This essay is about the juvenile way the academic power structure have mocked me as the center of my own universe, particularly the powerful black people who enjoy stepping on someone.  It is part of their own search for identity and establishment of an immoral pecking order in the United States of Holocaustal Injustice, under the Government of Hollywood in which we live.  They announce their agency by ego-slaughtering, student-bashing, inventing any convenience.  This is the significance of having my life destroyed by the incident at Kelly School, having child-mutilation kidnapping fobbed off as being a sissy by a ringleader of Black Lives Matters, the black KKK.   It is in some ways, too, the strange saga of James and Nathan, two black men I knew as a child.  The City of Pittsburgh is very beholden to Donald Trump, he speaks for them nine ways from Sunday.  If you are a pussy, they can grab you and do anything.  Underwriting their humiliation is how they, the Black Gestapo, used my name for HitlerReagan’s AIDS attack, and the role played by King Crimson, who I admired, and their back blade of Death Seed and pornographic anthropology, the British wing of the parochial mass assassination.  If you don’t want to know about that dishonorable and disgraceful betrayal by the British music lobby, don’t read my testimony.  If you are one of those sad intellectuals on the prowl for ways to abuse someone to elevate yourself, promoting black identity while refusing to address what they did, it’s pointless.

         The idea that white people are genetically racist is bunk.  I was still in my crib when I met Nathan the first time.  He was so nice to me I was overjoyed and couldn’t wait to see him again, but when I did, he eyed me hatefully this time round.  I never would have seen him again, only one day my stepmother was crawling in pain and yelled for me to find Nathan.  I was confused who to look for and he seemed anger when I came outside looking for someone, angry that I knew he was there, but her gallstones had slipped and he had to take her to the hospital for surgery.   James, however, taught me that black hatred can be very cruel.  He made me afraid of my own name, cornering me, taking my money, telling me to take off my glasses as though he was going to shoot me and didn’t want to risk being hit by flying glass.

        David Douglas, who was a close friend of Matt Marcus, the source of a major piece of back up offered to Dr. Proctor and Penis Gabriel when he attacked on the job through a poisonous crime of marriage masquerade with Rosa, had a father who leered at me for writing against apartheid that if you try to help black people they will only turn on you, and he was certainly right.  That’s all they ever did.  They humiliated me and tortured me, heckled me and made a laughingstock of my privacy and investigation into AIDS, they justified threatening me with AIDS and using me for a testing guinea pig in a Hitlerian war game.

       I was trying to understanding Carnegie Mellon at the time of that Penis Gabriel was obsessing over me for his honcho pipe wet Youssou N’dour, the ISIS war criminal of Senegal who networked such mania as 911 with Diamonda Galas, a partner of Gail Burstyn, who wrote the AIDS script about killing Kennedy that Kennedy’s who-gives-a-fuck-about-AIDS Secret Service have used me to justify ignoring.  My mother was a student teacher of Richard Wells, at my high school, and David Demarest at CMU.  Debra Martin and Treva Formby were with David Demarest and called me at Pitt News asking me to write for their Student Union Newspaper.   Meanwhile architect student John Seitz set me up by contacting an architect who said he liked Buckminster Fuller, as I did, and lured me into contact when men who kidnapped, tortured and gassed me as a child, named Kasper.  It was a party put together by the labor team for Salk Labs and Louis Kahn, a holocaust survivor, who turned out to be friends with David Demarest.  This is one of the reasons I have come to believe that my mother, a Union authoritarian, had me to donate a white sacrifice to their sinister mock art purposes.

        Rollie Wesen and Drew Waegal (Nancy Drew/Waegal Reagan) had in mind with Penis Gabriel a Rock and Rollie Wesen Oil Lesson.  Rollie really liked Reese’s cups.   He once wrote about something “becoming rancid in the refrigerator of my brain,” which shows they knew that  a nerve agent had been used on me and knew I didn’t know it.