Some people can fool themselves all of the time, all people can fool themselves some of the time, but not everyone can fool themselves all of the time.   There are some things I say that are readily believed, others that withstand disbelief due to corroboration, there is also an amount howled down despite being demonstrably true, and lastly clear headed thinking derided for being just that and not supported by hard documentation enough, so I will start with the readily believed even by opponents, antagonists and cretins, since they see no reason not to, and there is no evidence of the misfit, pathological liar that the rabid Penis Fripp has long proclaimed in my conduct and response to life.   

      For start, Christopher Fitzmartin of the Pitt Honors Department once said to me, before my promotion of his merits earned him a call from Penis Fripp at the Cathedral of Learning, his belief that “anyone who had not passed Calculus should not be allowed to speak,” he said.   I don’t really like to play the deaf card. I recall a man who made a scene vying with a wheelchair driver for a Disabled Parking Space. I didn’t like him for it, no matter what the law would say technically. The question of course might be what I might have to say were I allowed, which I was not.  One of his classmates, a high ranking law student whose black friend called me a racist for supporting affirmative action, used the soft epithet about me scornfully being, “a nice blond boy.” A good starting point because of what I might have said if I were allowed, which I was not, and about who, under what circumstances, and to what lost value that I wasn’t heard, and I produce this introduction just this way in the macabre ends of illustrating the reality in the horrible, malicious, cruel, deviant, and the magnitude of the victory given to the marauders who tortured me for years and years and years, leaving me deaf and otherwise mutilated, handed to them while wowing me with his facelies, by the raping pig of King Crimson Penis Fripp.

      I would have said my father was a human rights author, with Naval History, Chair of Education, who far from put me down, encouraged and titled my intended dissertation about the productive mission of King Crimson, which at the time is what I believed, with the excellent name:  God, Guns and Rock ‘n Roll offered spontaneously from an attentively listening father to son.   A Governor’s School Poet despite my many disadvantages, I loved King Crimson and had harmed no one.  They ripper attacked me rather than hear what I was forbidden to speak. They never wanted a word of it, they never wanted what they had secretly done to me to come to light and they knew about the nerve injury they were using to slander me, so they just targeted it again, knowing I had no idea it was there, while their favorites spread horrible lies, pretending that their promotion of falsehood was power’s reality and that I was unable to comprehend, therefore not only forbidden to speak, but unentitled to the safety net known as our Bill of Rights.  Instead, they auctioned me for psychiatric satire in the form of child pornography to which they took me hostage in a vicious, vicious war game. This foreign invader called himself by the prank name of God law, unmistakably using music for holy war propaganda, pretending the premeditation was a jest, but happily supported by the NAACP in whose name he trashed me as grandstanding, an attack executed through the KKK, announcing this devious team spirit to be a new brotherhood. And got away with it among the women no less.

        This devolves into the claims no one can contest because of the faculty records, but then they collide with the super wall, clear-headed thinking should not, in the judgment of my peers, be allowed to exist, much less speak its name.

        Admittedly the truth about this incredibly psychotic ordeal authored for decades by monstrous celebrities, makes a brother spooked injun.   People have wigged out on overdoses of LSD who came to think Pink Floyd and schizophrenia are bad, but Ringo Starr is the most freaked out, super-hardcore, acid headed, ultrahigh, pervert guru, evil wizard who has ever blackened the name of our species but somehow his psyche has been transplanted and ordained a Stars and Stripes warlord, attacking us and explaining it as therapy to make us feel better about having been attacked and destroyed by them before.   Feel good misery from mortal enemies, playing rescue, what a lovely and invisible tactic for the grandest of performances in the history of crime. It isn’t as clever as it seems. It’s just lying to someone’s face and saying you love them. It’s been done before but not by someone that grandiose. It is simply the public humiliation of a targeted individual who they admitted was born into the role and it wasn’t personal, it was a contract birth, and they attacked me, as well as us, in the first place, this is the reality despite their claim of cremation therapy in their hard, hard work at the paper shredder destroying the evidence before the Exhibition of facts can come to light and shock the people stupid enough to avert their eyes in the first place, and this murderer claims the right, from above and beyond, to police the purity of our souls with a satirical snivel from those behind the AIDS attack that we are all white liars.

        Ringo Starr’s defense against the reality of his horrible infamy is the idea that I am a betrayer of the American soul for daring to question the child slavery mountebanks of Warhol who made me a scapegoat to leech the faith of those who followed their muse to doomsday.  God won’t love us, he cries, because of Jimmy. They weren’t going to allow any rivals. Reagan shot Kennedy in the throat with the words, “I’ll do all the talkin,’” made in 1963, his last film, The Killers, just as King Crimson ripped my ears out to make sure no humanist child got anywhere on the music stage, and the bedlam they unleashed on me for hitchhiking to St. Louis just out of high school just to hear one of them play rivals the Spirit of Saint Louis we saw in the ship by that name turned back to Sobibor.

       I am dealing with the criminally insane.