Carnegie Mellon University Drama School is criminally insane. Back in the days when their alumni wrote Godspell, they also penned an insane script called: The Story of a Bird, signed Gail Burstyn.
Despite the seriousness of the injuries inflicted and the treachery at large, one can easily get bored plodding through the initial argumentation regarding the evidence. Take by way of example the tedious project of addressing the letter by Gail Burstyn in which she calls me “a derf”. In fact, she goes further and says that, “all little boys are derfs.” We are to assume she means that unusual word, “derf,” for a childish epithet of some sort. It is, to my surprise, a real word. It is in the dictionary. Curiously, derf isn’t a noun or an adjective, but rather a verb meaning to sally forth as in derfing ho. Granted, Buckminster Fuller said that people are actually verbs not nouns. Either way, even if you look at it with the strictest and most limited rational assessment, it is either: A) confusing or B) pregnant with grammatical suggestion. Even with her snotty little scribble, “hint-hint,” at the top of the letter, the purpose of Pitt’s arrest and diagnosis of me was to forbid evaluation. They pronounced with genuine gravity that it is [u]not[/u] a word that looks like deaf, adding that to say it does is dangerously wrong. Clearly, brutal punishment is being courted by such a self-jeopardizing muse; and there is nothing strange about such denial being called an emergency response, with arrest and heavy retaliation.
Despite the overpowering violence to the body and mind in evidence, in your boredom (wanting closure before falling asleep) you sprinkle the vespers of schizophrenia diagnosis on the explainer before passing out in bliss.
NO, there is no poem-like visual rhyme between a derf and adolf. You are not a Nazi if you do not see, you must be one if you do.
The dx (which means diagnosis) of sz. (which means schizophrenia) is a line in the sand mandating that further explanation or discussion is divorced from reality and you will pay if you pursue it.
The Dx/sz is a resourceful assault on freedoms of speech and freedom of the press. Each time I have won the argument for the right to write it has been built on dismissal of my testimony as fantasy. Behind this denial, each time I have been allowed to continue speaking Gail Burstyn and her allies have coiled up and struck again.
The power posture that they adopt, one stating that they are sincere (and listening) forestalls their lethal remedy, prolonged by their morbid fascination with winning the argument about which they will keep all related matters under wraps until such time as they do.
They claim the principle of this laugh at my expense is much more revealing and valuable than the U.S. Constitutional social contract that they have voided.
ISIL, the initialism for a new-fangled, barbarous regime abroad, could as easily stand for the mindset that Obama brings to the table: I Say It’s Legal!
For their part, the F.B.I. think it’s funny to watch the deranged program unfurl in the mind of the victim. They jones and gibber with the totality of Gail Burstyn’s Declaration of War. The Texas Schoolbook at work makes clear the degree to which we are being ruled by the real Oswald, obsessively raking the coals, finding betrayal incomparably delectable.
There’s quite a distance between what is true and what they say is true. I have been told to understand and accept a murderous attack on innocent people. According to the British poison women behind the exaggerations advanced about my utility to the war machine, in name and persona, the root laws of decorum in the RAF nursing hospital have been abridged. They shrieked (to cover for Mt. Desert Island) that little Jimmy wrote an anti-magnanimous love letter to Gail Burstyn’s Leslie and that this triggered the proper response from the Beatles of Oz in their acid rock godhead. From there they went into the streets and shelters looking for the most deranged, resentful syphilitics that their beat detectives could incite.
I read an account of such a hospital during WW2 where the RAF nurses were greatly impressed by the stoicism and cheer of many remarkable wounded men, but one very badly maimed soldier depressed them with his crying and mean temper. They even looked down on him for his crying because he was crippled and blind. The RAF poison women throughout their hideous stage production (which was all built on slanders and about me and the claim Reagan didn’t know, which is wrong) alleged that I cried too much about childhood injuries which they shamefully depicted as delinquency while lying through the teeth. It was of course to convince the pretty blue girls not to smile at me. What Nurse Foreign English Rabid Wormtongue didn’t tell Nun Pretty (in her daydreams about making an exception) is that the soldier they looked down on for crying while blind was in agony because she had planted a dagger in his back pressing against his spine, a fact the RAF poison women withheld from the doctor, who also heaped scorn on the blind man’s greed.
It is as if the Dxsz is in place to make sure the dagger stays where it hurts the most so that the crying blind man will always be hated by the Fab Bros. And their twisted sisters, of course this is particularly funny and caustic for Yoko Ono who targeted me as a child with Gail Burstyn. This she calls telling the truth. AIDS came equipped with her practical joke.
As a child walking through the famous Strip District of Pittsburgh, terrified of what would leap out at me, with no idea why I was being hunted so, there was no question that trauma and undiagnosed concussions had left me severely mentally disturbed, a piece of clay in the hands of child molesters. The very fact that they both control pornography and released AIDS very certainly shows what cruel perverts the Foreign English and their allies are, and makes despicably clear the hostility and plan behind their cruel derision about Mt. Desert Island and the entrapment sorcery of the AIDS Combine.
Their leaders have hissed in no uncertain terms that they support those who started AIDS and tortured me because I read the letters of Gail Burstyn as a child, half-aware of what they said, because so difficult to understand. I took them for a Jewish brat showing off her education. These murderers then say I am responsible for what the letters contain. It is a depraved accusation, depraved of content, and depraved of source, depraved of purpose and heaped with the thrill of foreign sadist slander behind true authorship. These are predators feeding on inhuman heartbreak, getting away with failure to warn by hiding true authorship in order to force adoption by forgery. The hidden history of this British deceit is clear in the letter from their desk in 1984 reading, “The whole is greater than the sum of its parts,” and their maniacal bray in Allentown during the Fall of 1987, in the lead up to sponsorship of Zell’s program, hissing that Hero cudda met Archimedes and averted the population explosion. This is the syndicate that produced the Beatles agent with the name of Greg Karl: Greg Starsinic, for Ringo Starr’s arsenic.
They live in a fetish of petulant delectations concerning pain. Trying to reason with them as hostage-takers is an attempt to bribe the sword of ISIL (they say it’s legal), an attempt to outwit the German Concentration Guard with the intelligence that a bullet is worth more than a Jew. Auh! He croaks in amazement and muse. The murderers laugh that they will kick anything marked FRAGILE and that the only thing they remember about me being vindicated by my school as a victim of child mutilation, is that they poisoned my stomach, castrated me, raped my only friend, and stole the woman of my dreams. This is a Queer Sabbath preaching Empathy by the hideous strength of impunity in slasher homicide. Empathy is what they call the brutal rape of deaf children. They love to be hated and thrive on hostility, inflicting symbolic injuries as tribute to the godhead of acid rock.
Oh, Peter Peter.
They were fascinated with their macabre testament and wanted AIDS to spread to strut their legend.