It’s frustrating to conform to Western business eccentricities when divulging material of heavy import to American and global public safety concerning misconduct in the Administrative level. Having grown rapidly sicker into type 2 diabetes, also a cancer risk, my father died of pancreatic, I wonder whoozily whether Trump’s intention is to grant me the privilege of explicating in my dance of death on the marvelous success of the AIDS attack for whom he seems determined to provide magic wand as the maestro. My father’s demise was so craftily given the orchestra conductor’s undivided baton that the signs and symbols in play generate self-imprisonment. I want to have a talk with you now. There is a plan to examine me, not evidence of cancer either or not yet to proclaim (the cursory exams seem favorable). My enemies want it, as a boon to their achievements. My friends, if you please, would rather not have the hassle. For me? Why I have just discovered my life and all my reasons to live! I live close by the Cancer Clubhouse, and am quite energetic at school, so my bases are more or less covered which ever way things spill.
It is time to do what I can to examine the circumstances implicating MisterRogers in the terrible crime. MisterRogers’ Neighborhood is a mapping out of the symbolic system of the plot behind the AIDS attack, a parochial symbolism in which “C” (sometimes in the Star of David) means “the L-Word” and “K” means the divine guidance of Lennon’s deranged hypocrisy as a latter-day Opium Warrior setting us up with his Lord of the Flies Honor Code. Together KC, as an alternative to the Scarlet Letter, were used in bondage rock known as Two Virgins Pussyball. Richard Starkey attacked me using the illusion of having discovered the event of letters planted on me as a hostage, and damaged child. Fred Rogers, who I knew, was in a position to consult with the Beatles, and the evidence is clear that he did. For this very good reason I feel it proper to tell my side about how I met him, was used in name by him, and ultimately came to understand the crazy role of WQED-TV in what the Beatles have done.
The enemy-ization of my person came first. It was inventively blindside when I was child and constituted a secret illegal Draft in an ongoing war game where I was dismissed as wind, ludicrously compliant to a gale. Manufacture, from that time on, continues to provide padding to the initial targeting. The inter-connectedness surrounding the targeting is telltale. I realize it is profoundly taboo to question MisterRogers. I suspected Reagan behind the miscreant horror of the attack in Pittsburgh on the house of liberal humanism. MisterRogers and his bedfellows thwarted my concerns by giving no public warning of the crime in progress and no consideration to the possibility. We are to assume all innocence on their part in the matter. The whole idea of the way they knocked to me to my belly blindside as a childhood Honors student is already too much to believe. To call it an ordeal of redemption took unbelievable deceit from the NAACP.
It unfolded to the tune of a headhunter’s libel as shrill and dishonest as the bloodcurdling lies told by the wife of the man who murdered Emmett Till. My sickness, if mortally wounded, is scheduled to be regarded as an ordinary murder, dismissed as a prank in a elite, campus parlor game securing the blessings of faculty in malice over Leslie Katz. Asking my community to care has always been disruptive, since the nature of the narrative is overbearing sadism by Yoko Ono and Sotheby’s museum mafia. I say this then as a paradox, knowing of how it converts my appeals for help into the drooling of licky chops. No one I know is not aware of and party to the battlefield of counter-claims.
The first time I met MisterRogers he truly scared me. I knew who he was and that his fame was supposed to affect me, but I wasn’t enthused when I had seen him before at the Three Rivers Arts Festival. I preferred Captain Kangaroo. I was with my mother, who was carrying me and put me down. She introduced me. Far from being an affectionate, friendly man attentive to every child, he seemed terrified of me, like I was Rosemary’s Baby, and he very literally ran after a few courtesies. Over the years I have faulted myself for imagining that there must have been some other explanation. My mother re-married at his crossroads church in a holocaust survivor community where every day after school Leslie Katz would wait for the 74 bus. As Gail Burstyn, a prodigy of Sidney Busis had told me in her script, “74 is the best number.” This was in the edition of the CMU newspaper run by Cameron/Brown which was shut down as Obama took power and never printed.
I would like to cover some adjunct territory. I am trying, however, not to validate the gerbilization of atrocity, the keeping it chatting as definition therapy by wayward argumentation, posed by the rotters on high who pulled this unfathomable sadism. The screwtapers of detail deposits that hacked into their own hotwire were called by Walker Percy, “the delectations of despair.” See my notes if something goes wrong.