Investigation is due into linguistic anthropology as an inquiry into the tone of a prominent British cult known as Hidden Pun.  Their moneybag, Amanda Harcourt, is estate attorney for occultists in British acid rock and a favored ingenue of Reagan’s Secret Service.   Harcourt is name suggestive in agency detail of a sort widely deployed in corporate military sectors. She was signifying employment as a persecutor of provincial character in a white earmarked hate object from London’s holocaust machine.  Harcourt meant they are targeting what they construed as unlawful humor, hardy-har-har, for review by profiler criminals in high administration, to execute a lawless, lynch mob frenzy over what they claim is John Lennon’s murder, around which the Texas Schoolbook was mysteriously designed before 1963 and in which he career was glorified well in advance of its actual performance.   It indicates they knew about the carrot narrative extruded by Neva Corporation and Carnegie Mellon’s Jewish Defense League in the office of Jaime Carbonell, that was implanted by SONY and NEVA as a devious and crazy promotion for Kennedy’s assassins by Alternative Conflict Resolution office of Granger Morgan: ergo ~ Oswald the Rabbit. Accepting this bizarre situation unglues the full scope of the nightmare.  Far from making discovery, Penis Gabriel lay in wait for his partner Gail Burstyn, with organized and violent NAAMBLA operators from Warhol Foundation.

      My name is James MacRyland Crary.  I am deaf, 57 years old, a member of Phi Theta Kappa at Tacoma Community College and Honors Department of Community College of Allegheny County in Pittsburgh seeking Protection From Abuse by the Governor’s Office and NAACP who have tortured and ruthlessly punished and poisoned me in truly vile retaliation for investigating and proving AIDS was an attack when a Medical Library Clerk for Pitt’s FEMA administration in 1984 where my deceased father Ryland had been Chair for Philosophy of Education after Distinguished Service in the WW2 Navy and as a leader in the African Peace Corps, born in Astoria, Oregon.  I am dealing with the criminally insane and betrayal of a generation.

      Shrewdly the confederates of the attack group manuveured in public opinion to be identified with protest.  This allowed Lennon’s Estate to procure the assassin script which they had long been playing in harmony with and claim his death was the vanishing point for the generation’s trust in processing the holocaust.  Lewis Lapham was one of the poachers on high who knew about Gail Burstyn in advance and swiftly descended in procurement as found art what he treasures as priceless forgeries. His contribution to Oswald the Rabbit was a piece called The White Rabbit in which he described Lennon as the star of a film never made.   Like the refrain of the piece Gail Burstyn was introduced to me to the soundtrack of tinkling little bells, a pun on little belle, the lingua franca of the little girl bomb. When I couldn’t hear the little bells, Burstyn made her debut with the words, “Hi, remember me?” Like the shadow Kasper who attacked me blindside with similar words, I had never seen either of them before.

      Although it is clearly tiresome to belabor the evil non-points made by the rabid, Ringo and his Ringo-wraiths have never bothered about the evidence of torture, the blind spots, the deafness, the nerve agent that left my face disfigured.  It contradicts their slander that I am to blame for that which I knew nothing about.

      The Zappa crazies gloat that they love an odd man out, but in reality they smelled a bandwagon in Pittsburgh when all the open mic bullies came raging that Jimmy Queerball owed guerilla pimps his sister.   Applause machine rockers moved in fast and furiously. The sexual violence of poachers from King Crimson snarled up bikers for Reagan demanding free labor by blackmail and oral bacteria from a death slave.  It was just like Zappa to engineer the carrot tape in the name of incinerating an outcast by the memory of speech from which we may never be set free. As Lapham implied in snickering about JFK, why wish for a king when you can have one for real?