New - Michael "Lev" Levinson

New World Hors D´oeuvres
The Recipe for World Peace
Michael Stephen Levinson
Ah, dear peers, do not pass go.
This is the story of the man who walked and talked with God;
who was given words for all mankind.
With His Vehicle for World Peace, the “Jacklegs,” our Poet
Prophet candidate for President, is “Jumping Up” on the granite steps of
the United States Supreme Court when Elián Gonzalez intervenes.
With my own case pen ding, I believed in the Supreme Coats,
those Supreme do-whoppers. I planned on spending my first precious
minutes, with Goldbar and the Coats, before Goldbar took sick in his
throat, crafting my Torah delight, the story of King Solomon and “Baby
Eliána.”
It’s a matter of historical fact. The record shows “Baby Eliána”
was the original baby’s name from King Solomon’s High Court,
centuries ago, and King Solomon v. “Baby Eliána” is the blind cite that
beyond any shadow will settle my case, the unresolved Michael Stephen
Levinson v. Federal Communications Commission and United States of
America S. Ct. No. 95-5876.
King Solomon is my Courtroom strategy. My distinguished 30
minutes Jackleg spout before the Supreme Coats will stand on King
Solomon’s remarkably inspired jurisprudence, King Solomon v. “Baby
Eliána,” its ancient DNA well, settled in our bones.
With King Solomon’s famous case for openers, the FCC’s
Political Branch, the group that even today, cloaks my right to make a
political speech, televised live over the air, will get, within the hour,
trenched, exposed for what they are, an “impermissible risk.”
Unconstitutional!
But in fact, this current band of Coats has yet to craft more than
a single line that even approaches King Solomon’s bench, prudence of
juris and all of that; sew, I’m hampered in re-filing my final petition
because I know my writ, however well its polish, is bound for Goldbar’s
bucket of sound legal trash; nay, by his successor, Justice Robert’s
throat-consuming ditch, should history repeat, the juris diction of our
Highest Court is breached.
Breached! The boundaries of our Highest Court’s discretion,
dumpster driven! Our inviolate First Amendment Right, the Public
Interest that governs all writs, my affirmative Constitutional right to give,
and the people’s paramount right to hear, have heard my speech for
President, broadcast live, then and now is sunken, un-redressed, and shot
to fascist hell, our covenant demolished.
Jurisdiction is their unbecoming fix shin. The Federal ExCommunications Commission, instigated in 1927, was licensed by our
congress as adjudicator of overlapping broadcast cases governing
bandwidth spreads, and also to decide who gets what and where and just
how much of what we see and hear any one of the media conglomerates
can own.
These air wave ‘ownership’ issues, of major Public Interest, are
rightly dealt with in Washington, D.C., where all the lobbyists
representing the telephone bells, cable cartels, and licensed air wave nets
boldly reach for who can get the most palms lobster greased, in
furthering their own selves’ in tryst.
But when a candidate for President is denied media access for a
live political speech, to state his case for election, this rarest of
Constitutional breach, a candidate’s affirmative Right, under our Bill of
Rights, trashed; the issue of being given or sold the airtime for a
campaign speech must be adjudicated in the Federal District Court
closest by to the stations where the candidate, campaigning, plans his
political stand, knot heard and procrastinated behind closed doors by
untouchable bureaucrats, bought and bunched in Washington.
Yet according to the CFR, our Code of Federal Regulations,
FCC has a Political Branch, a coven of civil servants, right up the street,
a few blocks away from FCC’s main gate. This Enforcement Division,
FCC’s Political Branch, is the codified group for redress of ‘speech
denied’ complaints, subverting our Federal District Courts whose
jurisdiction is our Constitution and Bill of Rights, and where, within a
forte night’s notice, Show Cause Orders can be tendered to protect your
First Amendment slights.
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Our founding fodders had it right. The Founders were all ‘right
on,’ when they brokered our First Amendment. “Congress shall make no
law . . . prohibiting the freedom of speech . . . or abridging the freedom
of speech, or of the press, or the right of the people . . . to petition the
government for a redress of grievances.”
FCC’s Political Branch contravenes our First Amendment
Franchise! In practice, their Political Branch / Enforcement Division
functions as an ironed legal curtain, shrouding the broadcasters’
obligations to all the so-called ‘fringe’ candidates, however few they
may be, but especially singling out in their frustraneous caprice, for
nearly 30 years, just our “Jacklegs” candidate, his First Amendment
Rights, stonewalled, one word describes them, fascist bureaucrats
recalcitrant in their refusal to even rule on any of Jacklegs’ Formal
Complaints about his rights suppressed, until the elections were over
with and a couple years bye passed!
Jacklegs’ ‘fringe’ candidacy is their fash reference to our poet’s
tallis, his ancient Hebrew prayer shawl, an undergarment, four-cornered
with fringe. Who ever said J. Edgarina’s anti-Semite bureaucrats were an
unsubtle fascist lot?
You have the right to state your case on any street corner; and
beneath the umbrella of our First Amendment bitch through a blinding
rainstorm, Freedom of Speech to the Heaven’s reach.
Screech on your web site throughout the night, that FCC’s
“slippery slope,” begat in 1927, wrought a fascist avalanche. You can
blog all about it to your heart’s content. But proving that a government
agency’s activities are unconstitutional and therefore “impermissible” —
such an achievement giant as that can only be accomplished via final
ruling from our highest bench.
Hark! Peer readership! World events interrupt us! The best laid
cosmic plans of King Solomon’s seek writ advisor, Onlion S. Shem, are
current evented! We must take leave of Jacklegs’ tale, “Jacklegs,
Jumping Up,” grant his Supreme Court case is over ripe; to rejuvenate
the canceled citizenship of Elián Gonzalez, whose freedom was wrecked.
Though we cannot resurrect Elián’s broken rights, the Gonzalez kernel,
freed of chaff, long over due, shall set you free en masse, to change the
course of your human history on our good ship mother urf, nothing less.
Hearken again, dear peer-ship mates, the lot of you are by this
writ, courtroom deputized, vested with Solomon’s rags, to judge
yourselves the fascist spin that cloaked, still cloaks our Elián, as King
Solomon judged the original Baby Eliána’s future in his own High Holy
court, centuries ago, ruling on behalf of boaf would-be mothers, ruling
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right in half right down the baby’s middle, until Ms Gullible pled for the
infant’s life unchopped, her maiden final begging at the holy King
Solomon’s feet.
Sew, before unmasking the reel deal behind Elián Gonzalez, we
ought to refresh King Solomon’s approach to High Court Justice, to
‘keep our erasers in order.’
As far as King Solomon’s “Baby Eliána” case went, the wise and
righteous Prophet King realized right from the beginning, right from
Jump Street, that of the two so-called mothers who appeared in his court,
the both were bluffers, counterfeit.
Early on, after the trial began, nature called King Solomon and
his learnéd chief, Rabbi Onlion S. Shem, together take leave of the
bench, for a sidebar at the Pish-in-trench. There, Onlion S. Shem told
King Solomon the actual facts behind “Baby Eliána” that he, Onlion
Shem, had heard first hand from a camel driver who’d passed through
Jerusalem the night before, from of all play siz, Sidon Town, where the
bawling shiksa baby had been born.
According to the camel guy, neither of the two women
petitioning for motherhood certiorari in King Solomon’s Court, for
custody of “Baby Eliána,” was “Baby Eliána’s” true mother! In fact, both
of these single ladies were uncertified childless Sarah’s!
De pen ding on who you talk to, or which of the Hollywood
flicks you saw, the Hebrew Sages tell us, as your church school teacher
taught you also, there were two new babies born that day in Sidon, from
two separate mothers, but of the two new babies delivered, one was still
born, and of the two declared mothers who petitioned King Solomon,
they both affirmed the surviving out of wedlock child was from their
womb and theirs alone.
Yet Sidon’s papyrus records tell another tale. Only one new baby
was brought into the world that day in Sidon, knot two new kids, as you
were led to believe, but that one shiksa baby “Eliána.” It was “Baby
Eliána’s” sickly mother who hemorrhaged during labor; her own life bled
away giving birth to her kid!
This rare and tragic event occurred in the suburbs of Sidon
Town, a couple days’ walk from Jerusalem. “Baby Eliána” slipped from
her dying mother’s un-aborted womb, in an impartial birth; and this was
where the Arabic shiksa baby case should have been heard and decided
in the first place, in Sidon Town Court, closest by to where “Baby
Eliána” was born, where the truth was apparent, absent the fash
bureaucrats who butchered Elián Gonzalez’ jurisdiction, which, his tale
here / with, is fast coming next!
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Yet first dear peers, of the two women who plead their case
before King Solomon: They were both registered midwives, called on for
a hemorrhaging mother, to help her deliver her “Baby Eliána.”
At first baby sight the midwives were both delighted with “Baby
Eliána,” because the new baby, though orphaned at her birth, gurgled
with ivory soap style; and between their bickering back and forth before
the wise and Holy King Solomon, the two midwives waxed equally
euphoric about their caring love for “Baby Eliána.”
King Solomon was not your typical schmuck with ear laps, born
yesterday. Solomon may’ve been born in the night, as all the Hebrew
Sages tell, but not last night. The Holy King had a thousand wives, a
natch a rill sense of humor, and his own, in-house Child Protective,
managed by the local B’nai Briss Ladies Auxiliary. The Holy King
Solomon was also thought, far and wide, the greatest love poet to have
ever lived, the author of The Song of Songs.
Upon the bell ringing true from Onlion Shem, when nature
called them together take whiz of the Court, King Solomon mused his
ruling. Without prejudice, the Holy King Solomon planned on dismissing
this shiksa baby case and remanding “Baby Eliána” to his own Child
Court Protective for an immediate diaper change, as the baby’s soiled
diaper was stinking Solomon’s Courtroom all the way up to its Holy
rafters!
A wet nurse was also required, right away quick, for the forlorn
kid had been stupidly fed some out-of-date colicky goat’s milk; and then,
after those two measures, some in depth interviewing of qualified
women, for permanent foster care, leading to adoption. That is what the
wise King Solomon intended.
But the pleading pseudo mothers’ nonstop squabble over “Baby
Eliána” challenged the King’s even temperament, besides almost
wrecking, yes wrecking King Solomon’s favorite Thursday noon time
lunch, that a rack of baby lamb chops, broiled med-rare, washed down
with goblets of kosher merlot, for good circulation.
Sew this bold idea of King Solomon’s, loudly calling on his
personal butcher at the noon hour, to chop the Baby Eliána kid in half,
right after lunch, ruled on the spot when his butcher interrupted the trial
to announce King Solomon’s baby lamb chops were only a heartbeat
from the table; and upon that, King Solomon’s instant ruling that even
silenced the fussy baby smelling up his docket, was hark, only a lark dear
peers, the Holy King Solomon’s court ordered lark, a brilliant lark on the
wise King Solomon’s part as he rose to depart for a pre-lunch prayer.
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Yet hearing Solomon’s gut common sense, word for word from
King Solomon’s mouth, deciding the case as he went, and how the two
pseudo mothers dealt with the King’s decision on that unbearably humid,
diaper loaded day in King Solomon’s most High Temple Court is knot
what you’ve ever heard or smelt before, except in your bones, where
history is written.
Relative to our more recent struggle over Elián González, the
Cuban kid, found on an inner tube at sea, even Elián’s name rings an
ancient bell. In the words of Sage Yogi, laid bare, on this rare “Survivor”
case that seems sew fresh, though near seven years past, our fair Sage
Yogi says, “It was déjà Eliána all over again.”
What then does the love Poet Prophet of a thousand wifely one
night stands counsel us, as King Solomon’s Chief Rabbi, Onlion S. Shem
counseled Solomon, about Elián Gonzalez, who was during his
American hay day, by far the most famous six years old ex-refugee kid
alive today on our good ship mother urf?
Cutting to the bone, King Solomon muses, we should have used
our cutting edge technology, instead of a night court ad minis traitor’s
door busting writ to chop this “Eliána” kid in half, sew both sides could
have won their case. The kid’s father, Juan Miguel, should have been
returned to Cuba with a state of the art computer, rigged for Internet, a
video cam hooked up to his monitor, and a spiffy digital cam recorder for
home movie shoots at the park.
The same setup would have done as well for his son, Elián, in
Miami. Using Internet telephony and video chat, dad and kid could have
been on line 24 / 7. Elián and his “papa,” Juan Miguel, would have been
instantly united, eyeball-to-eyeball day or night, by virtue of a mouse
click.
In the event Elián snatched a buck from Marisleysis’ dresser, and
disappeared from his adopted house before dinner, skate boarding after
the ice cream truck, it would have been for his “papa,” in Cuba, to tell
Elián’s great-uncle Lazaro, in Miami, to give Elián a couple slaps on his
rear end, ground the skate board, and order the kid to bed early without
any nachos for snack.
On a Monday evening, before bedtime, Marisleysis could have
read to Elián, “The Three Bears and the Chicken Soup,” and the next
night, over the Internet, Juan Miguel could've read to Elián that Cuban
original, “Little Red Riding Fidel-hood.”
Communicating via Internet, Elián would have been bo-jangled
in the best of bi-lingual worlds, his papa close by always, his own life
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rich and sweet, laced with freedom and love which makes the world go
’round. Case dismissed with saving grace.
Every rescue anniversary, Elián could have announced his love
of both countries with a personal televised pitch for economic peace and
trade between his homeland and the U.S. of A. The natch a rill economic
door between the two countries might have been jammed wide open
from this miraculous child, his U.S. emigration bringing on true
commerce, with Cuba’s cut rate sugar saving the American people
múcho billions of after tax dollars on their sweets.
But this Eliánomic grace, here, a carefully orchestrated saving of
face, was not yet meant to be; though, in the plainly spoken words of
Founder, Ben Franklin, he, of principled $100 fame, “A billion dollars
saved, with tax loop holes, is a billion dollars urned.”
Peers-ships! In order to understand Elián Gonzalez’ immigration
case, and understanding means to get beneath; to get at the reel deal
behind Elián’s saga, and sense the role of our LAN’ Lord uh pin Heaven,
here in His promised land; and why President Clintstone arranged for a
government agency to sacrifice the kid’s freedom, we must yes, revisit
King Solomon’s original “Baby Eliána” case, that from a yesteryear
collectively time stamped in our memories:
King Solomon, knowing by midmorning, upon three shakes of
his member, that both of these ‘mothers’ were lying thru their teeth; and
knowing for certain before they became so engrossed in their pleading,
that “v. Baby Eliánana,” now before him, should have been decided in
Sidon Town Court, the closest place to where the shiksa baby was born,
where the facts were apparent, the Holy King Solomon was only trying
the baby case to be fair.
As long as these two women had made it this far he let them go
on with their falsified bicker. From the bench he watched them proceed,
the both taking turns, shifting the fussy, diaper loaded baby, an arm’s
length back and forth between them.
Then King Solomon’s chief chef butcher came through the side
door into Solomon’s Court, loudly announcing that Solomon’s baby
lamb chops were ready to come off the spit. Boing!
As King Solomon arose for a lunchtime prayer over his rack of
lambie chops, he spontaneously ruled on the baby case before him,
starting out with, “enough already,” that instantly followed by a gavel
smash totally silencing all the murmurs in his noisy courtroom, in clue
ding even the colicky shiksa baby.
It was sooo quiet after King Solomon rising, slammed his
eucalyptus gavel down, that when King Solomon said, “We shall chop
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this baby in half right after lunch, so each of the mothers gets the baby,”
you could smell the rustle of Solomon’s glad rags in that pin drop
silenced courtroom.
But the Holy King did pause as he turned toward the side door,
which, all the Sages tell us, was to his left, and the King, from his bema,
stood focused on the gavel silenced kid. Then King Solomon extended
his right arm, his hand vertical, as though lining up the baby for his
butcher, loudly announcing to his court butcher, for all in his cluttered
courtroom to hear, “Butch, when you chop this baby down the middle,”
his fingers karate joined, moving to the right, “leave her nose to the right
side half. From where I stand, this baby’s schnozzle does favor the
woman before me, on my right.”
Immediately Onlion S. Shem proclaimed, “Case decided. Trial is
over. Lunnch time.” Upon that, Onlion S. Shem blasted King Solomon’s
official shofar with a long dour trumpet like note. Upon Shem’s horn
herald, King Solomon began singing as he rustled toward the door,
“Rack of lambie here I come, here I come, here I come, rack of lambie
here I come, God bless our sacred chops.”
Responding to the Holy King’s rule, the barren midwife to
Solomon’s right crooked her neck, put her own nose to the air, and
noisily declared for her own supportive claque, “You see, I told you so.
The baby favors me, not that shiksa dirt bag over there!”
King Solomon had had it with this case. He was done with these
two fake mothers who’d falsely plead before him. Singing away, and
bolting for the door, Solomon signaled his butcher to run ahead and turn
the spit sew as knot to burn his rack of lunchtime lambie chops.
But the other would-be mother was devastated by the King’s
hard-nosed decision. Then this midwife Marisleysis hurdled King
Solomon’s railing, which had never happened before, or since, and she
ran to King Solomon who was almost out the courtroom door.
She fell at King Solomon’s feet, clutching his robes. As best she
could, Marisleysis composed herself. An octave above earshot, the
comely Marisleysis begged King Solomon, “Don’t kill Baby Eliána. Oh!
Please, oh great King Solomon,” she begged, “Take my life instead.
Take my life instead,” she pleaded. “Let the baby live.”
Had this gullible comely Marisleysis cried out, as all our great
Sunday school Sages retell, “Don’t chop Baby Eliána in half. Give her to
the other one to raise,” then, in his Holy wisdom, the great Hebrew
Prophet would have denied the forlorn woman’s plea without comment,
simply because, in the first place, the Holy King Solomon was only half
serious, kidding around.
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What King Solomon understood; what the Holy King knew for
certain on that diaper-loaded, smog-fried day, was that neither of these
mid-wives was Baby Eliána’s true mother! Of these two would-bees,
who plead the whole morning long in his Highest Court, the both of them
were born again consummate High Court liars, the both outrageously
bearing their fibster false witness for the custodial rights to a colicky
shvartza shiksa baby!
But this forlorn Marisleysis did not just say, as you yourself
might have thought to say, “Don't chop Baby Eliána in half. Let the other
one raise the baby.” Indeed, the fair Marisleysis in King Solomon’s court
spoke as a true loving mother, from the depth of her own, near broken
heart.
As though a true-to-life mother, Elián’s mother, Elisabet Broton,
the original Baby Eliána’s mom who died giving birth her first time
around, centuries before, this midwife Marisleysis past was willing to
give her own life sew Baby Eliána could live, because on sight of her, at
birth, in her heart Marisleysis loved the baby.
On that, King Solomon saved himself all the papyrus work from
dismissing the diaper-loaded sticky case and arranging a place for the
newly orphaned shiksa, under his own Child Protective, before hearings
for adoption.
