Dr. Ralph Proctor wrote a book on the Civil Rights Movement in Pittsburgh. He interviewed participants. A few of them, to his dismay, one bedridden, refused to help on the grounds they said he was exploiting them. He couldn’t understand. He was investing, not making money, just trying to preserve, but, in reality, knowing how those types think, when he saw fit, he drew upon their bogey-monster and directed it at me, unsuspecting that I was. In pursuit of a very warped agenda, Warhol Museum, working with Proctor, set upon me in production of a theme about karma, some of it instant karma, some of it a slow, torturous, unpredictable burn, a collection agency for voodoo economics which very recently was used to kill Saoirse Kennedy because they knew that spiritually I loved her. Clever game, they think. The F.B.I. themselves are enthralled, and can’t get enough of it. The cut and paste ripper hatters plaster together viciously misattributed voodoo dolls of inner sanctum gibberish to allow them to strike out at bystanders, and the authorities encourage it, while mincing my every word for sinister overtones, lest I think I have a right to protest. A recent shooting at James and Beckwith (Clark Atlanta) is telltale. DeBeckwith was hauled away to prison for helping klukkers many years after the crime. THE WHITE is guilty, guilty, guilty, they announced when slapping five at the defsukke’s maternity ward crib.
Proctor gives airplay to his deranged hatred of white people openly, everyday, in every class, repeating it and justifying it ad nauseum. Once you understand what his partner Nelson Harrison calls the “black psychology” of this criminal team, you see with great ease the role that the NAACP played in the Kennedy assassinations, and AIDS attack, as well as the strange case of James MacRyland Crary, and how they were recruited into advantage to the Third Reich. The assassins after revenge for the Axis went around breaking the most valuable things they could get in their crosshairs and then laughed when someone gasped, “That man was a priceless Steinway!” “Heh, heh, heh, not anymore.” Proctor even takes his students into his home, shows them a mountain of swastikas he has collected and announces loudly that they are sacred African symbols. One of the lessons of the Texas Schoolbook is that a whole set of fairly clear allusions exist in the name game angle of the operation, more difficult to descry is the multi-cultural sex trafficking industry behind it, so let us turn to John Ruskin, and Ruskin Hall of Pitt.
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.
My birth was greeted into this world by a black man named Nathan. He continued to follow me throughout my upbringing, and was very angry when I was told to find him over my stepmother’s gallstone emergency. He didn’t want me to know he was still around. One of the reasons Pitt NAACP regard me as a fugitive slave is that they paid for my birth as part of a military contract division for eugenic vivisection in the AIDS attack. My neighbor was a monkey vivisectionist as were the partners of DIA who I met at the Pennsylvania Governor’s School. It is this orbing, syphilitic obsession with the objectification and hatred of THE WHITE (liberal, rhesus, defsukke) which allowed individuals involved in the crime team to murder Saoirse Kennedy in the same flip of a page that they subject me to mutilationism. The government likes to threaten prison for naming names. They say they donohue is behind it and anyone who names names is committing a priceless forgery.
Trump has an extraordinary leader of ISIS commandeering the violent, fascist uprising. An insane pygmy from Warhol named Youssou N’dour, popular in Seattle. They also had an agent in place when my father Ryland was poisoned dead, Nyaguna Kabugi (Ny is pronounced like a J). The puns “gun” and “bug” are just there, dogeyes, don’t play all a whole big thing. Such agency names are a singular feature of the Kennedy assassination combine. They riddle you in while wriggling out.
It’s hard to imagine the gloat of Michael Reagan as his attache Penis Gabriel forces the queerbait to play and replay his favorite theme, or snickering with mirth as they report the murder of Saoirse Kennedy in the name of his partnership with Yoko Ono, but it’s a safe bet its as ugly a leer as Jack Ruby’s debauchery, and a high five over the very first, original man on a brainbeam, awakened to voices threatening him with prison, being cultivated in the sock of black pimpery.
The prison issue illustrates the way assassins are setting the terms. It also shows you why Lew Lapham regarded the process as priceless forgeries in the 80’s. Two Nobelaureates were working the beat for HitlerReagan: Aung San Suu Kyi and Vaclav Havel. Havel’s team control the symbol “50” as an idyllic for John Kennedy you must earn by sacrificialism, and so on and so forth. Tom Rodd, cozy with Jay Inslee, whose State stalked Saoirse for the kill, (Andrew Cho tells his students his real name is Aung San, but while admitting hostility for the genocide in Laos that he blames, probably rightly, on the USA, doesn’t really indicate to them what his name means, nor where his loyalty in the matter really are), is a crusader against CO2 gases in the atmosphere who was in a 70’s civics book for being the first American to turn in his Draft Card and face the consequences. Rodd’s mother collected newspapers about Lincoln’s assassination. Rodd’s brother Billy was part of a billy club of flash runners who were led by Billy Flynn. He witnessed the blindside attack by Kasperowski when I was in grade school. He probably set it up. So much for Rodd non-violence. A war game, in other words, about the right of the public to know the truth about the AIDS attack, targeting the child of a humanist with a gramps at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, in East Liberty District of Pittsburgh, in other words, is a Havelian Farce.
Understanding who really is licky chops involves identifying a gang who have borrowed for the anonymous mask the name of Dennis Kucinich. The reason is good enough for them, they lisp that you snitched on the Ku Klux Klan partnership with Black Panthers in the rise of Yoko Ono the witch. That’s good enough explanation for them when the loot is counted. Having used me shamelessly for this outrage, they spit in my face, “You aren’t special.” They must have very complicated lives to see the issue as stakes rather than dignity.
Hollywood has provided Pittsburgh with a super-leveraged pseudo-interrogation system. For example, their Drama Club put out sly stand up comedy acts propounding as a joke the scofflaw evasions of debt collection among CMU students and spy camera whether you are laughing. The tone provides a gravitational induction into confederacy to advocate for the hidden narrative of a dissertation voodoo. The murderers pimping these routines glorify street poetry as a sickening jest, poisoning its fine name, working with Smithsonian’s Penis Gabriel on are certifiable Folkways counterfeiting jobs to sell pedophile films on the black market of Sotheby’s for Jaime Carbonell.