This testimojo concerns the grapevine between Sisters of Mercy and the bombers of Oklahoma Federal, a grandiose clinic bombing. The whole swath of the attack is grimmer and testifies to a widespread feeling that earth is doomed. Keeping media dark about such organized tragedies (about which I received advance warning, having always been in the loop of the Ultrahigh Estate Nazis) as Fukushima will not stop the contamination from spreading and turning us into a planet of flint, putting an end by dint of man’s madness to what some believe the universe’s only chance for continuation of life, a strange fluke of this lonely planet, ending a tragedy of folly so ridiculous it is laughable.
Anybody who sees the truth of the Burstyn letters will ask: How their existence was so effectively circumvented as to never be prosecuted? My purpose is to show how Oklahoma Federal was egged on by both those who authored the Burstyn atrocity and those who allowed for it. The insane crime is dense with content and needs to be distilled for public digest, a fact that testifies to the absence of reading habits on the part of Law Enforcement and their enthusiasm for what they see disturbingly as a game. In a better world I would have research assistants.
Let’s be clear from the outset what sect of the Sisters of Mercy are responsible. They are defined by the alliance between those who authored the Onslaught limned by Burstyn and those who claimed the discovery authentic and the plan valid, among those Diamonda Galas, whose namesake “Dia” (Caissa Douwes) called me while I was living at Temple University with a man reportedly today Obama’s Director of Army Operations in Afghanistan (Louis Leto), to announce to the “freak” Jimmy Creary the magical mystery disappearance on the appointed hour of John “Ono” (Winston) Lennon, a man who publicly proclaimed his loyalty to Tojo over Churchill. Central to this Confederacy are Black folks. Indeed, a civil union of Blacks with British rock stars is the knife of the Great Backstab, unless, of course, you don’t care that people were dying and that warning saves lives.
The sect of the Sisters of Mercy are the direct line between Pittsburgh Catholic Worker Vince Eirene to Gail Burstyn and Sean Strub. Since I knew Greg Karl, whose gang, the Guttersnipes, figure loud and clear in the Burstyn letters, I know what sort of Catholic prima donna characters influence the thinking of Sean Strub’s sanctimonious divine comedy. Strub went to the Dakota with Chapman on mission for Burstyn and then took the virus himself as a missionary. It probably began with Mary Lou Karl, whose son was told that the world was doomed to be the ash of Jesus, confiding with Sisters of Mercy that in the name of Dorothy Day sin was going to be visited upon little Jimmy in the name of MLK by Little Girl (DD). Having sinned, the spirit would be cleansed of abortion by divine punishment, simple enough, and the Sisters of Mercy would be required to comfort the dying for the redemption. Bowing their heads sadly, the Nuns of Nazism gave their consent. From that day forward pathetic little Jimmuh qweewee was a very marked little man.
It is also important to understand the role the Clinton Establishment played, with partners like Lewis Lapham at HARPERS and Peter Gabriel. They embraced the idea that a deaf victim of neurotrauma was a sad sack, despite all the evidence of purposefully being kept in traumatic shock, with sign language education being purposefully withheld to inhibit and obstruct academic involvement and performance. Gabriel bid us all to do the bidding of the AIDS Combine (despite their having been discovered) as though it were all a class play. Many days could be spent on anecdotes concerning such nabobs as Spike Ole Lee, who took advantage of the spiked nervous system of Jimmy Queerball promoting a cowardly betrayal far more odious than negligence during Katrina which he effectively exploited for his agenda. Spike Ole Lee when facing the African communities who he didn’t even try to get timely warning, deferred blame onto the scapegoat, yammering, yeah, but wouldn’t you like this deaf white sucker under your power to give him the necklace of burning tires? Yeah, yeah, yeah they jumped and hollered, that’s our medicine, do it to him, Spike, doee, doee, Tora, Tora, Tora for Yoko Ono.
It really is not like I am not right about all that, but the alternative to the U.S. Government and their mob scene would be to acknowledge that I was rendered unconscious to serve as Hitler’s dummy in a revenge attack and that would a huge victim status admission, not only to torture and serial mutilation but hoary identity crime, and that simply violates the ego of thefuture King of England to an insane degree, so hehn, just hehn. Instead, they have, in addition to Isis-style ritual mutilation, assassinated my right to have offspring. No Craries, is the eugenic declaration from Ringo Starr’s game of tittyball.
The civil situation with Black ogres really is like living under Isis. The Ku Klux Klan and Black Panthers just needed a common enemy and the Beatles, leading the crime with the mighty engine of their morale machine, gave them little Jimmy Creary. It was, I believe, Lennon who identified my father at their concert before the death of Kennedy in England, followed him to me and had me set upon and molested for the British Union of Fascists so prominent in Liverpool where he came from with his girlfriend beating songs like, “Run for Your Life,” and “Getting Battered all the Time”. Such music is shaded with the demonic aphrodisiac of misunderstood youth getting even.
The bombing appears to have taken place on Rosa’s birthday, the anime bodied hottie who broke my heart in Penis Gabriel’s cover program for Will Zell with Greg Karl’s gang on Mt. Desert Island. While Wilma Coon was exploiting her stupid notes to me, calling the Secret Service with allegations that I was plotting to kill Ted Kennedy of all the bizarre things, determined to break us up, Sylvia Green, also at CCAC Library was in touch with Michelle McVeigh, whose confederate Peter Shell of the Mellon Syndicate had manufactured the holocaust trauma recording of Jimmy Creary’s carrot tape about the mob who dragged him through glass. My supervisor Dennis Hennessey read Greg Karl’s, “Structuralist Approach to Musical Analysis,” gulped, shuddered and handed it back to me sure that denial was stronger than truth. The coward Fripp didn’t even bother to evaluate “that old carrot” (as he publicly called Eno) tape properly, he just lit the fire to the barns and spooked the horses, while hisser Sinfield sent an agent named David from East Liberty Presbyterian to scribble in my grandmother’s Bible at the Book of Timothy. They actually expect me to buy that they are in secret war of protest for the victims.
Whether you go by way of Peter Leo to Andrea Swimmer, or of way 2 the Heinz Family, as neighbors of Warhola recycling, scamming Ralph Proctor, it can lead by Nancy Drew Waegan to 125 Campbell Street in Santa Cruz, where Donaldo Gulligan (DG) another baritone female opera singer like Galas, promoted the abuse of Jimmy Creary by Donald Ostro as the nature of reality to validate Mt. Desert Island. Prince Charles choked out that it was all because Queerbait had, “thex,” try it again Charles, “I thay thex, thex, thex, do you understand what I’m thaying?”
And, of course, they just about hadda slasher Shannon Harps for Paul McCartney’s sacred penny of soothsay, hadda. Just listen to the harps of soothsay for the masochism of discipline’s sacred effluvium, from Britain, Inc. or else n’you’ll be plenty sorry. Remember Neville Gas Chamberlin and the ChurchlyIll.