The Baseball History of the AIDS Onslaught


On October 13th, 1960, my father Dr. Ryland Crary was listening to Bob Prince announce the World Series on the radio with a clear view from his window of the left field wall. He saw the ball hit by Bill Mazeroski go over and the world around him erupted. I was born a week later in Shadyside Hospital to Nancy Jane Moore, a grandson to Ward of the Post Dispatch. He send her a Western Union Telegram that read: A male heir at last! Praise Allah! You have saved the dynasty.

It’s hard to accept sometimes, but America is, in part, the stories we don’t tell about ourselves, and, of course, our detractors, want to tell these stories about us in their own way, if possible through Hollywood. To have a story about us scribed in vicious distortion rubbed in our faces as an ultimatum to accept it as truth, coming by way of strange dissemination, materializing around us, as epic as Don Quixote offers the simplicity of a fabrication. They’ve made our lives easier for us, they claim, by exterminating a lot of people, and told us just to accept it, because by letting them tell the story, dishonestly, we save face. Poison offers pedophile blackmail, embarrassing to old Ward, as master of ceremonies.

Of course, I admonish you not to let them get away with it, but they have, it’s true enough. They, in turn, have the sympathy of the Queers and AIDS victims, despite having released the virus, and have answered with a threat to blow the world to Kingdom Come. The kingdom to come, ironically, is what Queen Elizabeth had in mind when setting up this sorcerer’s mystery disaster, to be resolved in time for the grand coronation after she passes her Crown. Clearly, the elements of story were real, and this allows speculators to make littl’ jimmuh queebait into a comic ruse of powerball over copyright. Working out of the Museum system, the authors have cornered the market.

We know of course all about how Obama’s game of Pussyball over Midori Goto was set up by the Federal Emergency Management Agency at PITT in support of Mt. Desert Island’s AIDS testing war game. SO by Peter Gabriel was an advertisement by Ringo Starr of what was to be considered the illumination of man’s search for meaning in death. Entrapment and its psychology were sold as hope on the heart strings playing fear of abandonment. By the Ark covenant that the eugenic extremists involved described with support of the British Government has an alter-ego, and that is an Ark of Murders. They have targeted innocent symbols sacrificially as part of their Experience Park gesture of cover up. As a child, I truly thought I would never see anywhere anything nearly so absolutely filthy, beyond macabre, as the home run by Andrea Swimmer’s father. I was, tragically wrong. The soul of Ringo Starr is worse.

Tom Selleck is someone I believe should be arrested in connection with this terrible nightmare. Today on Blue Bloods, his fourteen year old daughter witnessed a crime scene and suffered for months in trauma afterwards. She was not stalked, tortured and raped and being brutally kidnapped and mutilated, as I was younger than at that age. Selleck uses the name Reagan as his nom de guerre in pimping for a media system that has settled on the idea that brutally impacted nerve damage is a rightful medium to allow Ringo in the name of Reagan, too, to horrifically abuse a poet extruding material to twist into a cover story and scapegoat angle. It is very difficult to reach society beyond the walled city of the University of Pittsburgh because of the violence with which the Nordenberg Administration has been lying about me, depicting me as some sort of hippy Fu Manchu in the grips of a travesty of lost premises, destroyed by time and tragedy. Pitt used me for vivisection then tortured me for reporting it to their police. How do we get to this ridiculous condition where we attack people trying to protect us as snitches? Pitt Administration is gravely implicated in unspeakable abuse of the child of Senior Faculty. Tom Selleck is relevant because Pitt itself has called down mega-power from the Hollywood system defending their turf in Identity Crime by brain trauma.

Although the murderers have written themselves a money back guarantee on the disappearance of Lennon, several twists of irony raise questions about what really happened in all that. The double fantasy of my presence and relevance to both crimes, Lennon’s disappearance and Reagan’s being shot by Hollywood special effects from Pentagon Disney while I was there with his Federal Emergency Management Agency team for the show, he waved to me the night before and they gave me a brochure, “there’s no such thing as objective reality only what the jury believes,” guarantees the fraudulent telling from the Master of Hollywood.

Through the huge crack in the gates of reality, the enemy poured. It is important to remember that Blacks were involved in both the murders of Malcolm X and Dr. King. The first woman to attempt on King was a black woman with a letter opener. A black man shot his mother. Blacks were impressed with the reasoning, that good blacks who know God and that abortion is murder would be part of the team. Obama would become Executive. Gail Burstyn who wrote the script is part of Hillary Clinton’s system of alliances. There’s a deaf girl named Vendetta Sanders all conjured up for the play with Chin I, who they raped as perilous justification for Robert Fripp’s claim that Leslie Katz’s virginity proved me the bad guy, they called this a twist of Lennon.

Lennon’s art however is represented by an Ayn Rand film with a lookalike of Gail Burstyn, herself a eugenic archetype used repeatedly by those in the war machine. The caption in her film under this mesmer is: It will be just like starting over, Lennon’s last song before taking the genius way out, so typical of Rand’s science fiction, and leaving the disturbing prescription of his mentality in song.

It takes a village to assassinate someone by abortion and I often wonder in looking back on the head of the fetus, so clearly from the distinguished line of Ryland, who Ward saw as his dynasty, a child with the look of the Magistrate Crary, with the look of the great orator Nathan of Plymouth Meeting, blond and lovely, I wonder, who did they kill, by what license, these Bungalow Bills from Capitol Records and the hijacking at Love Field?

Gabriel crowed of One Truth, One Dream (by which he just meant Royalty) on SO to present a homogenization vision allowing spread of AIDS without attempt to intercept people’s behavior by reason, spooking the horses to the burning barn, much as Simon Legrees like Ringo from a past century homogenized the minds of slaves. They sought to do what Vaclav Havel called, “The Art of the Impossible,” getting our defeated society to cheer Hitler. Gail Burstyn pressed upon me the book, “That was then, this is now,” much as the Aryan actress in Storm Warning, her hand on a brick reminiscent of a side of beef, mourns in mortification after being confronted with the unrelenting glare of a Sephardic persona. It was their turn, and in the end, rubbing the unmasked and laughing criminal behind the murder of JFK, like a crowd in a poem by Ooka Makota, the betrayed fell to their knees to the lick the feet of their conquerors.

Given their determination to spoil it for everyone, how curious that they kept silent so as not to spoil it.