It may be that the only way to tell the truth about what was done to the United States of America when Kennedy was the First Family is as a story of the Outer Limits where you can live with the truth as you read but when you are finished reality returns control to the television antennas with your credulity ratio firmly in hand. If you like that sentence you can click around my blog but if you’re too lazy I’ll just continue from here. It isn’t hyperbole. Cliff Robertson starred as JFK in the film PT-109, as well as the premier Outer Limits episode that was postponed for the funeral of Kennedy and was in a private plane directly above the World Trade Towers when the 911 aircraft hit them. He had gone there to watch. Despite this, New York City officials are selling that the 911 attack was the Spirit of John Lennon and you would be better off cheering their recent murder of Saoirse Kennedy. This is easily verified. There is a picture of Diamonda Galas at http://doubleillusionblog.wordpress.com a friend of Yoko Ono and Kim Kardasian who was in Satanism and Immunology in the 70’s, whose namesake called me Dec. 8, 1980, and who played like she had found the Burstyn letters in the name of Leslie Katz for King Crimson a little later, in my house, with the help of a Union agent working soundtrack at Fox. Oh, anthrax, anyway. Robertson was also tight with Angela Dickinson working with Reagan on The Killers as they set up JFK. If I told you what this was about, you’d stop reading.
There are twin towers of obstacle to reading this, one is the paranoid fantasy too real in the land of deepfake news, the other is a credibility blackout that even attends if you omoja this fiction, it is like an invisible air-raid distributing leaflets over the arrid death valley of a spiritual occupied zone, assuring you that the Dealey Arcade was so long ago the same gang could not be involved in the murder of Saoirse, despite the invisible hand of the scriptwriters, Trump’s old bunkmate Francis Ford Coppola and Marlon Brando among them. Oswald worked at a place called Jagr. John and Yoko liked to quote Errol Flynn, “He who fights and runs away lives to fight another day,” in unison.
Trump actually likes certain types of liberals, as long as they are extremists. He was friendly with Warhol, egged on Dr. Proctor, bringing in Rosa for the Green Party, always non-racist towards Michael Mason of Verizon who almost became the first Black Director of the FBI and Aaron Dixon, in a weird Seattle Mason-Dixon Confederacy. Really it is Ringo Starr however who most resembles J. Edgar Hoover in his G-Man pull these days. Why Trump likes these liberals is that they make good on the grounds for his screeching about them. They are Penis Gabriel’s funhouse, fulfilling your every nightmare.
The profiler Gabriel developed a metanarrative of me after I responded to his partner Fripp’s call for human contact which they needed to sucker me into to secure the letters by processes they could deceive as having been what some New York bohemians in marginal movements call, “Found Art.” Fripp, promoting himself as a disciplinarian turned out to be a childish inciter. I used to have a distant relative in the boonies of Kansas who carefully collected boxes of funnies she clipped from the newspapers. If someone bothered with me, they would note a meme I made of Fripp and Trump before the murder of Saoirse reading, “take everything from the liberals and make them cry.” The profiler had the secrets of Radcliffe in his magical, mystery books. The terrible heat of the burning neuroplasm left Jimmy shrieking in suffering as the woman closest to him, engaged in hand-to-hand secret war, promoted on his birthday by John Stockwell of the CIA who followed him around, taunted the injury for recreational sadism. This process cemented the letters protesting into something the witches could convert into applause for the program, and best of all it was proven by the fact that Lennon did drugs.
Laws were broken. The attackers came at me blindside with deadly force and took me hostage as a victim of kidnapping. They moved with the panther sleuth and gusto of Pittsburgh, swift and deadly as athletes, with carnal murder falling like a hammer on the violated principle of McCartney’s holy penny, where Saoirse evidently stood, killed as a temporary stand-in for Molly of Iowa’s namesake.
Trump loves black liberals. The intelligencia of Temple tout that to do therapy to a black man, you should first cater to his image of you as a pale white colonialist, teach of the jackal idol that chews its food and processes by wisdom, that you might be the icon uplifted before they slay. In African muse, doing the will of Trump, now known to be the Second Coming, the African Warrior Warrior announces that the man who has no children may as well be dead, as the lispers laugh, let him finish his craze as a monk of the crimson cloth who was punitively disabused of liberalism. The Kennedy Fulbrighters cling to their points, no, master, we never said it was you divine.
By eavesdropping implements permitted the Zappa freak show, the Beatles leered that they would show what Warhol could make in songs of what the likes of queerball squealed in the talismanic mandela lens of a squozen nerve injury extruded by CMU’s Jaime Carbonell for the hookers of NEVA. The wormtongue induced duh shunts in the golem while Warhol slapped five with Trump and Reagan for the heist. Reagan, the man who framed himself, shouted out that anyone who tells the truth will be put to death for promoting a priceless forgery in which intellectual property magnate Dexter King was to given a share of the loot from a gang goldfingering the death of his father. Non-violence won’t protect your women! Who’s dagging Rosa, now, dogeyes?
Mason of the FBI teamed up with Dixon of Seattle to eliminate as moral executioners by the Invisible Hand! The Lord of the Rings turned up as Melvin Belli’s brood to defend the franchise of the Ladies of the Road and D.T. acknowledged only that you will Die Trying. If the poison isn’t bad enough, the voices of ultrahigh is a good “X-ample” of what this material containeth unto Jindhal, like Gruber taunting the spray of the lanced Jimmy pecker, there’s a fork in the road.