America can be made great for the first time but only American scholars can do it. We must confront and if necessary destroy the British obstruction. In 1966, the Deputy Keeper of the London Museum, Michael Levey, advanced a thesis in which he coughed up a remark about John Ruskin that reveals a great deal about the way that Buckingham Palace meditated this whole program. It isn't that John Ruskin was Courier and Ives, but in making his remarks about Rococo, Levey shows Ruskin as creating images almost the American Century, a standard of goodness and innocence, Cinderella like in its chandeliers, which could only fall prey to the distress of mankind. He states that Ruskin perishes, "driven insane by the irreconcilability of the conflict". Ruskin is something important to me because I was born in a place called The Ruskin and my first book was King of the Golden River, which John Ruskin illustrated, in which what mother would call my racial stock was the faint-hearted hero. The Ruskin is across the street from Pitt, where my human rights father was stationed by the CIA for the Texas storybook of Nathan Bedford Forest. We see in Levey, the study, the meditation, the strangler's knot upon which the British fixated with me in the cross-hairs. Driving the American scholar insane on the irreconcilability of dream, hope, mankind and American estate was a metamagical thema the Axis has used, coached by King Edward, in its revenge.
Although it has made Masterpiece Theater for the rock industry in the AIDS attack, Buckingham Palace shall be busted by the way that they went about doing all this. The plot of King Edward is forceful to see in a film called, "Manhunt in the Jungle," made in the 40's, that begins in Casablanca, a film it consciously evokes for good reason, because the same Hollywood society plotting made both. It is a parable about what King Edward was doing in America through Cecil B. DeMille's leadership in the CIA Radio Free Europe program, and the film is a metaphor for Allen Dulles. The plot, like other films, contains the Hollywood button-hook-and-go theme of a play-possum interval between 1945 and 1963. It describes a falsely reported death, the man is still alive, and a plan to assassinate the Executive of Casablanca. The man closest to the Executive, his very adviser, smashes him in the head and replaces him with a doppleganger, the floor of the Executive suite and very walls giving way to reveal a Nazi radio room. It is a metaphor for Dulles and Hollywood in the USA.
Contemplating how New York City and Seattle in August of 2019 cheer the murder of Saoirse Kennedy, instigated by Gabble Ratchet, Penis Gabriel's fan lines, who said right out and openly online, "You paid with your heart," you arrive with finality at this long laid agenda. The queerbait is designated to be driven insane by the irreconcilability. All that, and nuclear ultimatum, the rabid quip, are the grouse of Lennon, avenging the Warhol junkies in AIDS. Killing Kennedys is no longer an object. The torch of the Kennedy curse gets passed around and the Gurdjieff kluk abort it to suit the tricks of the tale, their metanarrative is still King of the Storybook Forest. Defsukke, rants the yapping Black good squad dacoits, your heroine Saoirse was compense for your insult to Africa's AIDS victims that American estate is a right of a hard worker, which we announce is to sneer, let them eat cake. The pale, white Saoirse who thought she was better than Yoko Ono is designated Marie Antoinette of Seattle's fickle finger.
The Inquisition has not been televised and its viciousness is difficult to even encapsulate, much less describe. Naturally, hearing CMU, Seattle and New York City cheer the murder of Saoirse gives pause and Ruskin's little boy totters on the insanity of the irreconcilability just as seeing Roberto Clemente's name hijacked for the rape of a retarded Korean deaf girl did, but after all, the deaf sucks weren't given AIDS, about which we had nothing to do, but because I detected and reported NEVA narrative voice overs impinging on my experience as a persona being whisper-campaigned, a promotion by smears, Yoko Ono says no, it doesn't matter who released AIDS because their explanation is psychologically acceptable. What matters is the queerbait knew nothing about it. This is unforgivable. Lennon sublime is the spiritual avenger, he came with a sword, Hitler the Walrus forgiven by the Church, a miracle uniting all, and the innocent must pay for the unforgivable sin of not knowing anything about it. so that you will mercifully, have you been given AIDS? suffer an approximately infinite finality of crushing pain, of what the Ayn Rand queers suffered, inside the loop with Foucault, their guru, and Sean Strub, their messiah, now to be celebrated for impinging on the persona's experience with a myriad of pain induced by the sibyls of Gurdjieff kluk, a seance of ripper rapist warfare, endorsed by Reagan and Commadant Powell, Apache tamer. This Hollywood circle opens the film Santa Fe Trail, when the star Errol Flynn was meeting with Hitler, his co-stars Reagan and Van Heflin, with a signboard referring to Robert E. Lee as a great "commadant." They ripper the defsukke through a neuroplasm into seizures, leaving him screaming and screaming in homelessness, raping his best friend deaf advocate, taking his fiance for their pleasure and forcing him into non-violent catering to the assassin group.
Such power is theirs to give greater satisfaction to the impotent rage of the bereaved, a grand secret of Gurdiev cluque, first revealed by Frankl as Ono laughs her ass off.

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