Instead, he gave the baby over to the righteous, though gullible
comely Marisleysis, who plead her finale at his feet, because God above
showed King Solomon that Marisleysis would be a great protective
mother for the stinky-diapered shvartza shiksa baby.
Regarding the Holy Torah’s teachings on the story of King
Solomon and “Baby Eliána,” King Solomon authored his own case law,
with Onlion S. Shem in charge of the well.
The LAN’ Lord uh pin Heaven, Holiest of Holies, held King
Solomon’s inky middle ear, the same as when God spoke to Moses the
Teacher. God led His Holy King Solomon to rewrite Marisleysis’ speech,
hers plead at Solomon’s feet, for his ears only, because God, in His
down-the-road wisdom, knew that we, His chosen people, would be en
massed with Solomon’s rags for another “Baby Eliána,” this time around,
an innocent Cuban refugee, Elián González, who was entitled to his life,
to his liberty, and to the pursuit of his own kid happiness in America, the
LAN’ God promised.
Resurrections in the extreme are self evident, and across the
millennia, few and none between.
Sew it was lettered in The Book ov Lev It A Kiss, Ha-Shem’s
inspired, ever unfolding Television Scripture, for His chosen Poet
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Prophet, our Jacklegs, to give on this His good ship mother earth, as
Moses the Teacher, Dante, and old blind Homer gave; but this time,
worldwide live, on all channels television, frum duss cun till dawn:
“This is the Promised Land.
That was then
This is now
Each land show its promise
Pow wow to the pea pull
Up with the folks.”
C. 1971
His ‘Vehicle for World Peace’ runs and puns through every
spoken tongue. The twelve ‘our’ video trans crypt, lettered for all the
worlds’ peoples to sea, listen to, and be a part of all at once, sew, wun sin
fir all, the course of human history, on our good ship mother urf, can
change die wreck shins, by dawn. Big order.
This conception of world peace, beginning with a peaceful night,
on whirled-wide television, was given to our Poet Prophet, the “Jacklegs,
jumping up,” ‘onna ship 40 days and 40 nights,’ in 1969.
He walked and talked with God who created the world, who
revealed His word unto the poet’s mind. Note well, our Jacklegs was 40
days and 40 nights, with God the Halogen, in the wilderness.
Jacklegs is knot the first prophet ever to live. He is today’s.
The Poet Prophet is going to perform his multi-lingual poem for
all the world’s peoples at once, and whilst the Poet Prophet is doing his
part, busily telling His vision, God, the LAN’ Lord uh pin Heaven,
creator of the universe, will move through His Prophet, via your
television sets, into your living rooms, and into your hearts, to change
your minds, the way you sea your world and all of His worlds to come.
People will claim it’s the Apocalypse, Judgment Day, a pox on yer lips.
Correct. And you by the seat of your pants, in the Jury’s Bach’s. You
can't beat that! Judgment Day is right around the corner; and you
__________ (print, don’t write), are beyond reproach, off the hook, on
the Grandest Jury. As they say, in the box.
King Solomon muses:
Do you imagine J. Edgarina Hoover would let slip out, our
Cosmic Wrapper, the Lenny Bruce like Bach’s Poet Prophet whose
words appear as most art, yet written down to perform live for all man
kind? Have you blipped the radar @ michaelslevinson.com? Get the full
“New World Hors D’oeuvres” via the PayPal Check Out before you
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peruse another word. Every thing you need to know for sure is on the
page, waiting to be mouthed.
Elián Gonzalez, the child who was here, years ago yesterday,
was rescued at sea on Thanksgiving Day, an intra religious holiday for
all the diverse peoples who may cup God’s country, America, the land of
personal freedom and liberty God promised to you and to me, to all of us,
really. On Thanksgiving Day, America’s door springs wide for all the
homeless and hungry. On Thanksgiving Day, God’s promise in clue did
Elián Gonzalez, a motherless refugee.
Donato Dalrymple, the one day only fisherman, recounted he
saw a couple bottle-nosed dolphins, jumping on the sea top as though
breaching whales, standing flip flop on their tails, and he convinced his
cousin, whose boat it was, to give up trolling for fish and instead, steer
by the bottle-noses to see what was going on, where they came upon
Elián González, in the words of this one day fisherman, “in the water, as
beautiful as a freshly plucked flower on the sea top.”
Donato’s cousin knew how to swim, and he clambered into the
ocean with the two wild dolphin lifeguards treading near. The cousin
heaved Elián from the calm sea top into Donato Dalrymple’s
outstretched arms. Donato lifted Elián onto their boat and cradled the
worn out kid to his bosom.
This one day only fisherman, Donato Dalrymple, is your
typically innocent, humble servant of God. It was God in Heaven’s idea
to have Donato Dalrymple go fishing with his cousin that day, and rescue
Elián Gonzalez. Donato’s cousin, alone, would have kept to his reels.
Left to his own recourse, Donato’s cousin would have dismissed the pair
of dolphins, a couple playful wild strays, horsing around with what
appeared, from a quarter mile off, to be just some flotsam, an old inner
tube adrift on the open sea.
Elián’s bodyguard dolphins tread by the cousin’s boat to see
whether or knot Donato would toss them a fish, and to be sure the kid
they’d baby sat all the way up from the Florida Straits to the eastern
seaboard of United States was safe. Then the two untethered bottle-noses
swam off to catch up on some much needed lunch, as the pair of ocean
gadabouts hadn’t had a bite to eat, like their charge, Elián Gonzalez, for
more than a couple whole days.
King Solomon muses:
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Elián Gonzalez survived Mother Nature’s treacherous open sea
because the bottle-noses hung out with the ocean stranded kid more than
a couple full days, a most extraordinary dolphin behavior as has ever
been noted in a 1000 years, and as many bottle-nosed dolphin tales.
Nonstop, the dolphins supervised Elián fifty hours straight,
swimming alongside our helpless refugee, nudging the kid’s inner tube to
ketch the coastal Gulf Stream. And during the long drawn-out stretch,
when curious sharks came by and reinforcements were required, extra
dolphins happened to show up, to guard the drifting kid from potential
shark brushes. Who trained these bottle-noses?
In God’s eggs pan ding Universe God is the ruler, and of His
Cosmic Universals nothing is for sure. On board His good ship mother
urf there is a first time for everything, oar, you don't slip it into the same
river twice; or put another way, whatever is, is, whomever she is,
relentless Mother Nature or a spirit high above her.
The dolphins inspired, were a special pair. They kept watch and
kept Elián afloat by swimming beneath him when he dozed, using their
ocean worthy tails to keep this weakened, sleepy kid from sliding off into
the choppy sea. By propping Elián back on his inner tube whenever the
six-year-old fell asleep and began to slip, the bottle-nosed dolphins,
inspired by their own un-muzzled sight of the Holy Mendel Spirit, for
two days running, kept the special kid alive. Had the trip, splish splash,
taken longer, the dolphins would’ve been there, slip sliding along.
Elián’s ocean survival was a miracle from God, believed in by
all of the Cuban refugees who believe in God. For the Cubans, Elián
Gonzalez was a refugee message scent from the Highest of Holy Spirits,
though why the kid was ripped remains an unexplained issue for all who
saw him, years ago on TV, especially the Cuban Americans who lived
close by to him, in Miami-Dade County.
But the Elián misdeal was a way cup for all of America, not
simply pallah tics unusual for Miami-Dade’s Cubans, as Elián
Gonzalez’s story, in one crafty “Slick-Willy” shaft, was fash recast!
Yet America’s people cannot be faulted for their failure to grasp
Billy’s stacked deck, his own pollster driven twist before Elián’s
American freedom was revoked. It is knot just the poorest of our folk
who struggle thru the traffic, as they must, to stay afloat check-to-check,
put bread on their tables and pay on their cable bills.
Working and wirkt, living in a blizzard of conflicting latest dope,
all our ho hum potatoes, finally at home, ensconced in their castles,
cannot find time to mull the news for any rhyme and reason.
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Instead, the classic middle folk fall out on their couches whilst all the
talking heads shred the day’s current events; they followed by fresh
skews and views from television’s late night comics.
Solomon, the Holy King muses:
When the tribes of Israel were enslaved, complacently living
rent-free in Egypt, and loath to depart Pharaoh’s fruitful land for roofless
freedom in the wilderness, God, sew to awaken His children, ulcerated
the Pharaoh’s heart. Yul Pharaoh Ramses decreed that his Hebrew slaves
should suffer a serious batch of filmable afflictions. A rarely noted
translation for the Hebrew word “affliction,” is tax, which Ben Franklin
thought should be flat, determined by spen ding. Keep what you churn:
The day is here
Ma schines kin run
In do the whirr kin
No tax on my hands
Bruther. No tax on my hands
Tax ma schines in stead.
C. 1971
It is the tax on the people’s hands, the fruits of their labors that
covered Ms Janet Reno’s Rule-of-Law enforcers who soldiered
Clintstone’s storm troop orders to press ahead and butcher Elían
Gonzalez’ life in U.S.A. Our Attorney General Reno, the enforcer,
claimed her Rule-of-Law performance was on our behalf, though she
seemed more an entity unto herself, having been given her lockstep
orders from high above us, but not of us, we the innocent, lawful people,
the Poet Prophet muses.
According to the Holy King Solomon, squadrons of bilingual
angels hang out all around the Florida Straits, on watch full time, to
minister the refugees’ souls when their boats capsize, and their souls are
swallowed by the raging seas, or their bodies, mauled by hungry sharks,
are bled into waves of shock, heralding the souls’ departures, Heaven
bound.
When the bilingual angels first heard Elián’s mother, Elisabet,
counseling her Elián over the crashing sea, that God would watch over
him and he, Elián, would get to Florida and she, his mother, would
always be with him, God’s super mother, His Mendel in charge of all
kids, appeared to the sea top angels.
This highest of spirit Mothers, above all the waiting angels and
bottle-nosed dolphins of the uncaged sea, also heard Elisabet Broton’s
cry out to the LAN’ Lord uh pin Heaven, that He should guide her son
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Elián, and this spirited Mendel realized why she, a super-charged spirit,
was upon that windy sea top neighborhood, with God, the Father, the
unsayable Universal Caller close at hand.
When something is truly miss tickle, as are the musings of the
Holy King Solomon, his, a careful retelling of Elián’s sea top story with
the Mendel Spirit Lady, clearly visible both to Elián and to the dolphins;
when presented with some sing truly mystical, we miss a lot, but we get a
tickle.
The word, ‘understanding,’ comes from the Greek, and means, to
get beneath. Suffice, the wily dolphins so inspired, clicked beneath our
stranded Elián, and kept the kid afloat, sew you, too, dear peer-ship
mates, herewith, will cut straight through the marrow in the bone of Elián
Gonzalez’ butchering, to get beneath, slough the chaff, and understand
for yourselves the full truth of your not so long gone President
Clintstone; revelate as to why he stoned your democracy, and staked our
constitutional rights, to keep his missing legacy, like the Russian sub
mariners,’ submerged.
“History is written in men's bones.” The dolphins knew that
Elián would not make it to our U.S. shores without their handy flippers,
round-the-clock vision and tail assistance. It appears beyond us, but we
sense God’s intervention when His truth is refracted for our collective
mind.
The Mendel spirit was at the waves with Elián after his mother
went forever beneath the raging seas. The visible spirit lady above the
sea top angels, this Mendel-Mother-of-Life spirit lady ordered the angels
to guard her newest charge while she personally went and rustled that
pair of volunteer dolphins to baby sit Elián.
Sew, the pair of wild dolphins listened to the Mendel spirit’s
orders, to personally keep the kid alive until the Gulf Stream currents
could carry them all to America’s shore, this irrespective of dolphin
threatening sharks coming by, or inner tube swamping waves, or
overcrowded schools of tasty grouper, not too far, or a delicate stray
baby halibut, swimming a half mile yonder!
The spirit lady admonished her deputized dolphin lifeguards,
“Elián doesn't have anything to eat; so you two characters can keep close
watch, for a couple three days, as long as it takes, without slipping off to
locate yourselves a leisurely twunny course brunch.”
Sew it came to pass, the sea top stranded refugee, Elián
Gonzalez, was singled out by the LAN’ Lord uh pin Heaven, to bob
along in the ocean’s Gulf stream with a pair of bottle-nosed dolphins for
buddy guards, and survive, by his mother’s dying cry out to God, to
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begin his new life filled with abundant, old fashioned family love, in
America, the promised LAN’ God promised.
Elián landed was instantly worldwide video news. At first Fidel
Castro was not sure what he could do, or should do, relative to Elián
Gonzalez, though Castro thought he ought to do something.
This immigrant kid, rescued at sea on Thanksgiving Day, was
being celebrated all over the planet. Returned to Cuba, perhaps this
miraculous survivor, Elián Gonzalez, could reinvigorate Castro’s aging,
thread bare revolution. Fidel Castro thought so. To Fidel, the charming
kid expatriate, Elián, symbolized Cuba’s future.
But Elián, back in Cuba, until recently, wasn’t rejuvenating
anything, though now he is showing up on Cuban TV, telling Cuban kids
that life in Cuba is sew much better than life in U.S.A.
About Elián’s daily life there was, at first, an improper news
black out, a non-gander, though our own, The Wall Street Gurgle, noted
in an editorial, years back, that shortly after his repatriation to Fidel-land,
Elián was removed from the care of his natural born father, Juan Miguel
Gonzalez.
Give or take, a week after The Gurgle’s off hand editorial clip,
NBC’s news anchor, Brian Williams, aired a scoop on his old cable news
show. Peer-ships! Hark! The Wall Street Gurgle’s editorial board one
liner on Elián’s whereabouts is unraveled! Elián surfaced for a video-op!
The kid is seen splashing around in a pool of water, with selected cousins
and uncles, and a tame dolphin, in Cuba.
Elián’s family is bunched in the pool for the video op with Elián.
They are wrapped in orange life jackets. The camera stops on Elián,
obviously having lots of fun, and then on his “Papa,” Juan Miguel, who
appears tight lipped, under duress, and totally stressed. The trained
dolphin is squealing away for frozen fish pay. That’s it.
Castro staged the video scoop. His response to The Wall Street
Gurgle’s editorial blip, that coincidentally placed with WSJ’s media
sister, NBC, was a rip; very slick:
Elián and his family are splashing around with a civilized bottlenosed dolphin, celebrating Elián’s return to school in Cardenas, after
Elián played international world wide hooky, part of that time alone in
the Atlantic Ocean, supervised by wild dolphins.
But before Fidel Castro established his iron fisted, under the
table, short hair grip on Clintstone’s Oval Office, the dictator was
15
powerless. Half of Cuba would motor down the same watery road as
Elián González and his mom, given the chance. Half of all Cuba would
skedaddle for America in a heart beat, were it only possible to safely
escape from Fidel Castro’s Stalinized Cuban life.
The Wall Street Gurgle was correct. Elián had been removed
from the care of his father, Juan Miguel Gonzalez. The vast majority of
the haplessly confused American people, all rolled and polled into
believing Elián should have been sent back to Cuba, to live with his dad,
were under-the-rule-of-law misled. Fidel is the father of Cuba. It is
simple as that. Elián for President.
The only other survivors of that tragic trip, in fact, the only two
people who paid cash money to Elisabet Broton’s boyfriend for the
opportunity to cross the Straits with them, were a couple, Arianne Horta,
and Nivaldo Fernandex who live today in America, freed at last from
Fidel’s oppression.
The American press paid Arianne and Nivaldo little mind, but
the two survivors recalled there was this one little boy left aboard the
crowded flat bottom boat, after repairs, who kept yelling, over and over,
upon their departure, “I'm going to America. I'm going to America.”
Peer-ships! “I'm going to America, I'm going to America,” was
our Elián! His mother, Elisabet Broton, planned to slosh the Florida
Straits from Cuba to United States well in advance of their ill fated
journey. Elián was a party to her secret plan from its outset. The kid was
really psyched up for his motorboat ride across the open sea to meet his
American cousins.
This contradicts CBS’s 60 Minutes interview with Elián that
aired October 2, 2005, repeated since. Elián says, in his native Spanish
not English, he didn’t realize when he climbed on board the boat that he
was leaving his Cuban homeland for U.S.A. He says had he known he
was leaving Cuba he would not have gone – what Fidel wanted him to
say – what Elián was carefully coached to claim. This is a prime example
of how a fascist squelches freedom, the truth besmirched to support an
untrue, predetermined point of view.
At first our government agency was cooperative with Elián’s
American family. We have immigration laws tailored especially for
Cuban defectors. Then, without any reason being offered, our federal
bureaucrats flipped their mitigating policy on Elián Gonzalez in a heart
beat, just like that, as years ago, 60 Minutes flipped its Edward R.
Morrow approach to broadcasting ‘news,’ Morrow’s, to expose the reel
stories behind the stories of the day. Attorney General Reno remarked to
16
a trusted friend reporter, in the midst of her Elián Gonzalez ordeal, that
she, General Reno, had, “had a phone call.”
King Solomon muses: Who called?
When Elián’s story became a lock-step medja shark circus, his
great-uncle’s house ringed by news-thirsty press, ready to roll with their
portable satellite dishes, The New York Slimes’ columnist, Maureen
Dowd, an op-ed babe, nay American Beauty whose skills inspired are
special repartee, replete with all her original nitty-gritty; ’twas our witty
rag doll Dowd of Slimes pate who pointed out, “dads are a dime a
dozen,” further noting that Attorney General Janet Reno, a spinster, in
defense of her rigid, unyielding intent on seeing this refugee kid, Elián
Gonzalez, reunited with his “daddy,” sounded, “almost schmaltzy.”
Our esteemed Ms Journalista, Schmaltzy M. Dowd, grows sharptongued as cheese, her salary svelte, her reportage litter free. Schmaltz is
kosher chicken fat, and there are two things guaranteed our former
Attorney General, Janet Reno is knot: kosher, and a chicken.
Yet General Reno did get misty eyed over her FBI agents ripping
the kid out from the safety of his house, that to short the 11th Circuit
Court case from its charge. We were told Janet Reno broke down and
cried when she finally signed the order sending her plain clothes Secret
Service in to crash the Gonzalez’ abode and confiscate the sleeping
refugee, violating our constitution. But General Reno did look schmaltzy
on TV. She claimed that in her mind, the image of little Elián on one of
her jets, privately reunited later that day with his “daddy,” kept her
going.
Did General Reno go to method actress school? Janet Reno, our
Attorney General, was really imagining herself as a little girl, waiting in
the yard to hug and kiss her “daddy” every late afternoon when her
“daddy” came walking up their street, home from work.
To Elián, his father is, “Papa,” But Reno kept referring to Elián’s
“papa” as his, “daddy.” How utterly sad! Attorney General Reno was
waxing euphorically schmaltzy about her own kid self, Janet Reno, in her
daily kid ritual, running out to the front gate and yelping down the street,
“Daddy, Daddy.”
