Union activity in Seattle and Pittsburgh in the incongruous concept of the 21st century is a subconscious lampoon of itself in so many ways. It’s sort of like seeing a drunken Kentucky hillbilly talk with a Scottish accent she heard on television. They actually think they can improve themselves by sinking to running guns for their own oppressors. When the not very satisfying laugh of contempt blows over, you are left stricken at how real their self-administered total disgrace will forever be, hidden in broad daylight. By the very methods that they oppose their imagined enemies with, they lay bare the heart of their vacuity and subservience. It isn’t just pitiful to see them defeated by what they take to be victory, it is a reminder of how dangerous they are.
Behind the prop of their mongering and violence is the insufferable paradox of black power. In the fearful egoism and tragic farce of Pittsburgh and Seattle we have to look at how reputed black intellectual giants operated in return for a piece of the action, and aren’t you relieved that I didn’t mention the magic word? While the F.B.I. are no doubt and should be relieved that I am around to explain to them what really transpired, I will never forgive nor will I forget how hard Obama tried to get me sent to prison for a terrible, terrible crime that that it was actually he who committed. David Geffen and Penis Gabriel will not give up, after 50 years of it, any time soon. However, to put someone on their honor they have to have honor; where the City of Seattle is concerned they just don’t, it is that simple. The Mayor of Pittsburgh eked by total disgrace by a gesture of concern and remorse. It was the least he could. Remarkably enough the assassins advertise their cold blood by daring to challenge my representation of what took place. To see them standing by their story is a testament of gall and syphilis. In the union situation of Pittsburgh and Seattle we are dealing with hardened criminal minds who believe the lesson of the 60’s was that assassins always win. I wouldn’t dwell on how proud of themselves they are. It doesn’t measure up.
One of the recognizable and certifiable factors that is proof positive of black fascism is their contempt for the status of the disabled. Faced with the weak and helpless they become contemptibly licky chops. To hear Dr. Ralph Proctor bang on about what he calls Pittsburgh’s provincial attitude about sissies is a classic example. Let’s be brave enough to note exactly what he means by sissy. He is talking about a child weighing less than a hundred pounds attacked blindside by full grown men, one of them coming to seven foot tall, threatening to kill him, forcing him to take safety behind the locked doors of a freak show of capturing pedophiles of grinding intellectual hatreds, the object of their capture, poisoned, driven into a coma of fear, and then catcalled by the black establishment with the grueling hostility of commentary like how you like it bitch? Gurgling with pleasure over lurid stories of Ringo-type Jews dragging the poor child through glass after kicking him in the head, waving their pervert extrusions, a letter of self-defense to which they applied the looking glass of a moral inversion transforming it into the opposite of what it said to prove by ripper homicide that they would never really do that. Very intriguing to find is that they also left a smoldering trail to follow up on what they construe as union intellectual heritage. Their utopian hope is very simple: to escape by extinction of experienced observers. Professing to hold Trump in disdain, they have done nothing but profit from the election of a juvenile hun.
The first objective of this text is to sketch a description of how it was put together and who specifically participated in an Ark alliance cult concept that included a retinue of persons historically opposed to one another, cults like the KKK and black power circuits, a gaggle who knew in advance about the AIDS attack, set up discovery for what they construe for a Masterpiece Theater play, designed to make bucks for themselves as masterminds, and who knew in advance the terms of endearment involved for those riding high by complicity in the AIDS attack, several of which facts are particularly salient and haunting. I will not be able to prevent the specific issues at work from being hard on your nostrils. They all carry the taint of Yoko Ono.
