On Oct. 20, 1987, my birthday, John Stockwell by all appearances, even his own surrender, cased me to Allentown, PA, signing his autograph, putting the date and underlining Oct. 20th after the lecture, a major gaslighting venture by a representative from the occulted and gothic, disturbing Central Intelligence Agency. I was being followed by The Man From U.N.C.L.E. while receiving letters from Penis Gabriel.
A mysterious comment might not be momentous were it not for the script planted on me as a child, but still this other dude, Thos. Gordon, was a hustler with Magna Cum Laude from Harvard working robotics for the Mellon syndicate in Pittsburgh, PA, so a mysterious comment even without the script attending it in the background, un-noticed as yet, might seem momentous to a bakery bum, which is all my life amounts to. Even without stinking Ringo yapping at an innocent man’s shoes with the salivating fangs of an eager Reaganmaniac. The pathetic nature of a crime so evil they attempted to force it into putrid rave ups for laughs has to be a theory of coping cultivated in study by rotters, observing their helpless victims’ tears past for millenium. People have shot spitballs of language, just look at the treatise of dying Native Americans, at the brutality that sadism can author since the beginning of time. Who but the effervescent quislings of Beatle ventures could elevate it to a theory of divine trust and call the cries of children pushed into an oven their therapy, making a sing-along out of wails by the pit?
RIngo’s sword is the might-makes-right bludgeon of hostile, upgraded, foreign English doublespeak. Who but a lout of his power and comfort with carnage, which his fat and oafish attorneys and prigs call “escalation dominance”, would be capable of evoking such a knot of bloodless, lizard-think as to hiss with reptilian eyes that not knowing something is guilt? To say you have enough clues is a very provocative double-edged sword for cross-eyed, double crossers ignoring the evidence to announce while authoring perpetuation of state crime as a riddle by which to rub mass murder in the face of a public whose innocence is their blindness.
You cannot murder an image, but you can use it to kill. Critique, like eugenics, necessarily and by its nature is too profound, it is a hotwire around the virtues of Commonwealth like Right to Know Laws, it dictates a caustic reason to be against the lights of learning, it guides from a vantage point of privileged obscurity, adoring of the subtlety yet to be bestowed. Cinema collaborators in the Ku Klux Klan of Hollywood included Biblicists like Cecil B. DeMille who authored this studio war from gangland over presentation by the fake news machine of blockbuster cinema. Movies are echoes of light that form a mirage, where light too is shadow. With Orson Welles around, how could one not expect someone to point out that this could be used to replace reality and create a newsreel soundtrack of internalized propaganda? This is exactly what we see in the arrest of Oswald at a theater once owned by Howard Hughes, one upon a time a big name in Hollywood.
Stinking Ringo’s libels are cast as a fixed icon of the queerbait for scapegoat typical of Disney’s schaedenfreude laden slapstick. A series of eccentric touches adorn the presentation of destruction. Seattle Queers went along with it as the price of what they thought to be their Honors Code as intellectuals: the doublecross as backstab doctrine rendering holy war by John Lennon’s cousins. They had my school playing Carrie towards me, all nice and waiting with a bucket of blood. Best of all, Blacks toasted it, as co-authors from the days of Henry Ford, Ku-guys, while casting me in the role of trusting white dupe, deceived in the search for a village care and guidance. Whoop it up. At Sound Mental Health for years and years they held me in helpless trauma, acting out their own libels in ripper attacks on pedestrians, while without stimulation or love I wilted away as they grinded the crank of their shiftless crime for stinking Ringo.
Yet every detail of his proud will to murder shows that stinking Ringo was the author, and not the discoverer of the script. Following horrifying beastiality against a deaf child by hirelings and dacoits from Warhol scripts, they also put their same fingerprints on equally shattering follow up attacks. The inadmissibility of evidence, the refusal to amend to the facts, the destruction of all contrary portents, shows that the mission of evil was rubber-stamped from the beginning. It is not an investigation, it is promotion, rigged as a storyline about Reagan long ago, who allowed without review the underworld monopoly on sex education obvious from the dark industry in command of Pittsburgh.
The partnership of Nancy Moore with NEVA Corporation in deliverance of her own son to Pitt’s Neurobehavioral Research was cast in advance planning of a truly insane pilgrimage in endless jeopardy. They forcibly debauched me with indoctrination into the dialogues of pornography, tasering injuries into retches and the vomitbag violations of civil rights that lay in wait through Warhol. Moore answered me in hostage trauma pitilessly with horrific, drunken, deafening yells of blame, bloodcurdling censorship, sending me crawling into the top shelf of the towel closet, refused to call police, while agreeing with neighbors on the phone about me whose sons threw beers at me in drive-bys after I was robbed in plain view of their witness. Pornographic dialogue impinged on the persona’s experience, neurohypnotically impacted as the web spinners of Bell Labs and telephone taps snickered in Catholic wait, consecrating a bloodcurdling hand-off from pedophile bondage museum gangsters to Hollywood psychiatric research in a sex war game of sickening and ghastly manufacture and distortion to amuse bank moguls at CMU.
They called this schaedenfreude from mass killers a form of slapstick. How did they ever get Martha Gellhorn’s approval? It reminds me of the episode of Maude where she derides John Wayne’s kitsche only to collapse in his arms when he appears at her door in the final scene with the words, “Oh, Mr. Wayne!” Women will be women. Kennedy fell, therefore he’s an inferior. Gellhorn’s confederacy induced a shocking loss in my affairs and it depended entirely on her acceptance in the end of the very theme that profoundly influenced her rejection of Hemingway, about whose relationship to her I knew nothing when she wrote to me in Montana, and those were his methods of false reporting, injust depiction, vainglorious inaccuracy, the tactics in sum of stinking Ringo. Moving from a great sense of urgency to mocking a victim of true horror scandalously, she provided by feigned disbelief a smokescreen with the sigh, “Oh, Gen. Franco!” cooing in the arms of the killers, churning up the horrific malice of child molesters for a sport of blood.