Janet Reno cried when she issued her fash inspired orders to
seize little Elián and butcher the kid’s American life. Reno knew her
storm troops, ready to go, in their self imagined line of sniper fire with
Ruby Ridge and Waco, were hyped for over kill, and she, Janet Reno, at
the time our United States Attorney General, our chief law enforcement
officer, was their facilitator.
King Solomon muses:
17
Reno was ordered to violate the United States Constitution. This
startlingly plain outright order was tendered to Janet Reno over the
phone, months before, from above-the-law Bruce Lindsey, Clintstone’s
designated top shelf hitter; the fellow Clintstone called into play
whenever gnashional insecurities loomed.
Chief Hatchet Lindsey was the guy who very quietly, behind the
scenery, was pressing Janet Reno every day to get on with butchering
Elián Gonzalez’ constitutional entitlement to liberty, life, and the
growing fruits of his personal kid happiness in U.S. A.
Had the truth been revealed when it happened, instead of today,
why Clintstone butchered Elián’s freedom; were President Clintstone’s
reel reasons behind exposed - that would’ve fueled Bill Clintstone’s
legacy, right on the spot, with wildfire cries for “out” from every quarter
in Washington spreading nationwide, and throughout the world, all in
favor yea, opposed nay, the yeas have it.
An immediate unstoppable impeachment hurricane, a ‘get-himout’ whirlwind would have spun out of control with Billy’s secret sloth
exposed, his hidden trip x stain in all our rags disclosed.
Then Clintstone’s unceremoniously speedy nonpartisan removal
from our highest office via force-out from Billy’s own party leaders, his
personal effects piled on the curb within the week; that, besides the
genuine possibility of life time Ken Lay jail for our Chief ex-Chief, with
a jailhouse cell like Wen Ho Lee’s, or O.J. Simpson’s cell, was
guaranteed our Billy’s fief.
Inside Billy’s mind at least, the pallah tics of this unravel
loomed. Prison golf for life, the links behind a Federal prison’s chain link
fence, would've been seen by all, a Clintstonian tragedy indeed,
especially a looming chain link deal brought about by an expendable
Cuban refugee. Dearest peer-ship hung dry mates, in God’s mostly holy
universe, is there anyone an ex-pen dibble throw away?
The press failed to inquire of Reno, who in the White House
she’d kept up to snuff with her Elián puff. Perchance, was someone
getting reports in the Old Executive Office Building, where Nixon kept a
fireplace burning, across the walk from 1600, with its official White
House mailroom off the windy first floor hall on the right, a couple
dozen feet down the way from the outside, wind-swept door?
Had the people’s independent press, supposedly our D.C. eyes
and ears, only bothered to hammer at Janet Reno: Who in the White
House was keeping tabs and calling the shots, and then gone for her guts,
popping aloud, was Clintstone’s aide, Bruce Lindsey, he, of Monica
fame involved? For all we know, Reno might have shed her vague
18
lawyerly answers and shot the whole truth out about Bruce Lindsey’s
involvement, which would have crackled up and down the wires, on
cable TV, and broadcast television, for starters.
Elián was living in Miami, at the time on the national mind,
flooding the daily papers with a rising tide of Cubans flooding his Little
Havana barrio around the clock, proclaiming USA. The kid, protected by
inspired dolphins, had beaten all the elements, slipping around on Mother
Nature’s unbridled open sea. Could little Elián Gonzalez survive the
government’s under seal bureaucracy?
But Attorney General Reno was not about to be naming any
names, or flooding her chambers with press on her own, or volunteering
that she, Janet Reno was not a free agent, acting alone, rather she was
just a Clintstone cabinet rook, pushed up and down and over the line in
exchange for her 2nd term.
After Elián’s house was stormed in the night, and Elián’s whole
American family, including his sleepy little cousins were threatened at
government gun point, a few hours later, the family held a press
conference. Their conference was live and uninterrupted on Fox News.
Elián’s self-adopted mother, his cousin, Marisleysis Gonzalez, gave us a
most articulate patriotic statement, her speech as good as any ever
delivered by any woman in our nation’s whole history! Your words mean
something. They relate.
Your words are your soul’s expression. Words, flown off the top
of Mel Gibson’s head had their own life, regardless where Gib went. God
brought forth the heartfelt words of Marisleysis Gonzalez.
Later that morning, Clintstone issued his own, very brief dashed
out remarks to less than a dozen reporters hanging out at the foot of the
White House driveway, following Marisleysis’ speech, hers an unfolding
part of Elián Gonzalez’ repossession-at-gun-point story, that, playing
wall to wall big time on every news channel the whole morning long,
world wide.
Competing with attorney general Reno, or taking his cues from
having watched her skirt the issue, Bill repeated the same blah ad min
line that we all live under the rule of law; and then, for approximately
five seconds he waxed euphonical about the reuniting of Elián’s father,
Juan Miguel, with his famous son.
Fatherhood? Peer-ships, didn’t Clintstone’s blood father die
before our Billy was born? And of Clintstone’s stepfather, wasn’t he a
drunk who beat up his wife and kids? How many times was it told how
young Clintstone jumped his drunken step dad, when Bill felt he was big
enough, and the old man sponge was drunk enough, and he scared his
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drunken step dad into knot beating up on his mom, or on his kid half
brother, Roger any more.
Our esteemed Maureen, Schmaltzy M. Dowd, nailed the issue
plain and simple: “Dads are a dime a dozen.”
Clintstone, he of the lip oh bitten wistfulness for thong sliced
gooey pizza ignored one shouted question, abruptly turning back to the
White House after reading his hastily prepared remarks, his main thrust
there being, ‘I, Clintstone, was absolutely not involved in the Elián case.’
The President of United States, our chief Finger Pointer confers
with us, we, the people, via his White House press corp., on the status of
a refugee kid, a survivor famed world wide, who hours before, was
seized by government people, at gunpoint in the night, that itself, trubb
ling enough, and the White House press can’t even be bothered showing
up to hear their chief spinmeister’s shmear?
King Solomon muses: The buck stops where?
Since when does the President of United States meet the press
without the press? Who told the White House pretzels to skip the event?
Who advised the press Clintstone would say little and finesse their every
quest yin? As Bill turned to the White House, one could see, by the
stiffness in his mien that he, the President, knew, that to the ho hum
people viewing from home, the Elián deal he’d parsed to them and to the
smatter of 4th Estate pretzels, hanging out on the blacktop apron was,
upon review, a crock full of _______.
Coincidentally, that same Saturday morning that Elián was
seized at gunpoint before dawn, later that day, National Public Radio
caught Billy Clintstone’s Cuban counterpart, Fidel, at a Free Elián rally.
In a euphoric moment with 100,000 thronging Cubans, Fidel slipped to
his jubilant crowd that he, Fidel, had had a cell phone call from Juan
Miguel, Elián’s father, just the day before.
Elián ‘s father was getting edgy. He celled Fidel, Cuba’s
Maximum Leader, and told Fidel, as Fidel related to his wildly cheering
populace, if the U. S. government did not go in and retrieve his son, that
he, Juan Miguel, was going to hop a plane to Miami, maybe on Easter
Sunday, or on Monday the latest - and go get Elián himself.
Imagine yourself calling up George Bush, just like that, to state
your case on world peace! A cell call to Fidel certainly beats a stop at
Bush’s Crawford ranch, to squawk on the fence about your neighbor’s
kid, shredded to bits in Baghdad. Fidel, though sick might take your call.
Disguise your voice and say, “It’s Juan Miguel.”
The press corp. failed to investigate which day Juan Miguel
booked his flight to Miami. Was Juan’s ticket for Sunday, or Monday;
20
round tripped first class or coach? Monkey seize know evil. A story
unexamined, cannot be proven. Knot proven gets clipped, is filed away,
and does knot fly.
The mucho praised impeachment guy, Greg Craig, Juan
Miguel’s lawyer, fronting for Fidel, did remark in his only cable talk
interview, a few weeks after Elián was taken, they “had to” rip the kid
out when they did. We / they, “had to,” was a mouthpiece slip of tongue.
Elián’s Miami family, beleaguered as they were, had agreed to the
repatriation of Elián, to Cuba, sew, why is it “they” (Reno, through her
plain clothes agents, fronting Fidel) “had to” seize Elián?
King Solomon muses: Elián Gonzalez is a kid. Hadn’t the kid,
having lost his mother at sea, been through ‘enough already?’
Guns drawn going in, Reno’s ad minis traitor S.S. henches
forcibly snatched Elián. They were ordered to it. From their lock step
approach, orders are followed. And our Federal Courts, the
bureaucracies’ so-called balance, keeping these Agencies in check?
Your self-imagined constitutional right to any grievances’
redress is hidden from your Courts behind the bureaucracies’ own
exhausts, their self-woven remedies, their never ending, ironed legal,
ironclad curtains. It’s only after their injustice is long settled you can
appeal your aggrievedness, and maybe sue. Sew why, a storm troop
styled clandestine swat-team snatch of an innocent Cuban refugee?
King Solomon muses:
Since when does Castro issue a U S President an ultimatum over
who stays here and who we send back? Fidel spelled out Elián’s return
with a timetable. Fidel had something over Billy Clintstone. Fidel
controlled the deck and was dealing the tickets. Castro was getting his
miracle refugee kid back right quick, or else. Else what?
Clintstone had to grab the kid before Easter, or chance the wrest
of his career! His whole remaining career was at stake here. That was the
‘else what’ behind Clintstone’s swat-team Elián snatch. Billy Clintstone
believed he had plum run out of options. He couldn’t afford to play any
waiting game. The gamble was too great.
Behind his own ironclad curtains, Clintstone pressured General
Reno. Clintstone was also working the phones, too, off the record,
ratcheting every possible fawning medja pawn within reach, to somehow
jump start Elián’s deportation.
Had Juan flown to Miami on Easter Sunday, or the Monday
after, by the time he arrived at the Little Havana barrio where Elián and
his family were living, waves of Cuban nationals would have shown up,
too, to greet him, they hundreds of people deep, packed like sardines in
21
all of the surrounding streets, throwing garlands on Juan’s path, and
cheering him to the Heavens.
Juan Miguel would have gone into his great-uncle Lazaro’s
house. The family inside, away from the press, would have hollered back
and forth, then hugged and cried before a sit down with pizza, or yellow
rice, chicken, black beans, and plantains; and the planning of their next
steps as a family united behind Elián’s freedom. The potential order of
events for getting the whole Gonzalez family out of Cuba might have
been mapped out at Lazaro’s kitchen table.
Then Elián’s reunited Cuban family, together after breaking
bread, would have held a press conference with the waiting press outside,
and announced their just hatched plan to remain in U.S.A., for the
journalistas hanging by the house, and by satellite dish, spontaneously,
for all the world’s tuned in peoples, living witness.
Clintstone could not allow that scenario to develop at any cost,
regardless of family values, the TV village, or America’s the-good-guysalways-win mythos. Why, dear peers? Castro would have seen it, smelt
double cross and Fidel, with his grip, was calling the shots from Cuba.
Unless Fidel got his refugee kid back right quick, Fidel was going to let
what he, Fidel, held over Clintstone rip.
It isn’t any stretch to gather that Clintstone’s Justice Depot,
fascistically reoriented, intended to seize little Elián exactly how and
when they did! Theirs was a scheduled predawn Nazi lesson plan, ready
to roll, with all the fascist steps for snatching Elián worked out in
advance. Before ‘the rosy fingers of dawn’ crept over the night, was the
time of day Clintstone’s Secret Service felt it best to operate.
Therefore, in the wee hours before dawn, with the minutiae of
Elián’s proposed transfer to Reno’s people very nearly a done deal,
Reno, long distance, asked the late night Gonzalez negotiators at greatuncle Lazaro’s kitchen table, to please, “Hold the line.”
While the negotiators sat waiting, on telephone hold, Janet Reno
signed the orders. Her Secret Service cadre, surreptitiously near, like
Nazi SS storm troops in the Warsaw ghetto night, stormed the barrio and
broke down the doors of Lazaro’s house, but this time rousting only a
single sleepy immigrant kid from his bed, instead of en masse, the
Warsaw ghetto’s billeted Jews.
Juan Miguel booked his Miami flight for Easter Sunday, or early
Monday morning, which Reno was sweating because, above her,
Clintstone was really sweating; sew Janet Reno’s negotiations, dragged
past Friday midnight, were a deception, a government ploy, purposefully
set up and publicized in advance, to becalm Miami’s Little Havana
22
populace. The Cuban Americans weren’t prepared for Clintstone’s brand
of Justice, which was to forcibly snatch their blessed special kid.
The government knew it could knot afford any round-the-clock
human swells, stitched in the barrio ten streets deep, standing uncleft for
all to pass but Juan Miguel, the jumpy daddy cat who was himself getting
edgy, ready to jump out of Castro’s government bag.
Furthermore, had Juan Miguel been spotted at the Miami airport,
heading for Little Havana, to shield his son from Reno’s pepper gas, or
an accidental blast from one of her stressed out agents, then all the press
pool’s bets on which day Elián was to be snatched would have also been
lost! Were that not enough, wall-to-wall Elián coverage throughout that
Easter weekend, with violence attached, might have forced the barrio
stationed D.C. press to miss out on their dinner.
Anything could have happened! Clintstone’s presidency, his
whole world could’ve visually slipped away live on live cable TV,
because this refugee kid, Elián Gonzalez was alive and well, yet still
free, “free at last” in America, free in Miami Beach to run around his
yard like any normal youngster on an Easter Sunday.
Clintstone’s farewell 4th Estate fete was right around the corner.
The D.C. press corp.’s major sit down din was scheduled for early in the
week, following Easter, but the D.C. pretzels failed to connect the
obvious and bow tie Elián’s traumatic seizure with their own up and
coming farewell to Billy dinner.
Coincident with the press corp.’s annual shmear, via back doors
to Billy, Castro made it clear that he, Fidel, was planning his own
Clintstonian film festivity, for the free world’s international press,
serving up trip x videos of Clintstone, timed to begin their roll before
those D.C. insiders sniffed their first aperitif.
Clintstone’s White House pseudo home movie, produced for the
Press Association dinner, that, along with Clintstone’s whole presidential
career, his presidency, was going down the tubes, ‘down Derry down’
Castro’s television tubes, to be inner-gnashionally stuffed, in an
internationally televised al Jazzeera smurf!
Upon Fidel’s worldwide video exposé, both Bill and Hillary
Clintstone would have been irretrievably forever and for all eternities
scorched! Clintstone’s plaudit led pulpit shower, riddled by Fidel’s live
TV feed, might’ve, on the dais, become a trip x funeral pyre.
King Solomon muses:
Billy would’ve been the scene, pants down smurfed erectus, on
YouTube. Sew that’s why they “had to” seize the Gonzalez kid. Fidel
Castro’s ticking video clock was about to scandal tock unlock! The
23
White House pressure on Reno to sign the clandestine Secret Service
order, sew the government could seize little Elián must have been
intense. Was it any wonder Reno broke down and cried?
Clintstone’s demeanor was so smug at his press corp. dinner.
How could the chorus of gobbling reporters have failed to note the
obvious? Clintstone mocked Marisleysis Gonzalez in his film script with
a hastily inserted video snip of his own hair, sloughing the issue
Marisleysis raised in her own press conference, that something was
peculiar in the first Elián photographs Greg Craig released.
Marisleysis felt something wasn’t right with Elián’s hair, and she
could say that because Marisleysis was a hairdresser by trade who had
given her Elián a haircut only two days before.
Observers paid close attention to Marisleysis upon her most
amazing God inspired speech. Experts were called in to examine the
Elián photographs, but knot the kid, himself. What with today’s beyond
belief makeup techniques, the “Elián” in the photographs could have
been a mere look alike, made to appear a stone duplicate, as though one
of, “The Boys From Brazil.”
Clintstone saw the fair Marisleysis’ speech on TV, critical of
him, and he arrogantly went the extra mile at his press-sponsored dinner
to mock Marisleysis Gonzalez. Clintstone claimed throughout her
family’s public ordeal that he, the President of United States was not
involved in the Elián Gonzalez affair; that he, Clintstone, had been,
“keeping out of it.”
Yet Clintstone raised the Elián issue himself at the dinner. The
President ridiculed an innocent woman at his self-celebrational affair,
sponsored by his fawning D.C. press corp. But why did Clintstone deride
Marisleysis Gonzalez only days after disaster befell her? Why did
Clintstone publicly mock this woman who publicly lived through her
grief, before our eyes, on television? We watched the United States
President, a world leader, jeering a poor, powerless citizen to the dining
press in his pocket! What did this comely Marisleysis Gonzalez ever do
to him, besides stand up for her kid?
King Solomon poses:
Clintstone, unabashed, was celebrating his own relief at the last
rail jammed into place, at the last moment, on his Bruce hatchet Lindsey
booked, Washington Auschwitz box-car, Havana bound.
Janet Reno’s legacy, her seizure of an innocent refugee, was just
a Billy Clintsone triumph of his own approach to our justice, his, a
fascist bureaucrat success over us and our endowed free spirits.
24
Oh! Dear peer-ship mates, does that “F” word spring anew?
Zoom golly golly, your own personal freedom, squelched on the path to a
lip-sealed bath, Guantánamo for you.
Your 4th Estate medja diners wallowed in their lockstep hollow
laughter at the Clintstone’s self-indulgent White House home movie. On
cable TV, the blabberifics fawned for days after over Clintstone’s movie
shoots made expressly for them, C-Span and us.
They’d covered Elián, but as an exclusive dining body, they cast
a blind ear. Not one of them cared, or dared to comment on Billy
Clintstone’s smugly oppressive podium demeanor, his indecency toward
Marisleysis Gonzalez, the genuine rude lack exposed of any remotely
redeeming contents to his character.
Clintstone feared to gamble on Juan Miguel’s knot going to
Reagan International on Easter Sunday, or the following Monday and
flying to Miami. At stake was Clintstone’s presidency! He could knot
chance Castro’s threats becoming facts after Castro’s ultimatum passed.
Billy could knot gamble on Fidel holding off blowing his Cuban stack,
and knot playing hardball with all his purchased jokers, his deep-throat
deep holed kickers, face up on the inner gnashional table.
Onlion S. Shem interjects: Truth be told, your Rule of Law eats
up shelf. In our Halls of Justice, the only justice is in the halls. Clintstone
did what he believed he had to do, to save his office. With his whole
official career teetering, ready to crash, Billy trashed our Constitution.
Sew again, your POTUS pulled it off. Billy weathered his secret crisis
with Fidel, and saved his place at the public trough.
King Solomon muses, “When I bet, get out.”