It is of course very interesting that Dr. Proctor gets barking mad about Pitt harboring an administrator involved in the Guatemala syphilis experiments while shouting that he doesn’t care about the letters of Gail Burstyn or the smokescreen he put up for the AIDS attackers, but news from the weird isn’t news in Pittsburgh. One of the most sadistic and devious of the assassins, George Romero, was recently given a favorable write up in a disgusting rag calling itself The Jacobin. The format is so shocking with infinitile deceit that one has to keep the laugh in a sock. If checks and balances were working it would be effective to report all this and set in motion the disempowerment and arrest of criminal deviants but the attackers in advance also set up as part of their play the Masterpiece Theater of psychiatric professional malpractice and violent repression of the First Amendment, as a mandate of their syphilis. It can be a very intense experience going somewhere that known poison criminals brainwashed to hate you and blame you for Obama’s mind-shattering crimes, indeed for every detail of the assassin mosaic they ran by you while holding you hostage to knock out gas, who hand you your plate while making vicious gestures at you, but who are defended by Dr. Devious as getting their ya ya’s out through ripper mayhem at the gates of delirium tremens. Don’t offend them by washing, recommends Dr. Devious, prescribing a salve for your gums.
The terribly depraved behavior was organized in advance. It’s exactly the same hit team. The black power circuit involved in molesting and holding me hostage as a child were right inside on the plan to grab the letters for Hollywood hustlers. They have been leading the victims, and because they appeal to gratification by blood drinking they have won over the authoritarian administrators who are subordinate to the criminals on high. The primary direction of their Masterpiece Theater war game is extruding text from the golem selected as the chosen scapegoat, an object lesson in black power thrill kill, a hostage taking death row. Every step of the way the University of Pittsburgh has been playing a game of here is what will happen if we don’t resort to extermination warfare against the weak. They call their sadism, murder and derision by the gang code of the nature of reality.
The text of Dr. Ralph Proctor’s classes provide the justification loops in the mind of the self-obsessed purple kings on the make for the silver screen. He livens up his discourse about the brotherhood of man with tales of his favorite Nate, who loved, he recounts, to knock out white boys and get the slaps on the backs from other whites. Teachers are supposed to teach, you say, not make out deafened victims of torture in trauma to be sissies, well-luh, he can outhigherness that, because the black man was cheated of education in the bygone days, too, now. Writing a script that was theirs for the taking and forging it onto the life of a shell-shocked and cosmotosis neurobedient golem, which they knew for neurobedience as proven by when they put on the cover of the school paper the grisly and vomitbag image of an extended finger with oobleck on it reading: You Gonna Eat That? In defense of a church from Guyana, organized by a ripper hatter praised by a cultist in Murakami’s expose about Aum Shinrikyo, named Robert Fripp. The rabid announce that it is beating the white at its own game. Writing a game they forge the details about and impinging them on the persona’s experience is beating the white at its own game? Well, ya know. Not everyone sees Yuri K at the death of Malcolm X for the Umbrella Man.
Some of the more haunting details begin to come around. The sort of thing you watch for winks about when choosing who to confide in, whispering very quietly to only the very most trusted, there was and is such a thing as the Publishers’ Project. To understand some of the scriptings takes work. It is treacherous going, issues ranging from address details to building design and texts rendered in passing, but the issues demand the address of public writers outside the banks of publishing conspiracies. Recall that my stepbrother, a home invader, works at 20th Century Fox. Ally of WQED’s favorite Leslie Katz, he foxed the script to Yoko Ono’s minions in Rusted Root for the play, while working himself at 20th Century Fox, an AIDS attack friendly corporation, who made such films on cue as: Anna and the King, depicting the power gratifying itself on a lovely woman it possessed from the buddha she loved and who loved her, like LaMonte, explaining his invisible agency, being given the milk at the clubhouse. LaMonte also, very sensitively considering my beliefs, told a little tale of black military genius, announcing free gold and as the greedy slaves ran to the treasure hatch, it all collapsed on their heads. But the byways are much the thicket in the issue of Cohencide, named for Cohen, the man who made libel into the role of town crier, selling the welfare genius of De De Mancine for Ringo Starr’s numerology of statutory rape, a self-described zero sum game that proved AIDS was Reaganomics.
For some reason that no one can explain, in broad daylight the unions administer a secret war game of a deaf child being forced to play against illegal homework in a fight for his life against deranged criminal charges totally without trial, and for the cities of Seattle and Pittsburgh, the School Boards fully advised, the parents actually seem to WANT this game going on in their schools, they welcome the school massacre style of Penis Gabriel. Amanda Harcourt, working for Crown recreation put together a concept for sale of psychological warfare as a mass mystique based on collective instinct for rapine grounded in Penis Gabriel’s notions about Anne Sexton’s so-called Nana Hex, the cosmic tart of a malcontent tongue. The Nana hypnotic idea is presented as John Lennon’s holy ghost on a mission of Love Almighty slaying to bring peace to the infected about whom, they admit with a detergent sigh, they were unconcerned and unaffected and whose markets they eyed with typical formulas of greed, covered by black power wants for a cool million, which Aaron Dixon doesn’t have yet, but he knows why.
