way, taking power, taking homes, taking loved ones aware from their marked targets by the bullet rather than the ballot, yet the surviving victims have failed to appraise the situation according to what they have really done. The confederates are allowed to know all about it, and to openly flaunt the cognitive mappings, while the liberals are forbidden to speak of it, much less contemplate a foil.
The point is that there are certifiable vignettes proving indisputably that the authorities include hostile deviants operating in a state of rage against innocent people and used abortion, among other sleights of hand, as their metaphorical smokescreen. Their operating premise seems to be that those smart enough to know where to look will be chauvinist enough to agree with their agenda, despite being openly belligerent and cultivation of a ruse. Knowing that the source is clever and brutal is an inhibiting factor in properly journeying through identification modalities.
Let us begin with the travesty of control forces operating over me in dire poverty, deafness, and diabetes, who had no business obstructing inquiry regarding me as a victim of shocking terrorism. For example, my elderly mother, Nancy Moore, who my father Ryland had famously accused of negligence in my deafness, once commented regarding Raymond Mark Mancine having ten children, “I hope he did a better job raising them than he did you.” This whimsy was genuinely frightening regarding a pedophile who had kidnapped, trafficked, tortured and set me up for murder as an attention getting device for deviant snuff film directors. He put her scholar’s program, favored status son on inhalants at a very tender age, intending sexual slavery. This was just the beginning. She is now married to a man named John Lucarelli with a son working at 20th Century Fox, who obviously pretended to find the script, in which Mark Mark is a name multiplex signifier. Lucarelli comes from Mark Twain’s hometown, Elmira, where the Mark System of Corrections originated. It is not just that Mark Mancine and Mark Chapman, who worked John Lennon’s disappearance have marked man in their names, nor only that John L. is similarly patterned as mother claims, but there is much more: 1. The Mark System is points favor and points against in an institution of corrections that was heavily influenced by Jeremy Betham’s pleasure/pain principles. The script says, “take away, take away my eyes sometimes I’d rather be blind.” After Nicholas Dibarno convinced Mancine’s sister to waylaid and traffic me to cloak his debauchery of her, they deafened me in Mark System organ barter.
There is more to Nancy Moore, who has the maiden name of Strom Thurmond’s wife. She raised me in the shadow of a painting of three nuns who looked exactly like Adolf Hitler. She took me to a church that was torn to make way for a library, in a symbolic act that was later used by the church still standing across the street to demonize the humanism of my father Ry, a church at the Crossroads where Leslie Katz sat and Dolly Meieren described as Guerrilla Theater. The monkey who typed Shakespeare also managed a camera with a blinding bright flash that mother used to take my pictures in childhood before she began screaming at me night and day. The monkey who typed Shakespeare also managed to have I Love Sira Siran painting on garage door in 1966, when our cat were named Pitsche and Serendippity. I was later given a nerve agent by the copiously suggestive name agent Wattenmaker. Even in her mellower old age, mother has a mean spirit simmering just below the surface, a domineering personality, is prone to dirty looks, with a hairpin temper, cackling with malice at my deepest wounds, and never sheds a tear.
So we see that the monkey who typed Shakespeare is very busy and would be bedtime for any bonzo in the Draconian Casino of D.C. who presumed to make a mutt out of him at the rule A table of Casino Royale. The adrenaline pumped ogres of reptilian mega-psychosis and fanzoid maniaphrenia provided by unscrupulous Sean Lennon in cold-blooded, hard hearted, lawless chicanery defending the men he claims killed his father have in mind building landed estates on their amazing mascot, still lucky after decades as an object of murderously sadistic foreign English vivisection sanctioned by a local Pittsburgh school.
These are evidently lessons of the Texas Skoolbook, which I suppose, being Reagan’s authorship, you could expect to be more valuable than loyalty to John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Fripp, providing agency for the killers, intones of his “semi-barbaric” character after his consortium pretended to be with Amnesty International, and by this lisping muse he has lowered the bar conspicuously on standards of decency to inflict sadism intended to be cruel and unusual. Not satisfied with defacement and mutilation, they broadcast evil review, gloating over the magnitude of their travesty and the insane and vicious dimension of their humiliation of a deaf poet, in keeping with the belief of the Catholic vampires implicated that AIDS was just war, and that such burning would free the souls of the victims for redemption and ascension into heaven as consumers of the Beatles wonderland. Many times, even since I’ve been inflicted with diabetes, in poverty, with no one to help look after me, I have been they plan to kill me as a promise to Lennon’s fanzoids who they deluded.
The horrible and dishonorable extremism is said to be a form of Feminist Corrections. The presence of Mary Ellen Tunney with Andrea Swimmer in tow, and Amilda Tuttle (Tunney and Tuttle or Tutu) shows that Swimmer and Ono were partners already through Warhol’s power base. The fact that Ralph Proctor appears to have worked with the agent Lisa Miles to please his Catholic friends at Heinz Museum goes beyond the racial indoctrinations of Two Virgins Pussyball and exposes the hand of the Sisters of Mercy in pedophile blackmail and hostage taking. One of their new darlings, given to purposefully excluding me at their clubhouse, affirmed the idea of my being deliberately injured by malpractice as some sort of punishment for failing to stop the fanatics from getting into my bed. The same hirelings of Mercy who are in a cult demanding deadly behaviors as pursuit of martyrdom for the sin of trying to get help from torture and mutilation in this world author texts stating that it is important to remember that the troubles of others are not your own. Further outside the clubhouse is an eatery from Thailand mockingly displaying the billboard with a lookalike of Tive: Skinnier people are easier to kidnap. Knowing that I was chosen as a little boy over the bomb of that name we are unsurprised to find that a Fat Man presided over the debauchery and lifelong attack, since that was the name of the second bomb. Elizabeth Blue Men Feld and Jello minis tally up to blue meanies who gave the blumen little boy blotter at the behest of Love Field’s Sinfield and his crank word war games on the Boulevard of his Beloved Sulamith Wulfing.
Sue the myth? Hahahahaha. Ringo Starkey says no, and when Richard Starkey says no, you KNOW somebody over-reacted to the slasher ripper of an innocent girl which proves he was suffering from suppressed rage such that satire in Pitt News is unacceptable to Zappa.