Juan Miguel’s flight to Miami to collect his son would have
canceled both governments’ plans. Face to face with his father, Elián
would have held fast to his Marisleysis. Backed by great-uncle Lazaro,
Elián would have refused to leave, except to go outside and play in the
yard. In such case, Fidel was committed to following through on his
backwater threat to our Bill, a threat far removed from sending boatloads
of drug lords and bizarre retards to America’s shores, about which
Clintstone’s talking air-head press did speculate.
Fidel Castro it was very clear, made up the rules, owned the
deck, and was dealing all the tickets. Fidel was straight flushed, his
glossy deck taped full of flossy stills to sail across the water.
Hark! A further insight into CBS 60 Minutes October, 2005,
Elián Gonzalez gloss: Fidel holds to this day, tapes full of libido video
knock yer socks off triple sex play Clintstone whack, to pick up the
media’s slack, trump for those six o’clock news trumpeters, the slick
25
details over which pornography purchasing Americans might have
drooled, but America’s Christian Hebrew Muslim nation simply would
not digest, tape at 11 p.m., when the kids are safely asleep, absent a peep,
Yodel lay yodalay. Fidel orchestrated a CBS pro deuce her with a brief
eyes-only viewing, Billy’s briefs departed.
King Solomon muses:
When America finally gets to see those surreptitiously produced
x-videos it will be for the American people to judge Fidel’s macho video
deck, Clintstone’s sex tapes, with a dateline on every frame that a fading
Cuban dictator used to bluff and blow off our President, he, the most pow
wow er full freely elected political leader in the free world.
Peer-ships! Just as the full truth unfolded for King Solomon,
with Onlion S. Shem at the pit, relative to the two would-be moms who
falsely plead their case in his court, so shall Clintstone’s legacy belch
from below right cheer, and spread world vid, via Onlion S. Shem’s
epiphany, a shofar of mouse clicks.
In the laconic spirit of black and white television’s old Joe
Friday, for our reality deal’s mostly down and dirty nitty-gritty, dear
jurists of Jeopardy, King Solomon charges we need to drag our
investigative net a bit farther yet, to extract all of those submerged facts,
sunk by the sea of Clintstone’s nonstop squawking heads.
When Juan Miguel González arrived in America, a friendly
interview was arranged. Afterward the reporter remarked Juan Miguel
appeared so sad; sew down and out. Of course! Juan Miguel didn’t want
to come to USA in the first place! With his son growing up in freedom,
Elián would have had a life, and Juan Miguel, a foothold in America,
conforming to our immigration law.
We live in a continuously cresting sea of information. Dan
Rather, at the time anchoring CBS Evening News, interviewed Juan
Miguel González, Elián’s papa. Juan told Dan Rather he wanted to see
Elián grow up and make a difference in the world. A diff rinse? In
Castro’s Cuban status quo there isn’t any future world.
The only diff rinse one’s life makes in Cuba, is with a
communist party member card, and vocal adherence to the FidelistoStalinist party line, lest you end up laboring in the sugar cane fields,
unless you are a comely young girl. Then you are qualified for street
corner whore in the touristy trade. “Hey Joe you wan my seester sheezah
virgin. Viva Fidel Castro.”
26
Dan Rather asked Juan Miguel point blank during their live
televised interview, did he, Juan Miguel, ever strike Elián? Juan
answered, “What father has not had to discipline their son?” Lots of
fathers raise their families without ever having to “discipline” their sons
beyond one potch on the kid’s tushie when the kid was two years old and
trying out his two year old’s sense of who is the boss.
In the CBS interview Juan Miguel couldn’t look Dan Rather in
the eye. He prefaced most of his answers to Rather’s probing quest yins
about his abuses with, “To be honest with you...”
During his final campaign, for reelection, George W. slipped an,
“To be honest with you,” in with the press. “To be honest with you,”
George W. wasn’t all that interested about the whereabouts of Osama bin
Laden. The President’s detractors ignored Bush’s, “To be honest with
you” preface, heart-on-sleeve-liar-in-chief, and focused instead on
Bush’s non-bin Laden-slip of his tongue, a bumbling verbal, though
nothing would have altered that electoral result, as most folks hold fast to
their view that all the politishinz, regardless of party, are coached to
become sound-bite scripted liars at heart.
Solomon muses:
When someone’s answer to a quest yin is prefaced with, “To be
honest with you,” clearly, the respondent is prone to fudging the truth;
but stone liar wants it understood that in this particular case he or she is
knot telling tales, though in fact they are more than likely lying through
their teeth, knowing in their bones they lie all the time and are natch a
rill born liars at heart, sew every wun sin awhile, an occasional “to be
honest with use,” slips in.
George Bush couldn’t get through a lie detector test on the state
of his bin Laden slip notion: We can’t get bin Laden, (the family friend
of my friend Prince Bandar) sew why try? Nor could Juan Miguel pass a
lie detector test on the issue of his smacking Elián and Elizabet, even
with Juan’s very own life deep ending on it.
The Tree of Know (no) Ledge is above your brows. There isn’t
any ledge there, but for the wrinkled legend of your worries. Where is
God? Hmm. God is gone? I think I’ll pull a quickie. Skids on your ledge
are lines of worry, though a wrinkle free forehead does knot guarantee
any dollops of clarity reside inside the mind behind.
OK dummies, right this minute, lay your hand on the top of your
head, toward the back, where there is a soft spot – right before where
your skull is turning downward.
Now, hold up your brows. Up. Down. Up. Down. Do it in front
of a mirror, your palm, gently rested on top of your head. Feel your
27
scalp, moving in the back? Ours is a revelationary world. The Hopi
Indian says, ‘The Holy Spirit comes into your mind through the top of
your head.’ God is coming all the time.
When you furrow in the rocks where nothing grows, and make
skids on your Tree of Know Ledge, wrinkling the slate rock of your
forehead, you wrinkle the scalp in the back that is black, where you can’t
see yin because it’s all dim.
Then, when God comes to you, His energy is slipped off to one
side or the other; you don’t get it right, you sew busy holding up those
brows, ruining your winsome smile, making your own self, by your face,
old before your time, shutting out the revelation airy line frum the LAN’
Lord uh pin Heaven. Everyone who is given to spout, “I hope,” is relate
id to the Hopi.
“The own le est ab
Lish ment is God
Wen you er bornd
Yer all plugd in
Stub born kids
Un plug them selves
In get all tang
Eld up in side.”
C. 1971
Revisit George W. Bush’s State of the Union address, when
George was getting us up for his obscene war. The whopper of
whoppers: Saddam was developing nukes. Saddam, that Lion of the
Tigress was playing the lute and writing dull novels. During his whole
speech George’s brows were raised, sending the signal that he, the
President, personally did not believe in what he was telling us.
Experiment: Hold up your brows and keep them up for a full
minute. You can’t do it. You’ll likely stop because it hurts. Bush could
do it that night because nearly every sentence was punctuated with a
stopper for standing applause. During all the cheering pauses, Bush’s
brows were down, relaxed, and rested, but soon as he started speaking,
up they went! When Bush finally approached the end of his sprechen, he
could hardly up his brows his forehead was so tired.
Onlion S. Shem interjects:
On September 11, 2006 Bush spoke to the nation from the Oval
Office, to commemorate the 9-11 tragedy. He began to speak. His brows
went up a notch, wrinkling the middle of his forehead, three ridges deep.
28
He compulsively tried talking with his hands while seated at his desk, yet
his brows were partially up for the duration.
King Solomon muses:
Often, when someone says stuff they don’t believe, their heads
shake no while they try claiming yes, a prime example, Cindy McCain at
the republican convention, proclaiming her undying love for John
McCain over 30 years of marriage, her head slowly shaking nope as she
read the teleprompter. Lots of times the talker’s brows fly up, showing
give-away wrinkles.
Listen to Bush, but watch his eyebrows while he recites his Rove
created scripts. Peer-ships! You can lurn to sniff a toilet mouth. Use your
common sense, parsing from your bench. Read Mr. Bush’s forehead, his
furrows, to unravel not just Bush’s, but all your politishinz’ stench.
At the close of an Oval Office photo-op, one of the reporters
inquired as to Bush-think on the special prosecutor’s looking at the
illegal Valid re Plame CIA leak, potentially, a White House leak.
Bush answered, his brows noticeably up, “If somebody did leak
I’d like to know it.” Translation: Illegal or knot, Bush has known in
detail, since day one, everything there is to know. Bush in fact may’ve
been behind the prime leaker who originally validated Plame to Bobs
Novak and Woodward. Newest classic fascist claim: no-fault Bush and
Cheney, covering rears, can peel the seals and un-stick ‘CLASSIFIED’
from any government document any time.
When Matt Lauer interviewed Bush with wife Laura, Bush
stated, about the CIA Plame leaker case, his brows clearly up, “I’m not
going to talk about the case.” Translation: He’d been talking about the
case, and his role in it all day every day in the Oval Office.
In a speech December 8, 2005, Bush, brows up, said, about the
war, “We have a strategy for victory and we will see that strategy
through.” That same month, answering a quest yin about his relationship
to the Vice President, Bush responded, brows heading skyward, “I
consider Dick Cheney to be a good friend of mine.” Bush’s counterpart,
Saddam showed a full set of forehead wrinkles, every day he was in the
dock, on trial. Saddam was a worried man.
On February 28, 2006, ABC News anchor, Elizabeth Vargas
queried Bush about his sinking leadership roll, as reflected in his poll
numbers. Bush answered her, “I’ve got plenty of capital and I’m using it
to spread freedom.” His eyebrows shot up high as they get.
King Solomon muses:
Five days earlier, forehead wrinkled, Bush remarked, about those
Dudes of Dubai, the United Arab Emirates, taking over, many said
29
dubiously, the operation of a half dozen American seaports, “This deal
would not go forward ‘if’ we were concerned about the security interests
of America.”
Old saying: ‘It’s knot what you say, it is how you say it.’ Wrong!
Knot-withstanding Mel Gibson, it is exactly what you say!
Bush’s protocols of office did not require any presidential
examination in advance, before the seaport security hummus hit the fan,
sew President Bush flew around, ducking issues, his primary Air Force #
1 mission, giving sprechens about, “spreading freedom.”
Days later, in an Oval Office photo op, Bush was seen again,
replayed on CNN, commenting about the billion dollar Dubai sea port
deal, which his own remarks helped kill, his eye brows skyward, “If
there was any doubt in my mind (blah blah ) this deal would not go
forward.”
King Solomon poses: “if, if, if - if is a riff”
Why is Bush sew worried? Bush is our Prez eye dent. As it is
written in The Book ov Lev It A Kiss, the Television Scripture in
American lingo, the inspired, black-listed work of art, written sew to
perform aloud, whirled-wide, for all the world’s peoples at once:
“If is a fig
Yer leaf ov speech
I wanna good life
Nod a good if”
C. 1971
The President claims protecting US is his greatest concern, the
reason for his fascist ‘professionals’ tapping every telephone in America;
detaining people without warrants, torturing many, some in East
European black hole prisons for years on end. Vice-President Cheney
refers to the President’s daily briefing paper as, “The family jewels.”
And the day in Crawford, Bush received his beefy jewel, “Bin
Laden Determined To Strike in US,” which stated, “Bin Laden wanted to
hijack a US aircraft,” what did the President do the rest of that day,
besides tooling around the ranch in his presidential pickup, choosing
likely spots for a Reaganesque brush chopping photo op?
Condi Rice, on Meet The Pretzels, said to Tim Russert, about the
NSA’s domestic surveillance, “This is a program that is very thoroughly
reviewed.” Her brows were up. “Skids on the ledge,” those horizontal
wrinkles on your forehead, “are lines of worry.” The vertical wrinkles,
those above and between your brows, are lines of scheme and redeem.
30
Generally, on the few occasions when our Madam Secretary of
State raises her brows, she is, at the same time, making vertical forehead
creases. Every wun sin a while our Condi self-parses herself into a
corner, then she instantaneously schemes, inside her mind, to scheme a
way out. Her forehead, usually clear, gives her away.
Recollect Cindy Sheehan, the mom who lost her son in Iraq and
refused to be quiet about it? She was denied a 2nd meeting about her
‘loved one.’ Bush stated, “I strongly support her right to protest.” As
Bush recited those remarks his brows rose up, and his forehead wrinkled
deep. Bush’s mendacity is without parallel. He despises the Cindy
Sheehans; how dare them to be out there, protesting his war.
Before Bush was a candidate, when Money & Power were
calling Kennebunkport day and night to inform Bush’s mom, Bar-Donna
Bush Corleone, they had millions of dollars committed to roll her boy,
George into office, ‘W’ ordered his Texas State Police to remove some
protesters who were marching on the sidewalk in front of the State
House. Bush thought it was unseemly for anyone to be protesting his
governorship when he, ‘Little Bush,’ was getting ready to declare for
President.
That should have prepped you for all the evil we begot-the
continuous killing that keeps coming down the pike, the pallah sea liars
whose ‘Mission Accomplished’ was knot. A great and many just men
gave their lives on the beaches of Normandy, and Iwo Jima, in more
recent times, the orange clad Vietnamese jungles, and today, as we
speak, in the dead Saddamy’s desert slimes, to protect our way of life,
which life includes our constitutionally protected democratic affirmative
right to assemble, march, stand for our public offices, and have media
access to make a televised speech.
George W. Bush follows his dad; the both, subscribers to
protocols, their entitlements, self-imagined. Bush does not believe in our
Constitution and Bill of Rights, or in Cindy Sheehan’s right to set up an
anti-war protest camp a half-mile from his Crawford ranch, seeking to
talk about her son’s new deal in a flag draped box. Both of the Georges,
father and son, are thin-skinned wimps, both of them emperors of
protocols, without any clothes.
George W. Bush, reflecting his counterpart, Saddam, does knot
embrace the view his office belongs to us, requiring press meetings.
Parliamentary knock down drag-outs are out of the Bush’s mix. Bush, his
character, flawed, won’t own up to committing any wrongs. Instead we
get photo opts with visiting dignitaries, but those mostly absent
reporters’ Q’s with reportorial pushy follow throughs.
31
“Wrongs ov the mouth
Can be rite id
Say Iamb sar e
Skids on the ledge
Ar lines ov wer e
Wher is e God is
Gone I think I’ll
Pull a quick e
Fool ing no wun
Not even your self
The tree ov no ledge
Is a buv your brows
You made yer self
Fowld up in side.
You caint win
Own le go on
In God’s law ther
Ar no loop holes
Yer bornd you live
In en yer gone
God all ways gets His man”
C. 1971
King Solomon muses:
Fearless Bush appears his happiest when clearing brush, off the
beaten path. Down the road, the truth un-spoofed shall manifest, and
blow off the roof. Bush’s office will pass. Historians will judge his
warmonger presidency the most fascistic in our history.
Both George W. Bush and Juan Miguel González are liars.
Neither will ever own up to making any mistakes or committing
misdeeds. Juan Miguel smacked his wife around when they argued,
before they split up for good and Juan remarried, his 2nd marriage to
Nercy, the reformed street corner amateur, giving her an aura of
respectability for which his new wife would be forever grateful and
never question Juan when he failed to come home right after work.
When Juan Miguel came to America he brought along his nubile
Nercy and their newborn baby, but Nercy doesn't appear at all pleased in
any file film. Then Reno’s Justice thugs seized Elián. With Elián, Nercy
32
is made to pose, her smile pasted on. On that, she was instantly labeled
Elian’s new step mom, a point scripted in by the blabberifics’ directors;
but Nercy, even with Elián at her side, did knot look very happy, by any
stretch. The girl already had a son out of wedlock, besides a legitimate
new baby boy with Juan Miguel.
After Elián was snatched, Reno told the press Elián would be
stashed at a top shelf military base. Nikons in a pile, waiting in the
breech, the 4th Estate was out in full force to snap the kid. Whose idea
was it to billet the Gonzalez’ clan on an army base? Why? How is it a 6
yrs. old soon-to-be-deported Cuban refugee rated a top shelf ribbon shirt
residence? Was the kid under house arrest? Why knot Elián to
Guantánamo, down a short road and over the fence to Cuba?
The press snapped Elián behind the tinted glass, driven through
the base front gates, wanly waving to the media troop from the back of
his bulletproof limo.
Elián was famed worldwide, but the “official” post Miami Elián
pics, staged the next day, were hastily taken by attorney, Greg Craig,
using a cardboard throw away. The 4th Estate failed to register a
comment. Eric Severeid, a commentator giant, called for a moral cost
accounting during the Vietnam con flick. Shortly after the war ended, he
was put out to pasture, his replacement pasteurized.
In the first of Greg Craig’s put upon pictures Elián’s newly
negotiated mom is staring at Juan Miguel. In the 2nd shot, she’s busing
her own newborn kid. In the 3rd photo, Nercy finally gets it right,
looking warm at Elián. Elián’s eyes, when he is relaxed, are Cheyenneeasy slits. But in all the early Greg Craig stills, Elián’s eyes were pulled
wide-open, lids raised by his brows. Regardless of saying, “nachos,”
Elián was worried. His stress was obvious.
For historical purposes, filming Elián’s transition from life in
Miami to familial Cuban happiness, for public consumption, beginning
on their getaway plane, was not part of your government’s equation.
Himmler’s Nazis did a better job doing photo ops at Babi Yar.
Elián, snatched by force, was traumatized, glazed with downers for his
first plane ride. Were that knot the case, Reno would have surely let a
video crew shoot the kid, above the clouds, grazing out a porthole,
sensing his mom, or playing with a water pistol, squirting all his Secret
Service escorts up and down the aisle.
The public was told Juan Miguel’s new wife was twenty-one
years old, with a six-year-old love child back with relatives in Cuba.
Then, in unison, the blabberific cable heads pumped Nercy’s age two
years, to twenty-three. Six from twenty-three made Juan’s Nercy a
33
seasoned seventeen when she first gave birth. But Nercy Gonzalez was
nursing a baby before she was even fifteen years old.
Sew what about Nercy’s 20-peso street corner love child left
back home in Cuba when Nercy came to America with Juan Miguel?
What? How come no once-in-a-lifetime trip to America for that kid, too,
to Disneyland, to bond with Elián on the roller coasters? Why wasn’t the
kid brought along for the trip? Is the boy’s biological dad a long gone
Canadian tourist, or an African diplomat?
The press corp. failed to find these details. The press corp.
belonged to Billy Clintstone, to our Maximum Finger Pointer. The
questionable stuff in Juan Miguel’s family life was off limits, knot to be
raised by Washington press, or by any of your cable news talkies.
Relative to Elián, the Washington D.C. press corp. had unwritten
protocols for Billy Clintstone’s final lapse in office: Shelve it or get
shuffled back to desking an ambulance beat. What ever happened to our
free press, with their daily splash of unscripted scoops?