One of David Fox Lucarelli’s pals was a very well to do black fellow who introduced me to his father. I expressed happiness on seeing him, and said haven’t we met somewhere before. He launched into railing and gesticulating, shrieking with accusation, oh, yes, we all look alike, how typical, he pointed at me, look at this one, just like this one, that one, that one, him, just like them all. I was dumbfounded. He acted like I’d fingered him in a line up for being happy to see him. Well, that just goes to show not the script he was selling but the inability of the pale, white suck, shadow of the great, to measure up in acumen to true insight. A similar case unfolded at school. Unaware that I was being spoken to from behind me, a scene erupted because the deaf white suck was ignoring the black man. No explanation made any difference. As I recounted this incident of deafness being a microaggression, the blacks in class crowded around with furrowed, acrimonious stares, but, but, but, I stammered, it wasn’t that he was wrong, it wasn’t that he had wrongly accused me, I, I, I, I, was guilty of micro-aggressing by default, because things like that had really, really happened to him before. That’s better, they nodded at my politically correct self-correction.
One of the teachers, the teacher who was on duty for African American History, Sundiata, helped me a lot. He punished the claim I was a racist with comments on my paper about Fanie Lou Hamer, “your admiration for this woman is obvious.” Suffice it to say, he didn’t get the job. Next time I saw him he had a two inch long gash from his cheek through his lip. They he was shot in his car. There’s no one who can tell him how much difference he made in my life. He’s nowhere to be found. It is a scary and sad case of Atlas Shrugged, legitimacy wise. The Green Party are part and parcel of Donald Trump’s personal security, a cryptic comment, you suppose, until you turn to the issue of my father’s demise, a tale of Moon Spoon June from Mer and Ehrlen.
The defeat of dignity is real enough in our society, I don’t and never doubted Mark Nordenberg’s premise that the nature of reality in the United States puts the bullet before the ballot, I just questioned whether our Law School should be ignoring our ethics and be teaching that it SHOULD and has to be that way. I recall how a cowardly and hateful racist in Fulton Elementary School kicked a black student’s notebooks one day. It sickened me. I have never forgive the cruel, mean-spirited little act of spite. Watching the papers go everywhere was like the Kennedy Assassination to me, a bully just raising his fist from the gutter and saying, sissy.
There are other issues that haunt me. For example, Charles Biggs and Joey Young, who the Peckhams called Ku Guy. Charles Biggs was important because he was a black friend of Gellomini, who introduced our school to the union tactic of forcing someone to accept a gratuity in an overture to justifying a mugging. He knew all the cars on sight that rolled off the assembly line. Dr. Proctor used to talk about his feelings concerning Dr. King. King presided over marches in which women and children were beaten. Proctor stopped short of saying it made him want to punch Dr. King, but he made clear he didn’t like it. King was also glowered at by peers like Ella Baker and Bob Moses, called, “Dah Lawd,” by mockers in Memphis. A black woman drove a letter opener into his chest. Duvall, a black colleague of Proctor told me, “I know Bush started AIDS and I support him for it.” They call him Mr. Biggs. He has an invisible agency, like an Algebra Project, where they are the walrus.
It is not really all that easy to explain but John Rawls and his contemporary Hofstadter try to in A Theory of Justice and Metamagical Themas. The Rawls walrus was dubbed a closet continuer formula, or replacement set that most closely matches the idolized and by which substitution the replacement stands or falls. Metamagical themas are morphic, they say a book like Gulliver’s Travels is alluded to in a film title like Sullivan’s Travels, but then garbled into camouflage so that Bugliosi never become Migliosi when bro’ing lifects or earing? No it affects your speech, na ha ha ha ha, na ha ha ha ha, nyaaaaaa.