I once took my sister to see that revered showboat of horrors David Jones Bowie live at the Pittsburgh Civic Arena where the penisBeatles once played in the presence of a photographer named Lynn Schopf.   Seconds out you could see it was going to be a long night and sad though it is to say it portends to augur 2021.  You may know this but winsome anti-sensibility dance boutique self-adulating tripdude once had a record that decreed a President Joe in times of plague.   But that night he was a real fascist problem-solver as he cast the huge shadow of his dogwhip outfit over the throng and trotted out a minority league of electric sliders from Black Detroit or something.   

       Trump chided the Dems as just wanting to make poor people’s lives more comfortable and the cool thing was they hollered denial.   Don’t say the poor folks is jealous like jimma queerbutt it’s theirs for the takings by rights!     Shoveling his heapery Bowie spent the night insulting American virility with songs precursors to Young Americans and the March of Helden.   Soon he would arrive as the fascist Duke of Africa promoting singular eccentrics in garb.  These eccentrics in garb command the hotwired maintenance system surrounding civil reputation that feeds into preferential treatment against homegrown types crossing paths with celebrities who were earmarked for disposal.  Plural, maybe that isn’t.  The lawyers share a joke, a look that says whackjob.  When Seattle Police decided to just let Yoko Ono kill six Kennedys she danced like a motherfucker.

          It doesn’t take vaccine hoaxes to insert a chip for Ultrahigh Totality Panopticon.   I doubt  you would need much more convincing for you to believe the truth about Peter Gabriel and the brainbeam development of WQED-NASA-BBC than to hear what they have routinely broadcast since 1994 when SONY trolls through the switch at I Siciliani Vespers after Midori Goto’s launch at me from Heinz Hall.   Ringo Starr absolutely died laughing is a good example of what has gone on throughout Covid.  To avoid psychiatric patrol I knuckle down against my instinctive response:  Run Riot Over the Pink Finks, as in the Ayn Rand aliens from Roger Waters HQ.  Ian MacDonald doesn’t need those voices again to say that he sees it as art, man.

       The method of talking sideways used by Germany and England in Pittsburgh and Seattle is of course multifludinous for the many tongues of the lazarus endowed faceliars.   For this piece we’ll stick to two:  the claim of conflicting stories of witnesses and the hoax of their divining signs.    Playback on secret pirate tapes they say contradicts the obvious facts of the script containing nearly killed me, the swallow, and the neurobedient implant, slaughtering blows to the head.  A scientist lost a kinsman by reputedly East African gunfire for testifying.    Saoirse was then killed by the same sisterhood purportedly in revenge for also  being from a family honest enough to realize that Earth’s Intelligent Design signifies God’s hopes for mankind, not a colossal free for all from Hitler updated.  The New Anti-Intellectual Revolution isn’t going to bother about the nuisance of Yojimbo Moxy.  Not when they can be taken for a nice big juicy spider from Mars, in like Blackonistas.

       In support of tagteam poison criminals worming their divining signs for a practical joke, which is all extermination warfare is to them, stands the purity of right wing Dialectical UW claiminng a philosophy of military sociology as a magical religion and when the laugh wears off they result to announcing their reign by the memory of sour milk breath in the Talbot Lodge of Harvey Friedman.   Try to get help is all you can do.   The billionaires making loads of dough on Covid have uni-ball ECO pens for the fine points.

        The feedback loops always have Arnie Sacnusum’s, observers embellishing their witness claims with adages from Herman Hesse and inscriptions from the I.B. porn company.    The attrition of anti-intellectuall giants in the schools makes for the rout.   The alien receives the new Nativist prerogative, so while I may have found it strange that a woman named Mar La Jonas was coming around after I ended up in the belly of the  beast, such women as Karen Leavitt remain above suspicion no matter telltale their signfiers.   

       The British have hotwired to cater to the witness ideology leaving I, Brando in charge by the name of DiBarno at Terri Villa for the TVC15 TV machine from the Outer Limits.