Beyond Miami Spanish talk radio, the Gonzalez’ family life was
off limits for medja. According to all the press pool bets, Elián wasn’t
getting to stay in the U.S.A. anyway, so why hang around for the riot? In
the world according to Castro, Elián Gonzalez belonged to Cuba, to him,
to Fidel, but for one single exasperatingly irreconcilable prob limb:
possession e quills nine tenths of the law.
Clintstone saw to it Elián was ripped from the immaculate
garden of American freedom, our free enter prize, and he bent every
which way, handing the kid back to Castro. As long as Elián was safely
returned to Cuba in one piece, Fidel would honor his end of their
unwritten deal about not flashing his copy of Clintstone’s video trip x
tapes for all to see, and that overrode everything.
In Clintstone’s mind, his sex-tapes in public, starring him with
his secret Kim, would have meant an instantaneous end to his
presidency, his self-imagined legacy, in clue ding significant wife Hillary
Rodham Clintstone’s presidential career, especially that, today well
oiled, spoiled, but forever set ready to spin, idling in gear.
Instead of digging out the truth, in light of Fidel’s obvious
rubbing our Clintstone’s nose in something, Clintstone’s own hidden
dirt, the blabberific talking head press boringly pontificated maybe there
was a seek writ deal between Castro and Clintstone to alter the two
countries’ relationship sew Clintstone could claim normalized affairs
with Cuba his presidential legacy.
That idea, like a sea worn inner tube, wouldn’t hold water, and
barely held air as the Elián affair effectively backwatered all our Cuban
34
dealings until the day comes Fidel chews on the fat with bud Arafat, an
event that will happen, though knot on this planet.
As soon as the government had Elián, Fidel’s thug diplomats
immediately began to acclimate the kid for his return to Stalinist life on
their island in the sun. Fidel was personally milking the Elián deal every
step of the way. Could a planeload of playmates and teachers come over
from Elián’s grade school in Cardenas? Sure. How many of your Cuban
visas to be stamped by the end of the day?
Time for some Cardenas summer school, to moderate Elian’s
boredom whilst the wheels of predetermined Justice peel and seal. Upon
near instantaneous pass portage of Cuban kids from Cardenas to U.S., the
working press mutters knot one editorial comment.
The New York Slimes John Markoff filed the following, on
August 16, 2005. With King Solomon’s permission, Onlion S. Shem has
taken the liberty to chop and paste:
“A Chinese mathematician, Xiaoyun Wang, shook up the insular
world of [encryption] code breakers by exposing a new vulnerability in a
crucial American standard for data encryption. She was scheduled to
explain her encryption in a keynote address to an international group of
researchers meeting in California.”
“But . . . she was not able to enter the country. Only one Chinese
researcher who sought entry for the conference received a visa in time.
Officials at the State Department and National Academy of Sciences said
the situation was not uncommon. Lengthy delays in issuing visas are
routine, particularly for those involved in sensitive scientific and
technical fields.”
King Solomon muses:
Xiaoyun Wang was coming to U.S.A., on our behalf, and they
wouldn’t even let her in the door. Sage Onlion S. Shem has an associate
degree in abacus, plus Torah. Shem for President. He gets Ms Wang’s en
crypt shin, her Tales from the Crypt, surely a devastating weapon of
mass distribution, in mass distrib, her scripts far more disastrous than any
virus ever cast. Ms Wang wanted to share with U.S., enabling us to
repair, but the government fascists would not let her in the door. Why did
they bar her?
On American soil, the Cubans put on a proper gander photo-op,
with all their spiffy kids starched in their commie school outfits.
Clintstone campaigned for his 2nd term on school uniforms, sew that was
dandy. Clintstone through Janet Reno rubber-stamped every move
Fidel’s people made, besmirching Elián’s entitlement to have his case
35
brought to an unfixed Federal Court where his constitutional guaranteed
right to U.S. citizenship would have certainly prevailed.
But it didn’t matter what the six-years-old miracle kid wanted for
himself. Elián’s readapting to Cuban life began before the 11th Circuit
Court of Appeals even docketed his case! In the whole history of our
country’s jurisprudence, before José Padilla, returning, was detained at
the airport, then thrown into Darkness at Kafkaesque Noon, nothing as
fascist as Elián’s misdeal had ever been recorded.
Shortly after coming to United States, bugged by American
demonstrators waving signs and shouting from the other side of the
street, “stay here,” Juan Miguel gave the demonstrators, and all of the
American people with them, his middle finger on our televisions. Juan
Miguel was in America on behalf of Fidel Castro, and in case you didn't
like it, he gestured into the camera, “up yours.”
After giving all America the finger, Juan Miguel went back
inside his halfway diplomatic house. In less than a minute, a group of
Fidel’s thug diplomats streamed out with billy clubs, crossed the street
and began beating up the demonstrators.
So-called Cuban diplomats clubbed American citizens on one of
our street corners without an official peep. In a million years regardless,
President Reagan would not have sanctioned that!
The Cubans could do as they pleased. Fidel Castro’s triple x
tapes, featuring Billy Clintstone, pants departing, half way down,
Clintstone, he in his full horse pant, was their authority controlling.
After Elián was seized, he went from living on the svelte U.S.
army base to the heavily guarded, exclusive Wye River Plantation, and
from there, closer yet to Washington, putting him within the 50 mile
legal range of Fidel’s spy diplomats. A reporter exclaimed Elián’s
motorcades were longer than motorcades for Clintstone’s Cabinet
Members, including even Secretary of State!
Why dear peer-ship? Because as long as this refugee kid was
living on American soil, even though he was under Cuba’s control, who
knows what might have happened to him? Clintstone’s whole presidency
hung in the Elián balance. Elián was the President. Peer-ships! More is in
store and all is coming clear.
Recollect Juan Miguel made phone calls to his relatives in
Miami before Elián was rescued at sea. Juan Miguel told his Miami
family that Elián and his mom skipped the Cuban island for America,
and that his uncle Lazaro should keep a sharp lookout for the two of
them, sew they would have a place to stay in U.S.A. as legally landed
immigrants.
36
At first Juan Miguel was silent about Elián when Elián’s
miraculous rescue at sea was worldwide news. Then, in Cuba, Juan
Miguel says what Fidel Castro tells him to say: That he, Juan Miguel,
wanted his kid returned to Cuba, instead of a new life with a future in
America.
Finally, after months of silence from Fidel, Elián’s grandmothers
came to USA. Juan Miguel did not make the trip with them. Fidel
canceled that idea. The grandmothers were invited to their cousin’s
house in Miami to see Elián, but they didn’t show. The carefully cooked
meal Marisleysis Gonzalez prepared for Elián’s grandmothers never did
make it to the dining room table.
Instead, the grandmothers, with an imposed entourage of Fidel’s
thug diplomats, went to the United Nations, and then on to Washington,
to lobby congress and the agencies for Elián’s return to Cuba. The
grandmothers failed to visit their relatives’ in Miami where their famous
grandson lived because Castro had disallowed it. The Gonzalez families’
Miami abode was off limits.
Elián’s grandmothers came to America and couldn’t even visit
their own kin who were minding their famous grandson. They were
prohibited because Castro’s and Clintstone’s own chosen bureaucrats
were hand in glove beneath the same cloak, working to disenfranchise
the kid from his American rights, and for success in this, at all costs
Elián’s family had to be kept apart.
Fidel knew wild dolphins saved Elián’s life. The kid was blessed
special, and famous worldwide. In Fidel’s mind, Elián represented the
future of Cuba. Castro was getting his six-year-old kid back, regardless.
Because of the sex tapes Castro held, clearly showing pants down Billy,
stuffing a throat in his famed, “I did not have sex” articulation, this issue
of Fidel’s miracle child going back to Cuba was knot open to challenge,
knot in any of our Appellate Courts by Elián’s Miami family, except for
their lawyer-led, going-through-the-motions show, or even by thousands
of Cuban Americans jammed in Elián’s barrio, standing firm sew little
Elián could flower amongst them, growing up in freedom.
Set aside Castro’s sex tape hammer over Clintstone. How could
this have been in our self-interest as a free people to have kept Elián’s
family apart and then shipped poor Elián back to Cuba? Elián’s mother
gave her life to bring Elián to U.S.A. Were either of the governments’
fascist charades in either countries’ best interests? What did Juan Miguel
get for his role in this debacle besides a souvenir Armani suit, a couple
silk ties and a bunch of Gap shirts?
37
Hark! Peer-ships! According to 60 Minutes, Juan Miguel has
been elevated. Juan is now a rubber stamp member of Fidel’s Assembly,
sew he has somewhere to go and show his Gap shirt wear.
A meeting of the grandmothers with their famous grandson, but
knot with great-uncle Lazarus and Elián’s adopted new mom,
Marisleysis, was arranged at Sister Jeanne O’Laughln’s house. Sister
Jeanne is a highly respected Dominican nun who is also the President of
Barry University, in Miami Shores.
Before the family palaver, Sister Jeanne favored sending Elián
back to Cuba to live with his father. That was why her Miami Beach
home was chosen for the meeting. Sister Jeanne’s thoughts seemed to
make good old-fashioned common sense, too. Surely the Gonzalez
family blood is thicker than all the anti-Castro pallah tics that yet today
simmers away in Miami’s Dade County.
But when the grandmothers visited Sister Jeanne’s house, Sister
Jeanne saw the fear over both of the grandmothers’ faces, they
surrounded by Fidel’s secret police, posing as diplomats. Fidel was
micromanaging the meeting from Cuba, and his fash diplomats were
consulting with him every other minute on their cells. Then, right under
Sister Jeanne’s nose, too something else took place the worldly
Dominican Nun simply could not grace.
Sister Jeanne exhibited her dramatic change of heart to the press
corp. outside. She now expressed the view, and calmly stated that Elián
would be better off staying in U.S.A. Sew how come Sister Jeanne
wasn’t invited onto any cable news talkies to answer follow-up questions
about her Elián repatriation turn around?
Following Sister Jeanne, Juan Miguel’s mother walked over to
the microphones. Elián’s grandmother spontaneously stated, in Spanish,
translated as she spoke by an over voice: “I don't know what is wrong. I
kissed Elián on the mouth, and bit his tongue. But I was only playing.
Then I unzipped his pants and told him, ‘my how big you have grown.’ ”
Granny Gonzalez should have been detained and deported on the
spot! Clips of Elián running around his Miami yard replayed all day long
on television, boring the world’s viewer-ship, patiently awaiting
something fresh. But Granny’s remarks - her own grand motherly sense
of Elián’s private parts played, as the woman spoke, on American
television, just that one-time-only once!
King Solomon muses: Yokels! You missed it.
Granny’s intimate fondling of Elián wasn’t kosher in Cuba,
America, or anywhere. My grandmother didn’t kiss my mouth, bite my
tongue, or inspect my genitals; not even after my grandfather, the
38
Reverend Phillip Wolf Teibel circumcised me at the briss. Nor did my
grandmother ever participate in changing my diapers. About me she
always muttered under her breath I was a momzer.
The prophet recollects: At age four I insisted I could bathe
myself. It was a nightly ritual. My mother noisily came to the door,
letting me know she was on the way into the bathroom, to inspect the
worn out enameled tub for a telltale ring of dirt, proof I had actually
washed myself instead of whiling away my bath tub time, playing with
my favorite bath tub toys, a wind up miniature motor boat, one fishing
rod bobber and a rubber duck. The bobber bobbed, the yellow duck
quacked and the boat wound up, circled and made a racket. Who had
time for washing?
I used the washcloth for a fig leaf before she came in. I would
not let my mother take that cloth to wash my back, insisting without a
splash it was mine and she should get another. Kids, at age two, run
around naked without any thought, before sense of self comes into play,
and they cover. Kids, by four have a normal sense of their developing
selves, their private parts. They want privacy, their own private space,
normal for any four years old. Elián was six.
In the midst of Elián’s saga, a freelance lady writer flew to
Havana to interview the friends of Elisabet and Juan, to uncover their
“true” story, which to this day remains untold. The reel deal is the
unwritten story behind: Who sliced through bales of bureaucracy, to
grant Ms. Freelancer her instantaneous passport? Who told her what to
deliver, what to say; and what she could expect, in return? Where is that
lady writer ensconced today?
Were her televised pitches any less tainted than Armstrong
Williams’ CIA cash advanced stitches? Set aside your money raking
politishinz. We face a fresh set of hurdles, a graceless new band of 4th
Estate hucksters, bucks run amok, frosh ‘liars in public play siz.’
The distorter reporter told us, in an orchestrated multi-channel
talking pulp display, heralding her pre-set magazine piece, that Juan
Miguel and Elisabet were childhood buds who’d hung out together since
they were ten years old. She related they tried to have kids after they
were hitched, but each time Elisabet got pregnant, she lost the baby.
Then, without malice Elisabet Broton divorced Juan Miguel, their
divorce supposedly because of Elizabet’s failure to get pregnant and
bring a baby to term.
Then the two of them, Elizabet and Juan, ended up sharing an
apartment, anyway. The chronic housing and dollar shortage in Castro’s
Cuba being what it is, Elisabet could not afford her own set of rooms.
39
Elisabet got pregnant again, and this time gave her childhood sweetheart
a son. But in all her interviews, the freelance magazine writer kept
stumbling over wun key quest chin: Why did Elisabet Broton refuse to
remarry her Juan Miguel?
The distorter suggested Elisabet Broton wasn’t particularly
sophisticated. A simple woman, Elián’s mother was happy as a lark, just
to go out dancing wun sin a while, with friends on a Saturday night. She
was a homebody, content with her quiet life in the town of Cardenas
where she was born. Satisfied with a television getting only one channel,
she’d never even been to Havana.
King Solomon is a Poet Prophet. He muses:
Juan Miguel was and is a womanizer. Such is Juan’s story. He
was a player who ran around with other women. Elián born didn’t
change a thing. And when Juan came home, hours late after work,
smelling of perfume with lipstick on his shirt, and so forth, Elisabet
hollered, and Juan hit her. Then Juan would beg forgiveness for his
infidelity, and for striking her and slapping Elián. This recurring
textbook pattern of Juan Miguel’s guilt trip was a behavioral pattern
Elisabet Broton felt she was better off away from, sew she refused to
remarry Juan, though life unmarried with a child out of wedlock is
hardship in Cuba, as most children out of wedlock portend hardship
everywhere else on our planet.
The journalist claimed, ahh, sew sub tile all the pieces of our
puzzle, Elisabet Broton left Cuba because she’d fallen in love with
another man who left her for America, and she could knot bear living her
life alone day-by-day without the new boyfriend at her side; and that her
tragic death was a classic love story.
Onlion S. Shem interjects: Bahhh-loanie! This medja made up
love tale was a set up stinking load of televised crap. The writer was one
of Clintstone’s shills, foisted on television to distort Elisabet Broton’s
life as Clintstone imagined her, in his own, me-first-all-the-way image,
loin driven from her Cuban homeland to consummate romantic
inclinations, with her son, Elián only along for the ride.
The government needed to sully Elisabet Broton’s attempted
immigration in order to diminish the American people’s instinctive
support for her son, sew to disenfranchise the kid from his new life in
American freedom. By distorting his mother’s life, and muting the
compelling truth, the reason she departed Cuba – to protect her Elián
from his sexually abusive grandmother – the government trashed the idea
Elián had a guaranteed Cuban refugee right to our citizenship that
trumped his father’s rights, and instead, staged Elián’s so-called ‘legal’
40
repatriation to Cuba, to Castro. But there is a ring of truth in the story
that another man fell deeply in love with Elisabet Broton, as her spirit
was immaculate.
Elisabet Broton was a maid who worked 12 hours a day cleaning
rooms in a tourist hotel on the outskirts of Cardenas. When Elián
finished school he would go to his father’s house, and then to his
grandmother’s house, conveniently next door, for supper and a bath.
Elián waited at grandma’s for his mom to come get him after she
finished working at the hotel.
One night, on the walk back to their meager studio apartment,
Elián told his mom, “Grandma was playing with my pee-pee in the bath.
(Again).”
Elián’s mother was not by any stretch, a sophisticated, well-read
woman. Her communist party line stud ease did knot include psychology
101. But she sensed that with Juan’s mother bathing her kid, Elián could
likely grow up with the same emotional baggage, and complicated sexual
prob limbs as his father, an unfaithful, next generation womanizer.
Elisabet did knot want that for her son!
That is why Elisabet Broton changed her mind about living in
Cuba; the reason she called her ex-boyfriend in America. She didn’t sea
any choice. The only way to get Elián away from Juan’s sexually abusive
mother was to leave her Cuba altogether! Where go but to America, to
Miami, where her in-laws, Elián’s family lived, besides a decent man
living there also, who loved her?
Knot for political freedom did Elisabet Broton desert her Cuba,
but to save her son from the incestuous abuse of his paternal
grandmother. That is why she was compelled to migrate - to save,
protect, and make a new life in America for her kid. The love in her love
story was Elisabet Broton’s classic motherly love to her death for her
loving son, Elián Gonzalez.
Elián is returned to Cuba. The miracle kid and his father, Juan
Miguel, and Juan Miguel’s new wife and their baby were set up for
Elián’s repatriation, in a very ritzy house by Cuban standards, that, in a
flood-proof, diplomats-only neighborhood, with back yard swimming
pools. Before Elián, the transition house was exclusively for visiting
Russians. Upon his arrival, Elián and his family were surrounded for
Elián’s readapting by Fidel’s Stalinist psychologists, who hung out at the
svelte diplo - residence around the clock.
41
But this temporary house was knot to reprogram Elián for a
communist zombie life in Cuba. He wasn’t gone from Cuba all that long.
Given enough Ritalin and scopolamine laced cola, the Russian trained
psychologists were sure they could blur any Disneyland visions dancing
through Elián’s memo re bank. That was knot their purpose or intent. But
they did want to gauge how closely Elián had grown to his self-adopted
Marisleysis, and to insure that any of his neighbors’ telephones or
diplomat’s encrypted cell phones were out of the charming Gonzalez
kid’s reach.
Castro’s psychologists were camped out at the house, though it
won't be brought to the surface in any 20 / 20, or CBS exposé, to guard
their prize, Elián, and counsel Juan Miguel! The Cubans also saw Juan
Miguel’s mother on U.S. television, and they knew instantly why Juan
was the abusive, prone to violence womanizer he was gossiped to be in
Cardenas, where his tracks were known.
When Elián told his mom about grandma playing again with his
pee-pee, Elisabet decided, right on the spot, on their walk home, they
would give up their Cuban life, and she told Elián as much, that the two
of them were going to America, and knot to tell a soul.
She telephoned her ex-boyfriend, which could be researched,
were there only an editor willing to investigate Elián’s true story; and she
told her ‘ex’ about Elián’s paternal grandmother, and that she’d finally
decided to cross the Florida Straits for Elián’s sake, and to be with the
boyfriend.
The man was infatuated. He imagined he was in “love” with
Elisabet Broton. He’d been working two jobs and saving every penny
because God put it in his mind that he belonged with Elisabet. The
boyfriend dreamed about bringing her to America with Elián.
