The Lovely Illusion You Are Fighting for JFK

The name Jimmy Crary, in an ethnic neighborhood that isn’t always very bright like Pittsburgh, on the lookout for the weak and effeminate, proved a huge and awful gyration. It arrived on the heels of a terrible ordeal for Jews in Germany where they had been slurred, scapegoated, and treated derisively, stripped of property and robbed of their lives. Perhaps it is to be expected that they would lead the pack in twisting the name to Creary, while others pounced with O’Quarry, O’Queerio and queerbait. History is full of such things, in the world of villainy many have noted how little Hitler would have been respected by his birthname of Schlickgruber. I-ron-ically and uncoindentally, Donald Gruber was the first to begin the dance, circulating the story my mother offered up that queerbait had shoved clay in his penis, the result of word reaching Jeff Kennedy that Mendel Silverman had ordered my prong lanced for peehole widening because he said, “maybe’s it’s just small,” while his friend, “Red,” or Sidney Busis, Director of Holocaust Survivors noted of Jimmy, “We were unable to get reliable pure tone results.” Quisling would not have become a household name in the U.S. Army if he had been named Corvelli. Hollywood looks for names that seem to fit the purpose, heroes who are milded manner supermen named Clark Kent, mysterians named Perry Mason, and iron men named Knute Rockne. Jimmy Creary just had to go.

Scratch a little deeper and it was just too good to be true. His grandparents were respectable working class midwesterners. His father dared to let Blacks into schools and professed himself an intellectual to match wits with. Most precious of all was blond heritage at work in the Pilgrim name of Crary, and not just Crary, but the almost royal sounding James MacRyland Crary, and his liberal parents threw him to the dogs as an unguarded child, telling the neighbors what a sissy he is. Pitman and Ronald Goldy arrived immediate in a stolen yellow “Cont” (Lincoln Continental). In front of an entire city I have been treacherously mauled for 45 years.

There were of course intellectuals, who drove me into tragedy and a corner, but the sight of me, rocking myself soothed somehow to the very music that was used and inspired the ongoing, lifelong vivisection experiment, was too good to be true. King Crimson contacted Western Psychiatric, told them to pimp on me, hire John Guterson to defend the Guttersnipes, in a CMU gang game of rape deaf Jeannie and laugh. They destroyed the evidence and spat in my face when I finally woke up to what was going on. Obama’s machine advertised their assassination with the words: The Joke’s on You. Lennon would have wanted them to, is the word in the street.

I want to explain a little for you about what really happened.

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This is a picture of Yigal Amir. He is a Jewish man young law student who shot Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin to death in 1995. This sweet picture was taken during his trial. He is flanked by a security officer, family and friends.

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Because he is Jewish we don’t call him names. That would be uncalled for hehn. He is just a sad case of a misguided youth gone awry. On a better day he could have risen the Geffen Corporation, etc. The truth is that these terrorist clowns were given the keys to the city of Pittsburgh by New York Media giants to orchestrate the bloodbath in which the position designated Jimmy Crary held absolute centrality, and no one protested, it was too much fun. Just look at Nava’s boyfriend grinning.

Having a Peace/fool named Jimmy Creary focused the eye of the beholders on the litanies of mirth, rather than the litanies of torture, much as the invisible man in The Devil in Mrs. Jones, which Mark Mancine took me to as a child, instructed her to concentrate on the pleasure not the pain. It was, as all were assured, a question of basic values. By laughing at Jimmy Creary he was not being violated, but rather rendered a warrior in a house of gusto. Don Ostro threw darts at his feet in a crowded bar as he slank into a corner of trauma and confusion, a crying child laughed at by every man and woman in sight, and, as everybody knows, they still aren’t done. Ruminate, queerball, he was told by the Jews, tell your sad tale, sell tears, said Lapham, amount to something, myuh. Why Rodney Toady will have the girl of your dreams dancing with these men in no time. Then we’ll publish who’s a joke, the Jew, the Great Tive, or you? The English bought up the Post Dispatch with grima wormtonguing by the Silverblatts, you would be ashamed of him, his grandparents would blush they needled. As for police women, well, as Midori snickered, Ostro’s was bigger, he was from Pittsburgh, an Eno sycophant and still had uses.

One can only hate as much as the love, the scintillating details, from Professors of Adventure and Mayhem on high.

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And of course, who do we have to thank for this but Nick Lucarelli. His son John Luca says he could mix any drink in creation, find any vice, but never touched a drop. From Elmira they wanted to match wits with the disciples of Mark Twain. Grandson David Luca of 20th Century Fox put the grab on the script for Rusted Root to pass to Sean Lennon after being airdropped into the enemy family by marriage of the Italian ghetto curse: your mother.

Amir looks familiar. He looks like the gesticulating Jews I used to see around Nava Edelstein, the namesake of his girl, when Mark Chapman was in Beirut and I was being framed for armed robbery, kids like Andy Schecter who owned the mansion of Ross Kronenbitter on whom Peter Gabriel relied for his yammering ku klux klan cover story about Mt. Desert Island and Leslie Katz.

All charade to cover AIDS being manmade by a production company that still can’t get enough of it.

The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette yesterday depicted the Queen of Darkness in Britain as announcing that Light would Prevail. Nothing like that is in the actual text, but the Pittsburgh Post Gazette runs a sort of Son of Sam division, poets who after slashering innocent victims to death bray: The Birds Still Sing in the Morning. It isn’t that penisElizabeth had nothing godawful to say, cheering the troops of devastation, hissing that to take it all on your back is edifying, groaning about her family while saying nothing about what her lead carrion birds did to mine.

Frankly I was castrated for wimpiness. That is the joke, the line in the sand, that led to the poison by an Unidentified Registered Nurse who finalized Pittsburgh’s take on the nature of reality. Penis Gabriel just couldn’t get enough of the idea that a neuroplasm had traumatized me at the opportunity that any man would rise to, and left me with unrequited complex, a burning thirst at the pool that sinks away as I seek to drink from its kiss. This was proof of an eidetic vision, an Eides that had to be reclaimed by torture and rape of deaf Jeannie, or the Gods of Lennon would not be compensed.

Thos. Hale Gordon, a lead man in the case of the Mysterious Chinese Gordon, is now in charge of multimedia production at the Robotics Institute at a very powerful and offending institution, having used little Jimmy for a military rout. The enemy within was found cringing and weeping, kissing the feces grate on demand in Iowa solitary, a neuroplastic “you gonna eat that” human robot. Gordon’s first line of defense after a vicious offensive being the time-tested assurance that the Police Department would scorn the consumptive little Creary, and that the Italians may yet see fit to commute the Death Sentence from Death Camp 12 of the starling in Luca’s Starlet Wars.

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