You've probably heard the adult conservative judgement or infered it for yourself that rock stars, beginning with the Beatles, are the leaders of the irresponsible. They spend most of their time a lot more of their money than almost anyone else has to live on looking for a prurient snivel that simplifies their insane quest for superiority and helps them evade doing anything honest with their time. John Lennon once said he was a mocker. Sir Paul McCartney is a mocker-ee. From writing the theme song to Live and Let Die, to authoring a Battle Royal fiesta of bloodshed and Pussyball, The McCartney Estate's contribution to peace and idealism is to tranmit to Queers the virulent desire of Hitler to see them sticking people with AIDS needles. The only utility that Non-Violence had to Great Britain of The Beatles is the mandate that you may not strike back against those who despitefully released the AIDS virus bacteria after rescuing Hitler and shooting JFK. This is axiomatic and allows no contradiction. It's all set up:
To claim it is the only hope for survival of the testimony.
To leer that it is the only way to prove you are not a pretender.
To grasp against your right to a life of your own.
To impugn that anything else justifies their atrocity.
Thanks to Great Britain of The Beatles those who released AIDS are so far in advance of every possible goal to stop them that they have a quid pro quo, tit for tat in place for every motion made by any form of conscientious resistance, locked into place like a Muslim's act of fornication by a British Labor Yojimbo job that had them shooting the Left then the Right, then the Left, then the right, if that is what you want to call the murder of John Heinz followed by their revenge for Diana on JFK, Jr. This isn't about honesty or rationality, nor even realpolitik, it is about the rampage of Dick Storkey, the world's end syphillitic.
Creepsuck McCartney came to the table with a stacked deck of cards and found that his partner Hitler had stacked cards too. Disgraced, his iron mallet came down on the table until all that was left were he and his partner Adolf Hitler, to whom no object will suffice. As Reagan once said of the caboose for Goering, “That's almost good enough.” Only Hitler was good enough for Reagan. McCartney cooed with warmth and agree, looking down on the egg he calls his planet, pining for the day when Hero cudda met Archimedes and so much distasteful cudda been avoided.
Z, Hitler lived.
It turned out Queerball breathed during sexual intercourse. That means the only, exclusive and sole objective of all Queerbasque who lay down Eno's awesome perfection from state to state is the rape of deaf Jeannie and isolation of the Quahthing. Should he try to jerk away from your booger infested child-raping fist, thou shalt surely ripper basque for Mickey Obama. Faced with the child raping leechliness of Seattle for ten miserable years, I said a naughty. The devil made me do it. It's hardly divine and mystical Leftism that has allowed Santorum to gloat about the success of the AIDS Onslaught. Try accomplice. Seattle is the Noah's Ark of Kolorz, and there is precious little doubt that they helped Reagan, London, Chapman and Ringo Starr pull this whole thing off because they wanted it to happen and enjoy grasping at the spin control for the boodle.
Mike Seate was a lover of Kyra Schon, named in the Burstyn letters. He writes for the super-right wing slander crab gazette that thinks they are God's gift to Richard Scaife Mellon, the Pittsburgh Tribune Review. On his left shoulder, six inches long and two inches thick is a tattoo'd swastika, and from the rest of his remorseless body self-mutilation ink job it is more than clear he doesn't mean it as a buddhist symbol. He no doubt knew Schugar Bear, Sonya Toler, Abira Ali and Aaron Dixon, he no doubt had contacts to Michelle Young at Falk Medical Library and the tall, elitist Black Medical student who answered my interest in Buckminster Fuller and appeals for a prompt emergency meeting on expediting the Internet which was still being invented as a Yellow Tang Line by Gore, to get emergency medical to Africa using the Cray-6 Super Computer by telling me that I was just being gay, that even solar power needed scarce lithium, to smile and get it right. There isn't enough. By the time John Seitz joined the Peace Corps and sent me a photo of aborigines with a modem, Penis Gabriel had my doctored Persona firm in hand, with priceless asides from The McCartney Estate like, “The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.” Small wonder that Dixon wants a knife fight over Midori to silence me.
Something can be said I suppose for using racial rivalries over a woman to create work-aholics in a high school, provided that they obey the doctrine of the film How the West Was Won, meaning that once the woman decides the only dishonor is to leave her, and the decision accepted, but to create a eugenic pussyball fight as a cannibalistic idealism so that Our Great Noah Obama is cast as a Biblical character in the poison crime overthrow of The United States of America is too much bull to sit still while some local deviant of blackmail, extortion and brutality towards the handicapped makes it sound right by inciting frenzy'd thieves from the Gay Punk Opera on a deaf poet.
One struggles hard to agree, despite the intensity and morbidity of the degradation, that Jimmy Creariey, not Sir The McCartney Estate and Mr. President, is the humilated party.
Christel Urmanyhazi, agent of Martin Andelman, on the eve of my first date with Leslie Katz to Mister Roberts, a play, began her favorite rhapsody: “I thought you were genuine.” It's gotten old.
If Flipp is so desperate to stop the world he can jump off the sacred flat planet of his spin control and allow the rest of to re-corporate as we belong.