Immediately he purchased the best sea-worthy rubber boat that money
could rent, with a spiffy state of the art motor, and he rode the choppy
seas back to Cuba, to sneak Elisabet and Elián away with him to
America.
A Cuban naval patrol corralled him close to the Cuban shore,
confiscated his excellent craft, held him 30 days, and cut him loose. In
spite of the government, Elisabet’s boyfriend located another boat. Then,
with Elisabet, Elián, his own parents, some cousins, and the two cash
money customers all crowded aboard, he pushed off from the island,
heading for the Promised Land.
Sadly, their boat was hardly fit to cross the Florida Straits. Ten
minutes out and the motor failed. They returned to Cuba for repairs. It
was getting late. Canceling their departure was out of the question. The
42
plot would’ve been found out. But another kid along, Elián’s cousin, was
left behind. His parents grimly feared the raggedy boat would not survive
capsizing in the hurricane prone sea. Furthermore, their kid wasn’t
prepped for an ocean trip like Elián.
Elián stayed aboard with his mom, smartly decked out in his
waterproofed, ocean ready jacket. His mother was determined to get
Elián out of Cuba. She was not going to go without Elián. Elián’s over
all wellbeing was her primary reason for leaving Cuba. Elisabet Broton
gave up her life, the only life she ever knew, for a flat bottom boat ride
across the open sea, where she gave up her life altogether, to give her son
a safe, new life in America, the LAN’ God promised.
Ahh, dear peer-ship mates, are the mists blowing off from the
willfully misconstrued saga of Elián Gonzalez and his sadly lost at sea
mother, Elisabet Broton?
For Elián, who was six years old when all of this happened, his
mother isn't dead. She isn’t. She is only missing. As the ocean took her,
with her dying words she told the child she loved so much, “You will be
all right. Stay on the inner tube and you will get to America.” In the
heavy seas Elián could only straddle the 18-wheeler inner tube to stay
afloat and stay alive.
But losing his mom at sea didn’t traumatize Elián Gonzalez
because, in his innermost seek writ heart his mother is only lost. Elián
believes, way in the back of his mind, that he will find her. He was told
she is with God, but Elián believes he will see his mother again
regardless what they say that she is in Heaven. He was six when he lost
his mother at sea, his love for her so pure God called on His super
Mendel spirit to personally go and rustle up that pair of volunteer
dolphins, and charge the dolphins with navigating Elián’s inner tube to
bring him to America, the LAN’ God Promised.
Elián was wrenched from his loving, self-adopted mother, his
Marisleysis in Miami, and butchered before dawn by Janet Reno in Janet
Reno’s hometown, Miami; then processed by her plain-clothes storm
troopers during Passover / Easter, a Holy time. As it is written in, The
Book ov Lev It A Kiss, everything that ever happened in the world, “ha
penned for a rea zun.”
King Solomon, the mystical Poet Prophet God inspires, muses
on:
For the Jewish American elders, the survivors of Hitler’s fascists
and their Holocaust, and for all who witnessed 9-11, “never again”
means never again! What is good for the one, in any fascist beginning, is
just a beginning for what may become, under Bush’s Patriot Active rule
43
of law, in the government’s surveillance store for all who live beneath
them, as conspiracy theorists tell.
Hark! Bush ordered a federal agency, NSA, to violate our
constitution, behind the FISA court’s back, to conduct unwarranted,
wholesale eves dropping. Bush sees himself an emperor, above the
Congress; the decider, above the law, above it all. History will judge
Bush’s Nuremburg, unsealed, was a disaster for our freedoms.
“What ha pens next
God own le nose”
C. 1971
Above the Florida Straits a bilingual squadron of angels offers
good tidings for all the lost-at-sea souls departing their water logged
refugee bodies, advising the spirits they might only be in Heaven till the
next cloud’s burst, then rained onto the sea top, to be lunched by the
teeniest fish, moving up the green food chain, gainfully eaten again and
again, until finally obtaining green card ocean status, married to a bottlenosed dolphin’s soul, with a rich flipper life doing free dolphin tricks for
tourist ships, when their slick dolphin bods aren't chasing down dolphin
chicks.
These angels of God, more than a squadron, His guardians for
the heavenly migration from Florida’s Straits into Heaven watch for
Elián Gonzalez, because they know deep down in their angel souls, Elián
could very well decide to cross their seas again, as God, the Holy Spirit
above may compel him.
Own le God above, the LAN’ Lord uh pin Heaven, knows what
is the finale of Elián’s story; what is in store for him and when. The
psychologists counseled Juan Miguel. Elián’s medications were for
readapting purposes only, a couple weeks of Ritalin, mixed with
Scopolamine. Juan Miguel was actually the psychologist’s main concern
because Fidel wanted to see Elián’s family in Cuba looking and acting
normal for the international, proper gander press.
But the psychologists did take Elián away from his family, as
The Wall Street Gurgle correctly reported, because right away there
ensued a father son blow up. Upon that, Fidel’s psychologists were
unsure it was safe to leave Elián with his father, so they pulled him out
that night. Fidel Castro himself got with Juan Miguel and read Juan the
riot act about losing his temper with Elián. Fidel was unequivocal.
Another Elián smack down would guarantee certain that Juan Miguel
would himself be given the beating of his life.
44
What happened: Juan Miguel was having a bad time, waiting on
tables. Tourists all day long exclaimed, “You are Juan Miguel Juan
Miguel! I read it in my tabloid you are Juan Miguel you beat your wife.”
Elián’s story played world wide, was fresh, and incidents occurred.
That same day Elián had a nasty spat with his stepbrother and
step mom Nercy was having a terrible day with her teething new baby.
When Juan Miguel came home from work, Nercy ragged Juan out about
Elián’s acting up. Elián and Juan began a shouting match, back and forth,
and Elián hollered, “I hate Nercy. I am going back to America because I
love my great-uncle Lazaro and Marisleysis.” That was the straw that
busted up his father, Juan Miguel, the button Elián pushed that snapped
his papa’s back.
We know from yards of testimony in thousands of American
family courts that offspring from first marriages generally get the short
end with their parents and stepparents because of new born kids in the
house, besides other kids from previous marriages. This is true in most
situations.
In spite of Fidel’s men, outside, on guard, Juan Miguel went
whacko when Elián shouted, “I'm going back to America.” When Juan
Miguel was told his wife had drowned in the Florida Straits, he was
devastated. Elisabet Broton was the love of his life. Juan will never
forget his Elisabet. The eyes window the soul. By the shape of the
window, you can tell where the soul has been. In Elián’s eyes Juan
Miguel sees the soul of his only true love, Elisabet Broton, and one of
Greg Craig’s photos of Elián with his dad did capture that.
But Juan Miguel flipped out when Elián popped off about
America and cousin Marisleysis because Juan blamed Elián for what
happened to his Elisabet. Who cares Fidel Castro’s guards outside! Juan
went ballistic, “You killed your mother.” Slap. And with each smashing
blow, “You killed momma.” Slap. “You went along on that stinking boat
and momma is, slap, gone. It’s your fault.” Slap.
Juan Miguel, totally out of control, vented, “Momma would still
be alive. You killed your mother. Slap. She is (slap) dead because of
(slap) you. Slap. You killed her. Slap. You killed her.” Until Juan Miguel
wore his own self out before the guards came in and cornered him. That
is what happened. That is why, without fanfare, Elián was, that very
same night, taken away from his father.
Fidel’s armed Elián guards know the score, and they won’t be
beaten senseless for failing to take care, so Juan Miguel’s beating Elián
won’t repeat. But that is the fate Billy Clintstone, through his rook, Janet
Reno, administered to our innocent Elián Gonzalez, Cubano America’s
45
marvelous freedom child! Did Clintstone for even one split nano second
give more than a hoot about what he was setting up, based on beatings he
and his own kid brother, Roger took, growing up, and from it all how his
younger brother turned out?
Clintstone is for his own Clintstonian image first, nothing much
else has ever mattered, and in this case the main event was making sure
his own true presidential legacy stayed buried.
A Cuban religious group Fidel respects told Fidel Elián is very
important. Fidel liked the kid on sight because Elián, like Fidel, has style.
God planted it in Fidel’s mind he should befriend Elián.
Down the road, before he dies expect Fidel Castro to suggest
Elián ought to become Cuba’s future Maximum Leader. Sage Onlion S.
Shem believes that is Castro’s desire for Elián conjectured from the 60
Minutes, October 2, 2005, Elián interview.
Five years before the CBS 60 Minutes Elián play, two days after
Brian William’s dolphin Scooby-Doo, on September 2, 2000, Elián
appeared on The New York Slimes front page, above the fold,
photographed with a crowd of Cardenas classmates. They were all
uniformly dressed in their familiar commie school outfits. All the six
years olds’ faces are stern. Elián’s brows are up, sew his lips purse to the
frown that is a natch a rill flow off any wrinkled forehead.
On page five, where the article continues we find, “ “The boy is
very happy, and me, too, because he’s going back to school,” his father,
Juan Miguel Gonzalez said as he accompanied his six-year-old to school
in their coastal home town, Cardenas.”
Juan Miguel says what was expected of him. He responded to
therapy he would not have gone for on his own. He told Fidel’s
psychologists exactly what they wanted to hear, because Juan wanted
nothing more then life in Cardenas as it was before. Juan Miguel
Gonzalez is the 2nd biggest fish in the little Cardenas pond where he was
born. Everyone knows Fidel, before he took sick, had big plans for Elián.
Getting those barroom babes to trick and treat for future chits is cake,
now that Elián is settled in.
Elián is back with his family, according to 60 Minutes, in a brand
new house, (at least a couple of miles from Granny’s), with Fidel’s
armed guards close by 24 / 7. Elián’s grade school could even some day
be open to visits from selected press, like CBS.
But when the resilient Elián God blessed is outside, horsing
around his yard, or on his guarded walk to school each day, before
looking up to the clouds, the resident angels above gather all the cloudy
46
souls to shape themselves as sailing boats with sails pushing through the
whole cirrus puffs in the breeze.
Every day all of the souls in the cloudy bleachers form up a ship
in their sea of clouds, puffs in the cloudy mist, nearly every day a ship
for Elián to clearly sea. Elián keeps his own counsel, young as he is, and
he may be mulling a plan to again leave Cuba, as he did with his mother.
He made it to America once before. Wild dolphins protected him. Elián
believes, in his seek writ innermost virgin heart, notwithstanding Fidel;
he can cross the Florida Straits again.
And what of Elián’s mom? The soul of Elisabet Broton has
standing with God deeper than yours, having been here before and lived
through more. She asks the unsayable Master of the Universe, every day,
to watch over Elián, as her Elián, like every wun on our water planet, is
part of the LAN’ Lord’s Master Lesson Plan.
Lots of souls departed bounce around the Heavens, but knot to
make requests, only Heaven scent until the next cloud’s burst, then ten
seconds after your arrival, whooshed right out the door in Heaven’s
floor, your soul departing fluffy Heaven on a raindrop, on the way to
splatter on some dog crap, your soul’s migration, in and out of Heaven,
an eyeless split half second deep without an audience.
Souls un-bodied are eyeless, yet we believe they sea us; they are
earless, but they here. That’s why we talk to them. Souls are a memory.
They live on forever. Those who cry out the loudest against abortion,
they are the ones who were aborted in a previous life, and the experience
is stamped in their characters. Recollect when you were growing up,
hanging out with the group, one kid spouted, “You were an abortion.”
The “abortion” kid was outraged at that, mad at the tag and bristled,
“What id you say?” We spit out the truth without forethought, right off
the tops of our heads. Your brain is a pane. The mind is that place inside
your head where words form.
When a woman cries out she is knot going to carry the baby in
her womb, that is the LAN’ Lord uh pin Heaven moving through her.
God is in charge of the souls he installs, that particular soul, a lifetime
back, could have been the Auschwitz guard who heel-kicked the
toddlers, cracking their baby ribs on their toddle into the cyanide
showers. God is the universal ripper, ripping His most recalcitrant of
souls, those He deems the worst, at least a thousand times over.
The ancient desert God, the Universal Operator who operates the
universe has ’is own cell you lurn pro gram.
During your life you treated everyone like crap. Sew yer life after
living, guaranteed the first couple hundred decades, starting out, will get
47
spent on pile after pile of post eaten vomited, fly bitten doggy drop, with
maybe a full half minute uh pin Heaven, when ever Haley’s comet comes
around, there long enough to shower and clean up your act hark the floor
of cloudy Heaven caves again, credence to the old adage: hell is on earth
whoosh, King Solomon muses.
Elián Gonzalez has that rare gift of style, a special something
extra from God. Like our most talented of performing artists, Elián was
born with a rare individuality that won’t be corrupted, regardless how
much scopolamine the Cuban Stalinist psychologists dumped down his
throat, or injected, as that was also part of Elián’s fate that was awaiting
him in Cuba: scopolamine for breakfast.
Onlion S. Shem interrupts our musing Poet Prophet, “C’mon
King Solomon, this is knot ‘The Guns of Navarrone.’ Fidel Castro’s
psychologists talked about giving Thorazine to Elián because he was so
hyped up, but knot the Nazi truth drug, Scopolamine.”
Fidel holds to his view Elián is knot run of the mill. Fidel’s
people sat the kid down to counsel him about the perquisites of ruling
class life in Cuba. Fidel wants Elián to follow him, Fidel, as Cuba’s next
Maximum Leader! That is Fidel Castro’s hazy dream, clearly behind his
granting CBS the 60 Minutes interview.
This may become more apparent in the years to come. Fidel
would like to die, he wishes, down a long road, surrounded by his family,
Elián near by, old enough to take over. How old was Fidel when he and
Ché Guevara, with Raul, toppled the shill, Batista?
Regardless what the Cuban future holds for Elián Gonzalez,
Cuba’s next Maximum Leader with Fidel holding on, Elián has his own
priorities. His departed mom talks to him in his dreams at night, and
Elián believes in his bones she beeps him every day from the passing
cirrus clouds above the open sea.
We like to imagine Elián Gonzalez slipping away from Cuba,
finally re-arriving here, riding the snowcapped waves, coming on the
Miami shore, firm on a pontooned wooden door, an old shirt for sail
attached to a broomstick jammed at his instep, under the radar, washed
up on our beach, eluding the Coast Guard. And when Elián reaches the
sandy shore he smiles at everyone waiting with cell phone cameras and
boldly announces, “I’m Elián Gonzalez. Fidel is gone. I’m thirteen years
old. I'm back.”
But in the near impossible event Elián does try to cross the
Florida Straits again, as he did his first time out with his mom, in the
back of his mind it will be as much to get with his mother as to see his
Marisleysis and great-uncle Lazaro. And when the wind picks up and the
48
sea and swamps his craft again, the angels from before, with the image of
his mother the last time he saw her will reappear inside his mind, and
Mother Nature’s choppy sea will take him.
In that most terrible possibility the two original dolphins will
reappear, with the Mendel mother spirit also near, to bring Elián up to
the sea top. The dolphins will do whatever they can, protecting the
expired kid, possibly losing a half of one leg to the sharks close by, so
Elián’s body, bloated from drowning, one leg a stump, drains thin as
Elián was when his life was his own.
And that same pair of dolphins will deposit Elián, flip our shark
thrashed teen-age kid, though dead, onto a nearby fisherman’s boat, for
another fresh faced Donato Dalrymple to carry Elián’s stray limped body
ashore to help bury Elián in yours, and in Elián’s great-uncle Lazaro’s
back yard.
Elián Gonzalez stands a chance of becoming Cuba’s next
Maximum Leader, what the Poet Prophet sees for him, the River Pish
insight given to King Solomon by alter id visor Onlion S. Shem!
But had we, the American people, canceled Bill Clintstone’s
self-serving fascist sting and for a change, done the right thing, the world
at large would have rejoiced! Elián, a special kid, should have remained
in America, in the land of milk and honey, in freedom, in sight of the
ocean where his mother gave her life to bring him.
Elián’s entitlement was our freedom. The fascist trashing of his
future in America bashed our own free spirit. For what we, the American
people allowed to have happened to this innocent, some would say God
sent, Elián Gonzalez, his rights destroyed, we are for writ, a lesser people
in the world’s unblinking eye.
His father, Juan Miguel should have been returned to Cuba with
a state of the art high speed computer, the internet connection paid for by
those same people who paid for attorney, Greg Craig, telephony software
included; and Elián, the same machine, both with 24 / 7 connections.
Father and son would have been with each other every day, as
the digital universe, a giant blessing from God, flatly for all, reconstitutes
our daily lives. This new wage digital dimension drives the world’s
economy, in clue ding chat sprung friendships from Alaska to the
Argentine, instantly over the Atlantic, and faster than your eye blinks,
from Gaza to the River Jordan.
Looking back, with a couple years past to reconsider, would
together every day via Internet have been such a bad deal for Elián and
his dad? Elián, a legally landed immigrant, could have visited his family
and former school chums in Cuba every summer! The little survivor,
49
clearly blessed special, was a good excuse to break a stupid diplomatic
impasse, long over due.
Yet instead of lady liberty fulfilled, Elián represents the cymbal
of American freedom crushed for every scraping third world kid. Elián
Gonzalez’ story, internationally broadcast as news, though glossed for
boob tube consumption here, and glossed again, by CBS’s 60 Minutes, a
half decade later, made it abundantly clear to all the world’s peoples that
American liberty is an old myth. The new reality of Lady Liberty’s
lamplight, once upon a time an unshakable cymbal of freedom, is an
empty shell snuffed.
But for the briefest of bright shining moments in time, Elián
Gonzalez fulfilled our own deep sea did belief in ourselves as a free
people, with our Founders’ democracy, our way of life available to all.
“Give me your tired and your poor,” was again true in our hearts with
Elián, regardless our circuit court’s non-rulings on the Clintstone
administration’s ever shuffled deck of fascist regulations.
Had Clintstone’s dealings only played out differently, Elián
would have grown up in the best of all possible worlds. Had Billy’s
crimping of our immigration deck only been trumped, cards on the table
by the Jacklegs’ jump, Castro would hardly have been wrecked.
Freedom for Elián would have led to full trade with Cuba, which
Cuba desperately needs, but doesn’t have, regardless the giant trip x
Clintstone card Fidel holds to this day, but with no place to go with and
replay, except as Hillary threat, that played with CBS. Why the folks at
Sixty Minutes flossed Elián’s story, when the truth was so juicy,
perplexes. Too bad the CBS folks can’t bid us adieu, in the words of
Edward R. Murrow, “Good Night and Good Luck.”
The congress could have moved to pass The Elián Gonzalez
Immigration Act, in spite of Clintstone’s coalition, that caucus of
narrow-minded, black democrats who were, as a body, vehement in their
opposition to Elián having a chance to grow up in freedom.
The Elián Gonzalez Immigration Act would have been a
symbolic Act of Congress rewarding citizenship to every preteen kid,
Haitian, Canadian, North Korean, any world kid citizen who landed here,
without supervision, on our soil, plucked from the seas, give or take,
within a day fisherman’s ride off our coast. How many kids would have
coasted into America on the sea top? What a marvelous Immigration Act
from our lusterless, lock-stepper Congress. Who could be against it? All
the very few refugee kids who were qualified would grow up as
American citizens, super ponzi helpers enriching your social security
future.
50
“Give me your tired and your poor,” not some rigidly heavy
handed, fascist bureaucracy was our Founders’ conception of our
country, the principle driving their covenant. The legal issue of Elián
Gonzalez’ custody was the same eggs act threshold issue for King
Solomon with the first Baby Eliána case, that, centuries before, the fix
shin: Jurisdiction. King Solomon’s “Baby Eliana” case should have been
heard in Sidon Town Court, closest by to where the little shiksalah kid
was born; where the true facts were apparent, not two day’s walk down
the dusty road, in King Solomon’s Court.
The federal bureaucracy did not have jurisdiction over Elián
Gonzalez’ parental custody, only his immigration, which our law
guaranteed upon his landing. Like Elián, our ancestors also arrived in
America, with the rags on their backs, not much else.
As long as Elián made the threshold of our border, driven by a
pair of wild dolphins and the spirit of his mother, their group overall
guided by God’s super Mendel, she, the Holy Spirit in charge of all kids,
Elián was entitled to stay here, which is what Elián wanted, what his
mother wanted for him! He was entitled to a Family Court hearing, in
Miami, where Elián’s true love for his Marisleysis and great-uncle
Lazaro would have soundly prevailed.
The jurisdiction of Elián’s custody was in a Family Court, in
Miami-Dade County, Florida, with descendants of King Solomon and
Onlion S. Shem, there, calling for order. But our elected high horse
Clintstone, the controller boss over our standing bureaucracies, our
departed from public service, above-it-all, cigar chomp bleater leader had
his Justice Depot ram Elián’s jurisdiction back to Cuba, sew Clintstone
could heavy handedly protect his Humpty image from an irreparable,
permanent fall off our pallah tickle wall.
King Solomon muses:
Clintstone’s personal self-serving need to protect his selfimagined legacy brought our President to corrupt those very laws he took
an oath, on Holy Books, to defend! Seizing Elián Gonzalez violated
God’s Law - our oldest of laws on planet earth! Was Elián connected to
Qaeda terrorists? He was a six-years-old refugee kid! But Clintstone’s
need to keep the reel truth out of the public domain, his lies on top of lies
overrode the special Cuban survivor’s Rights.
Our Travelers Inn America was full up.
Know Vacancy. Nooo vacancy. There wasn’t any room for
common sense, decency, or the rule of our constitution.
Juan Miguel’s mother stated, on television, here in America, that
when she visited Elián, she kissed him on the mouth and bit his little
51
tongue. She said she was only “playing” when she proceeded to unzip his
pants, handily inspect his genitals and proclaim, “my how big you have
grown.”
Did Elián’s pervert grandma measure her grandson’s penis,
finger by wrinkled finger, the Catholic Sister Jeanne, standing near?
Peer-ships, the issue is, you did knot see Granny Gonzalez talking about
Elián’s private parts. Granny said what she did, spontaneously, and
Clintstone made sure it was knot repeated by the anchors on TV.
King Solomon muses:
Granny Gonzalez’ pervert behavior disqualified her standing.
You missed it because Granny Gonzalez on TV, stating her case at the
microphones, as Elián was replayed every day, running around greatuncle Lazaro’s yard, would have brought a giant outcry nationwide, and
eliminated General Reno’s take down of America’s freedom child.
Thusly, the grandmother’s telling pervert remarks, ex clue ding word of
mouth, were, by Billy Clintstone, squelched.
But Grandma’s speech was so juicy! Who convinced all of the
network news divisions to keep Granny Gonzalez off the evening news?
Family is family. And where, during this tedious rip off was that life long
fighter for children’s rights, lady lawyer kid protector, Hillary Rodham
Clintstone? Elián Gonzalez was certainly born in the wrong village.
Surely a Herculean imaginative stretch is knot required for you
to see Elián’s mother picking up Elián at her mother-in-law’s house, and
then, on their walk home, Elián telling his loving mother that, “Grandma
was playing with my pee-pee in the bath,” Elisabet deciding right on the
spot, on the roadside path, “We are going to live in America, as soon as I
can get a boat.”
It was for a seasoned family court jurist to uncover the truth for
what it was. Elián’s jurisdiction was in a Florida State Court, not with
Clintstone’s federal agents of fascist freedom.
But the D.C. agency clearly was knot allowing any Florida State
Court to hold hearings on Elián González’ custody because their
bureaucrat boss, Clintstone, though sworn to uphold and defend our
constitution, could knot let the Rule of Law prevail. Elián was going to
Fidel. In the words of Sage Yogi, laid bare “It wooduh been déjà
impeachment up at the bat all over again.”
The moguls of media power, that band of powerful medja bosses
who decide what plays, were enamored of Billy. They liked him. Each of
the network biggies, like Bill, had networked themselves to the corporate
tops of their games. Perhaps they even appreciated the President’s
peccadilloes, though only behind closed doors, for in their own thrones
52
of power, above the 40th floor, all the medja moguls have access to their
own.
This is knot to say any network leaders play at Clintstone’s
pantry hanky panky, but it’s part of their parcel, their purview; where
consensual sex is pallah tics, a perquisite for the ass king, a libido ego
feed of the media moguls’ self-imagined may king.
Clintstone sold a bill of goods to the network Czars, though it
hardly rang true, that Elián’s story, in miraculous dolphin detail would
create a huge mess with Cuba, cause wasteful political unrest in Florida,
and potentially, billions of dollars in property damage.
Clintstone finessed: Why should we go through a political hurricane over
this one Cuban refugee? Clintstone was clear: For gnashional security
purposes, Elián was being repatriated back to Cuba, to Fidel.
In spite of the local coverage, Elián’s true story, in network
depth, was editorially suppressed. Every step, from the tops of all the
news editors’ corporate ladders down, all the mystical details about
Elián’s survival at sea with the dolphins, and their vision together of the
Mendel super Mother, above the waves, was kept under wraps.
Clintstone, calmly from above the Cuban American storm did
what he felt he had to do. He exercised every protocol available for
manipulating medja, to insure his own place at the trough. Elián’s true
story played only behind the veils, in transit, affecting nothing. Castro’s
threatened release of his, President Clintstone’s own videy-yo-yo piggy
trip pull x remained just that – a pork fried threat.
King Solomon charges: “All those right wing conspirators
weren’t so far off the mark. Our Billy acted like the lying pond scum dirt
bag he’s been most of his life. Clintstone should have been fully exposed
while he was holding down our highest office. Get me a bacon, lettuce,
and tomato triple-decker on toast. It’s time for lunch.”
And so, dear peer-ships, for that final juiciness as to “what Fidel
had” on Billy Clintstone that drove the Elián Gonzalez case and
skewered our pallah tics, having detailed all of the Elián facts, to obtain
King Solomon’s wisdom, we need change course, and revisit Little
Rock, Arkansas, in 1989. Oh! Your throat is dry, you're hungry for the
details and furthermore, it’s time for brunching.
Speaking of brunch in, or luncheon, whichever you prefer, in or
out, it was noted years ago, that for a period of months, a couple three
times a week, Clintstone ignored his daily Governor’s schedule and high
53
tailed it over to Charlie’s downtown Chye-knee restaurant for a noontime
special.
When Clintstone went on these lunchtime forays three blocks
down the street, was the governor driven by a state trooper, or followed
while he strolled? Clintstone didn’t stroll. Quickly changed into his
jogging duds, Billy dashed from the State House without notice, on his
way out the door, advising his trusted secretary, Betty Curie, to hold all
his calls.
He jogged down the street, by himself, slipping the alleyway
gate into Charlie Lin Trie’s kitchen, panting wet in summer sweat. What
was Billy’s luncheon modus? What was our Billy Clintstone’s back door
operandi?
Revisit photographs that feature restaurateur Charlie Yah Lin
Trie. Does this chef appear he’d be comfortable over a stir fry wok, or
doling out Chinese egg drop soup, Charlie Yah Lin Trie, Chinese cook,
who migrated to America and snookered super fortune cookie? Hedge
those bets on Charlie.
And when Billy Clintstone dashed over to Charlie’s place for
some noon time Chinese dishes, did he forage the chow mien buffet line,
gobbling lunch, and gabbing away middle day with Charlie’s regular
noon time choppers, or was our next President’s hangout spot in Charlie
Trie’s secluded banquet room, the doorway in from Charlie’s kitchen?
And was Clintstone’s made-to-order spread at one particular around-thecorner secluded booth each time, a special booth designed with the wily
Arkansas governor, unbridled in mind?
Yes.
And when our Clintstone flopped at his own very special table,
in Charlie’s semi-private banquet room, ‘Closed” to the public, his
booth, out of sight, around the corner from the doorway in, was Charlie
the governor’s server, or was Yah Lin Trie minding his cash out register?
Was Clintstone’s server famous Guangdong waitress, Shrimp Throat
Kim Soo, brought special from Macau to Little Rock, expressly for Bill?
And what else did Shrimp Throat Kim serve our soon-to-be cookie
fortunate President, besides her succulent lunches?
They call it a “nooner.”
Was Charlie’s banquet room rigged in advance for the
Governor’s appearance, with hidden video cam recorders focused on that
one special booth where Clintstone pegged his nooners, sew the
surreptitiously created video tapes do clearly show it is our Billy
Clintstone for sure beyond any shadow, dew wop a dew, and you can
read Charlie’s menu askew on the table?
54
Yes it was. Yes they do.
Does this eggs plain why James Riady’s lowly gardener was sent
to our White House for a soft money campaign coffee, there to say softly
to Clintstone, as Billy Clintstone marched around the room heartily
shaking hands with all his millionaire Clintstone investors, “The Riadys
sent me?”
Can the innocent Riady gardener’s crypt tickle message be
translated thus: the transferring of Loral’s missile tech to the Chinese
military has to take place sooner, rather than later, or else the whole wide
world, bling bling, is going to see your “nooner?”
Yes it can. Yes it does.
Do those scrumptious tapes of Shrimp Throat Kim serving Billy
her breath away lunches explain how democrat party fund raiser John
Huang was suddenly so easily flipped, with top security clearance, from
Democrat Party headquarters to the Commerce Dept., his primary
purpose there, to facilitate the speedy missile tech transfer from State to
Commerce, sew Loral’s key missile aiming technology could then cross
the sea and land in the military hands of the shiny Cheyenne-easy?
Yes they do.
Do the underhandedly created Kim Soo tapes eggs plain why the
Loral Group, whose missile technology was always for sale, dipped giant
chunks of soft money, yearly to the democrats, but the year of their
missile tech transfer Loral cut their demo party trib way back? Yes. The
tech sale, they were told, was going to go regardless, sew the Loral
group’s quid pro Chinese party quo was knot but for appearances, to
muddy the trail? Yes again, says our Onlion Shem.
It was during the Monica megillah that former congressman
Cox’s Report, documenting the fishy Chinese military stuff during
Clintstone’s administration was completed, but for gnashional security’s
sake, the fruits of his committee’s investigation were kept under wraps
far too many months, with some parts knot slated to crack dawn until the
next century, long after Clintstone is departed.
Dear Peers! What is it that we, the American people are
prohibited from seeing? Do our spineless self-serving Members of
Congress fear the populace united would slip together as a body into
nonpartisan outrage, and move to remove each and every Member of the
Congress for their oblivious malfeasance in our public offices?
The Cox Report’s congressional staffers talked amongst
themselves: “The evidence we collected is air tight. Everything here
smells like unadulterated treason, but what could be the reason? Where is
there a motive?” The staffers weren’t up to sniffing Clintstone’s modus
55
operandi. The staff was not apprised of all the juicy lunches served by
waitress non-witness Shrimp Throat Kim Soo, who was shipped back to
Macau and, during the trip, to protect our witless Clintstone, snuffed in
the Pacific.
Charlie Yah Lin Trie told Clintstone, after Clintstone won the
presidency but was still, officially Governor, hanging out in Little Rock,
expressly with the purpose in mind to slip in a serious palaver with
Charlie Trie, “Mr. President. You remember waitress, (Shrimp Throat)
Kim, from Macau? She got picture. I hear video picture. I knew nothing
but I can go back to Macau and find her.”
Does Shrimp Throat Kim explain how overnight, a chintzy stir
fry restaurateur from downtown Little Rock morphed into a major
democratic political party fund raiser, with more visits to the White
House than Monica Lewinsky, plus photo-ops galore with Clintstone sew
Charlie Trie could promote himself to all the Macau gangsters as a true
entrepreneur with most high White House connections? Yes.
King Solomon muses:
Shrimp Throat Kim was the reason behind Billy Clintstone’s
reluctance to give up his Arkansas Governorship, to relocate in
Washington, D.C. for his transition, bedding down at the historical Blair
House, with a glorious pre-presidential shebang of svelte beltway
dinners, all the beltway peeps raptly wined up to meet them.
Bill needed a Charlie chat before the blare, to figure out what
happened to Kim Soo, what he could do, where and who. When
Clintstone stated they had to stay in Little Rock, to carefully oversee
packing bags and books, it was not Billy’s first mis-troof, rather it was
the first mis-troof both Bill and Hill thought they got away with.
Of course the as yet to be exposed video tapes explain all of
Clintstones’ mini-treasons, blackmails, bribery, high crimes and missile
tech state secret Ms demean hers that every buddy, regardless of pallah
tic party, knows inside their bones are Billy Clintstone’s true legacy:
publicio thong-a-dong corruptus.
The Riady Lippo group owned the Clintstone tapes. They cost
the Riadys thousands of dollars to create, and after the missile tech was
transferred to China’s military that was the end of it. Years before, they’d
surreptitiously mastered tapes of Clintstone, jamming Kimmie down her
throat, because the tapes were make-able. To outright quote MonicaMan, nay paraphrase, why he, the Clintstone, dude what he did, the
Riadys ‘did it because they could.’
The Riadys couldn’t and wouldn’t sell the Clintstone tapes to
their good friends, the Cheyenne-easy. The Chinese, unaware of any sex-
56
pre-presidential tapes in the first place, instructed the Riadys, in no
uncertain terms, to deliver the missile technology transfer for their
military, or else. Or else what?
The Chinese knew the Riadys were Clintstone supporters. It was
well known the Riady group fronted Clintstone’s political campaign a
fast, illegal million-dollar ‘loan’ when the self described comeback kid
came out of New Hampshire in 2nd place, their ‘loan’ enabling
Clintstone with enough raw campaign ducats to knock off New
Hampshire’s adopted favorite son, Paul Tsongas, in the Florida primary
that was, in 1992, fast coming next.
The Cheyenne-easy told the Riadys to use their influence with
Clintstone on behalf of the Chinese military, or jeopardize their own
extensive operations in China. That’s ‘else what.’ Between the Riady
Lippo group and the Chinese generals, there wasn’t any love loss. It was
just business.
That costly batch of video tapes, featuring Billy Clintstone,
breeches breached, getting a nooner by waitress Shrimp Throat Kim,
doing what she did, her best, served their purpose, and that was that, but
with more than just, “a painted paradise at the end of it” when Elián
Gonzalez practically washed up on the beach in Florida, world wide
instantly famous, a truly miraculous survivor.
The Riadys looked at Fidel, who couldn’t do anything beyond
standing by and watching from across the Straits; the soul of Shrimp
Throat Kim cried out for retribution, and boing! The Riadys saw fabled
potential in their trip x tapes. An ‘eyes-only’ screening was arranged for
Castro. Fidel bought his copy with cash on the spot, a suitcase full of
street corner fifties. Sew Clintstone’s buds, James and Mochtar Riady,
recouped their countless ducats spent on Shrimp Throat Kim and the
missile tech, and then some, selling their black malleable yo-yo Shrimp
Throat video to Fidel.
That is why silence from Cuba for so many months after Elián
was rescued at sea. After Fidel bought the Clintstone tapes he consulted
with his closest advisors on the next move to make, amongst them,
Stalinist Russian advisors left intact from the good old days. For success,
Castro needed to construct a careful cakewalk across the Straits, with the
highest of tidings possible, to Clintstone aide, Bruce Lindsey, and
through him, a lasso into Clintstone’s Oval Office, thus, Greg Craig,
Clintstone’s high priced mouth from the impeachment days, who it just
sew happens, is capable of conversing with Fidel in impeccable Cubish.
These maneuvers took their own good time to arrange. Fidel,
holding the wildest of cards, could not chance blowing his hand. At first
57
our government agencies worked with Elián’s Miami-Dade County
family, because that is our policy in cases like Elián’s, where the
custodial dispute is only a going-through-the-motions spread, to protect
the remaining family in Cuba.
When Fidel, through hired emissary, Greg Craig, made the case
to Clintstone what he, Fidel, had copies of, Clintstone realized, without
consulting a soul, he’d better heed Fidel, and commit to what Castro
wanted, or a whole lot more than his presidency was going down the
tubes. That is exactly when Attorney General Janet Reno had her “phone
call,” when our immigration agency abruptly altered the normal
mitigating course of its Cuban policy, relative to Elián.
That is why Clintstone compromised our democratic way,
manipulated the press, and dumpstered Elián’s constitutional guarantee.
Clintstone needed to keep his true legacy out of the public eye; those hot
lap videos of Charlie’s climactric waitress, Shrimp Throat Kim, doing
her thing. His thing. Why Greg Craig, attorney for Bill and Fidel backed
Barky Obama’s campaign instead of Hill’s.
Fascist is the “F” word in American ‘pallah tics.’ The fash rule
makers believe they are entitled to their life above the rest of us. Fascists
believe in autocratic government. They are rigid and secretive.
Washington’s control freaks believe it is theirs from above to decide the
end results sought, sew they recast our well settled rules and regulations,
subvert our laws, and mask events to fit their mold. Why bother to tell
the truth, the chips where they may, when you can promote a whole
bunch of gross lies, and stamp your self-supportive seek writ pay purrz:
CLASSIFIED.
The grave milestone, 2000 kids, ghosted in Iraq, brought on a
flurry of finger pointings, charges, and counter charges in Washington.
Bush, by his overnight polls is thwacked! The people’s judgment; that
Bush lies through his teeth will not dissipate. Bush’s pre-war intelligence
was ‘cherry picked’ for pub lick consumption, as was his father’s years
ago, “Kuwaiting for the Dough,” sew Bush’s and Cheney’s cronies are
hardly faulted for anything; the Cheney-Halliburton crowd, no-bid
enriched, but knot their children the wampum of mass destruction,
collateral, poisoned by war.
Oh! We will show these Iraqis shock and awe, that Saddam is
straw, and knock the tyrant down before he poisons our whole east coast,
or sends us an anthrax get well card, fluttered inside a mushroom cloud.
58
Anyone for peace is a no bid appeaser who should be summarily
dismissed, investigated by Bush intelligence creeps. Such was the Rove
and Cheney pitch, theirs, our constitution’s ditch.
Yes, fascist is the way cup word in America’s ‘pallah tics.’ You
need an anonymous White House leakster to let slip a few of those
perennial ‘Rove to Bush’ memos, showing us, beyond NSA’s domestic
sweeps, the fascistic Lee Atwater approach, reborn again, with more than
4,155 of our own, by the time you finish reading, those many more and
counting, blind sided on the Baghdad roadside, mere kids slam dunked
into the Iraqi sludge. The more our sons and daughters are killed, or
maimed for life in Iraq, the more our liberties are tamped and trampled
here in America, a trubble ling correlation.
The local ad minis traitor’s writ Clintstone’s bureaucrats
obtained was only a covering chit, a fascist excuse for busting down
Lazaro González’ doors and snatching the miracle kid. But the fascist
way does not distinguish betwixt political parties. Republican Members
of Congress went to change their in-house rules, to insure their majority
leader, Tom DeLay, ‘The Hammer,’ did not get whacked out of The
People’s House for unlawful misappropriations, what DeLay imagined
his private domain, the flow of his party’s lobbyist dollars, his Flomax
whip over Members, his DeLay money-flow lever for repub Members to
tow the Tom DeLay party line.
A dispute was faked between the two political parties, for the
express purposes of suspending the ethics committee from meeting.
Members of Congress, off the record, said it could be months, maybe a
year, before the House ethics panel would even decide to start
investigating the lobbying, travel, and money laundering activities of
House Majority Leader Tom DeLay.
The “F” word springs. Hark! Back home in Texas, Delay is
indicted for money laundering. The future King of Lobbyists was forced
into stepping down, with his position cooked, his office done, and all his
snookered party members, off the hook un-crooked.
Harken again peer-ships! Tom DeLay’s cohort, connected
lobbyist, Jack Abramoff, branded crooked, copped a plea, admitting tax
evasion, fraud and conspiracy. Who can say how many Members of
Congress could eventually be throne out because of Abramoff talking
quick, their next round of exclusive chain link golfies, at Jack
Abramoff’s new ‘big house,’ the fed a rill chain link country club.
“Con griss was fay did
To be cum a con . . .”
59
King Solomon muses:
Jack Abramoff was given an additional four more years for his
conduct as a Washington lobbyist, scamming the Indian Tribes, peddling
influence for millions of their Tribal dollars, then greasing the sticky
palms of every bureaucratic congressperson in sight.
Poor Jack Abramoff, jailed and penniless. Time is all he has.
Poet Prophet as president guarantees an Executive Order on behalf of
Jack-so-Slick: The book deal. “What Did I Do and Who Did I Do It
With,” a Washington tale that includes a meeting or two, or three with
George W. Bush. According to Executive Order, the first two millions in
royalties will be Jack’s to keep, the balance going back to the Indian
Nations, the rest of the lucre to his lawyers for their fees.
“Lobby is short
Fir lob stir
Pic im up by is bac
Or the claw ov shell
Will scrape bite
Pin chan bleed you
The old shell gaim
By this plane coss
6ix hun dred thou
Enz up cos ting
Two bill yin Anne
All ways comes late
The lay tess wun
Be the sea five
Ay. Hold out yer han
Itz all Lyn the lingo
C5A good af tur
Noon Mis tur Sen a tur
My naim is General
E lec tric die nam ics”
C. 1971
In the middle of Elián Gonzalez’ saga, as reported in, The New
York Slimes, on August 7, 2000, in a piece about Gore’s presidential
campaign, we were told Al Gore, “broke with the White House to
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maintain that Elián Gonzalez should be given permanent residence
status, a move seen as such a craven appeal for the Cuban American
votes that it reinforced Mr. Bush’s [K. Rove] contention that vice
President Gore would say anything for political advantage.”
Prince Albert of Gore, a family man, watched Elián Gonzalez on
TV, and discussed Elián’s fate with his own family. Al Gore concluded
Elián was entitled to live in America with his Cuban American relatives.
Al and Tipper felt in their hearts, as parents, based on what they saw on
television, that Elián’s cousin Marisleysis was a great on-going mom for
the world famous Cuban refugee.
Sew from whence did all those nasty faxes go to the cable news
talkies, minutes after Gore’s pro Elián statement hit the wires, bashing
poor Gore for pandering. Who coughed up the cash for the anonymous
faxing blast from a copy joint off the beaten path? Was it republican
operatives who faxed the talking points focused on Al Gore’s pandering
after the Cuban vote in Miami? Why would they?
This supposed pander flap by Gore had a bad taste when it took
place, and fails, a mish-mash in retrospect, unless you factor in tasty
waitress, Shrimp Throat Kim, for breakfast!
Why would republicans pound Gore with anti Gore faxing points
suggesting Gore’s desire to save Elián Gonzalez from a communist life
in Cuba was just a cheap pandering for votes, when most Republican
Party office holders across the board favored Elián’s staying in America?
Nor was saving Elián a campaign issue in Florida, or, for that matter, an
issue anywhere else in America.
Ironic, saving Elián from commie life back in Cuba, after the
primaries, as a general election policy plank, in spite of all those, “send
Elián home to his father” polls, was great republican politics, solidly
whacking the anti-immigrant, Pat Buchanan!
Sew how come all those Republican players allowed Elián’s
deportation to slip through their self-serving unctuous campaign fingers,
when most people believed, contrary to the polls, that Elián should have
been left alone to grow up in the U.S.A?
Peer-ships: Merely suggesting Elián should stay in U.S.A. would
easily have translated into a million political dollars from the Cubish of
Miami-Dade County. What bunko line were all your congressional
representatives quietly told that was from the populace at large,
withheld?
Who was actually behind all those Elián-belongs-back–in-Cuba
polls, whilst people everywhere sadly felt the kid was getting ripped off?
Who devised the questions? Were any unwed mothers polled? The
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commonest of folk believe that once you’re in America you’re here.
Elián could stay as long as he wouldn’t be on welfare. The pollsters
knew it, the republicans, too.
With an Act of Congress, the patriotic republican party could
have seized the hot button issue of Elián’s freedom, along with the whole
immigration issue, exposing the fascistic, anti-Elián attitude of the
democrat’s minority caucus for exactly what it was, prejudiced, setting
the stage for a slew of fresh-faced black republicans to run against that
tired old confederate circle of trough-fed black democrat politishinz, just
in the nick of time for the election. But they didn’t.
Had Al Gore only stuck to his guns, and fought for Elián’s
liberty! Al could have called a press conference, led the charge at the
gavel in the Senate, and shown bipartisan leadership. Had Al Gore done
only that much he could have said, “Today I am my own man. Down
with the polls. I, Gore, say God speed full ahead for Elián Gonzalez’
freedom.” God own le nose why Albert of Gore did knot!
Had Al taken that route, Fidel would have played his part, and
Billy would have been surely evicted from the White House. Al Gore
would have been campaigning for President from the Oval Office. He’d
have won, too! How might Gore have responded to that pre 9-11
National Security report about Osama bin Laden’s plan to attack us with
commercial jets in our own country? George W. Bush spent that day
jetting about in his pickup truck, out chopping brush; then, after a nap,
George did some laps around his Crawford pool on his mountain bike.
King Solomon muses:
That’s the way God planned it.
Clintstone publicly claimed all along he wasn’t involved in the
Elián Gonzalez affair; that he’d been keeping out of it. The two
politishinz could have sliced the bureaucracies beneath them with a
single telephone call, an Executive Order, and saved the immigrant
survivor from a Stalinist life in Cuba. But Bill and Al weren’t personally
together with each other, sew what they did was naught.
But what superb strategy! The pardon pen that forgave Marc
Rich could have pardoned Elián Gonzalez, he, clearly guilty of believing
in his mom. Gore’s election would have been Al’s to blow before the
Demo’s convention, instead of the loser it turned into, neck and neck
down to the wire. Al campaigned that he, Gore, would fight for
everyone’s right to government largesse. Except his own.
Gore could have stolen Florida for the demo party right from
under Governor Jeb Bush’s nose. Albert’s untested coattails could have
reached ‘down, Derry down,’ even to demos in the race for county
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offices! And absent Clintstone’s support, the saving grace of Elián
Gonzalez’ situation gave Albert of Gore a genuinely unscripted chance to
make every magazine cover over his political parting of the waste from
Bill, divorcing both Clintstones far in advance of the demo’s convention,
exactly what Gore needed to do, in order to win, distinguishing his own
leadership in ways Hubert Humphrey never had under Lyndon Johnson.
Gore, the loyal soldier squandered a grand opportunity for
showing intestinal fortitude, a prerequisite element of being a leader. As
long as Gore’s focus grouped plan was to maintain that he, Gore was his
own man, why did Gore wait so long to make that claim?
Hard and fast, as soon as Al began defending Elián, all the medja
talking heads began to push, “Gore is pandering.” Within minutes after
Al made his pro Elián statement, “Gore is pandering” was the multiblabberific main buzz line on every cable channel.
The press didn't bother to stalk the source of the “pandering
talking points,” which is where the reel story lay. Noose paper editors
weren’t pushing the idea Elián deserved to live in America, sew Gore
was whimped into slacking off, unwittingly to save his sexpot roper boss.
Had Gore held firm to his view that Elián should remain in
America, Al would have handily won Florida, and other close states, too.
People would have concluded that Gore could be our leader. What stale
pile did Bill feed Al that made the immigration agency’s Elián rule
appear sew irrevocable? With a stroke of their pens, Clintstone and Gore
could have altered the agency’s fascist Elián stitch and milked the Elián
case for the up and coming election, just as Clintstone milked the truck
bomb in Oklahoma City, a couple elections before. Working to keep
Elián free would have locked up the state of Florida for the Democrat
party!
Before his return to Cuba, Elián was touted around D.C. He was
a dinner party guest with beltway biggies and demo party strategists who
make their livings scouting the political trail. They smelt that Elián
naturalized would have played on television better than Lassie. Elián was
an electoral key. He would have starred in soft money sponsored
campaign commercials all summer long, before the conventions, talking
Spanglish, thanking America, and thanking Al Gore for his freedom.
That would have led to Elián giving a prime time mini-speech at
the democrat convention, early on, at 8:00 pm, introducing Al Gore, and
kissing Gore’s daughter Karenna, before going off to meet Hugh Hefner
for a chocolate milk at Barbra Streisand’s house.
That would certainly have led to a weekly Cubano sitcom before
the vote, featuring non-candidate no e quill time required Elián
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Gonzalez, the pilot directed by Michael J. Fox with subtitles in Spanish,
leading to a spot for Elián on the wildly popular TV show, Survivor, with
Elián eating broiled snakes for a million bucks a pop, besides a book deal
for Elián, King Solomon muses.
But the billions of dollars congress felt obligated to lay on the
pentagon for developing an as yet, unreliable missile shield against a
possible Chinese, or North Korean missile threat, whilst we were still
intertwined in an outdated, ABM cold war treaty with the Russians, that
since abrogated, does not amuse.
In advance of Clintstone’s meeting with Russia’s President
Putin, for their mini summit, Clintstone’s White House floated a trial
balloon on the idea of U.S. sharing our, as yet not quite ready for prime
time, missile shield with our former cold war adversaries, the Rooskies.
The Russians advanced the concept that our proprietary missile defense
tech was to be the only topic on their summit table.
Ah, dear peers, in all of our spy action thriller movies, the spies,
when caught, shot up and dying always claim that selling top secret
information leveled the war field game of Scooter Libby’s schemes.
They tell us the stuff they stole, in enemy hands insured a status quo.
Then the spies kick the bucket. Aren’t their last gasp spy full
justifications always along those lines?
Leveling the field is the reason for breezy treason the spies in
every spy movie give at the end to justify their traitorous activity. Set
aside all the money and privilege parceled for their discretion.
Sometimes the reason they cooperated with the enemy was to keep seek
writ, lap siz in their characters, affairs of the heart, or of a prime body
part the enemies uncovered and taped. Oh! That was it! The spies were
compromised with their private tapestry of sex fantasies, out loud. Their
personal sell out was some buddy else’s fault.
Was Clintstone’s modus operandi to always lie and cover up,
relative to his sexual transgressions? Was the keeping of all his sexual
affairs hidden, Clintstone’s operandi? Bill’s key ping seek writ his lap it
up shrimp throat Kim lip dance, par excellence, befouled our country our pallah seas - our public safety.
Knowing his “nooners” with waitress Shrimp Throat Kim, in full
motion vid are out there, in light of Clintstone’s style, would you have
expected Clintstone to have done less than exactly what he did - what
ever it took to keep - have kept his Kim Soo peccadillo covered up? Sew
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what, bringing about a missile technology transfer to the Chinese
military, sew the missile field is leveled? Sew what! Let the next
administration worry about the shiny Cheyenne-easy.
Did Vladimir Putin see the Kim Soo tapes? Vlad didn’t have to,
but more than a couple left over Russian advisors in Havana did. At least
one touched home base with their compatriot and friend, sew Vlad Putin
had by word of mouth, Kim Soo’s card to bluff.
News events are a blip. Kim Soo, the threat, was the reason
governing Clintstone’s trial balloon, before his mini-summit on sharing
our missile tech shield with the Russians, to placate that shell of a Cold
War super power, even though such a giant policy change, requiring us,
by law, to share our technology shield with the Russians could not have
taken place without abrogating the original ABM treaty with the old
Soviet Union, and then getting the new, tech-sharing package ratified by
the Senate.
Regardless of “trial” balloons the Russian diplomats forced
Clintstone’s people into, in advance, one could see from the file film of
the Presidents, by their body language, that Putin, a black belt in judo,
held the higher moral ground. One could sense, that with Billy
Clintstone, Vladimir Putin had the stronger hand.
Days before our visiting imperial President departed the Russian
mini-summit, President Putin took off to the Vatican to visit our since
Heavenly departed Pope, John Paul II. But Clintstone’s summit meeting
with Putin was an official diplomatic mission. The Russian President’s
leave of his mother Russia, before President Clintstone’s summit
departure was a diplomatic insult. Ah, dear peer-ships, we have a dusty
noose paper alert that interrupts our take.
On September 11, 2000, the brilliant William Safire published,
“Giving Putin a Veto,” on The New York Slimes op-ed, which fits right
in with word hors d’oeuvre master King Solomon:
Safire began his piece with a salvo: “Vladimir Putin, playing the
weakest of hands, stopped the U.S. from beginning to build a defense
against missiles from rogue nations and terrorists.” “President Clinton
and Al Gore, holding all the high cards, folded and let the Russian
obstruct a vital element of American defense of our major cities.”
The crusty wordsmith continues:
“That’s the plain meaning of the Clinton-Gore decision to
overrule Defense Secretary Bill Cohen, who leaned toward making it
possible to deploy a limited defense as soon as it is ready. The urgency is
to have a shield in place before North Korea and Iraq build the means to
blackmail us with too-credible threats of mass destruction.”
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King Solomon muses:
We capture Iraq, trap Saddam, and discover the Big Salami
didn’t have any Weapons of Mass Destruction. Relative to the standard
implements of war, Saddam, it turns out was a paper tiger. Iraq as intergnashional neighborhood threat was a crock.
Onlion S. Shem interjects: the North Koreans are not an
international threat either, except to the Jap-Sin-Easy, the Rooskies, and
by the prevailing wind, all of Indonesia, Australia, South Korea, and the
shiny Cheyenne-easy.
But in 2000 Iraq appeared threatening. We imagined Saddam
getting his annual med-a-kill check up and finding out his prostate was
kaput. We imagined Saddam, facing life-ending meds, might’ve sought
ready-to-go, turnkey Weapons of Mass Destruct-dough, or nukes from
Ukraine, smuggled in for a final finale, Skudammy’s last blast, or
anthrax, bulked out in the US mail, enveloped 1st class.
I saw Bush’s doggy wag, his confusing State of the Nation war
thoughts we were fed. Bush wanted to get the tyrant Saddam, that
mellowing Lion of the Tigris, out, except knocking off Saddam wasn’t
worth losing even one of our kids, or Bush’s kids, sew far more than
4,155 dead and counting. But grand, Saddam got locked and tried, he
could've been the lead for a firing squad, better, at the Kurd’s behest,
hung by his scrotum, and then beheaded, or last, yet best, shoed to death!
Shuwop bop a loobah, Saddam bang boom!
How long must we wait for peace! Our Jacklegs, jumping up,
could be setting up to brighten the path for changing the course of your
human story on our good ship mother urf, delivering the whole earth to a
better place. But don’t go hold your breath, waiting for World Peace,
because your President’s war mother, Bar-Donna Bush Corleone,
despises the Jacklegs, our Poet Prophet. Dear peers, more to be sure, is
coming here. The absolute vileness of Bar-Donna’s Corleone spirit,
protecting her own, is beyond any shadow, clear.
Onlion S. Shem is but the resident culprit who rubbed out
Safire’s next thought as it was, according to Onlion, the Unruly S. Shem
un-penned, more conjectural over-bloat – according to Shem, too
blabberific to let stand with King Solomon’s musing. But Safire’s missile
kvetch had a great hook:
“So, with Al Gore’s full approval, he (Clintstone) decided not to
decide — to kick that can into the future, couching his indecision as “an
opportunity for President Putin and the next American President to reach
a common position.” ” Safire’s next, according to Shem, was again, a bit
66
too slobby, too embarrassing for here. The New York Slimes has an
archive. Go take a look.
Judge Mr. Safire’s prose for yourselves. In fairness to Mr. Bill,
we end our foray into his dated Essay with a polished, though brittle, outof-date, line of Safire’s very straight up Cold War sense:
“But then Bill Clinton went a concession too far. To
accommodate Russia and placate China, Clinton is putting off
construction of a radar facility that will be needed by the time our antimissile system is ready. That's not “not deciding,” on the contrary, it is a
decision to delay that could well put American lives in danger for a
year.”
Onlion S. Shem contacted Safire’s office, and alerted Safire to
“King Solomon.” Safire’s next op-ed in The Slimes, Safire’s own thin
skin coming through, lifted Poet Prophet’s opener: “I believed in the
Supreme Coats, those Supreme Do-Whoppers,” when Safire, in his essay
called our high court jurists, “The Supremes.”
The Wall Street Gurgle’s esteemed Peggy Noonan repeated
Safire’s disingenuous plagiary her first opportunity, that very night, on
Chris Matthews’ Hardball show. In the words of William Bendix, the
O’Reilly from TV, decades ago, “There oughta be a law.”
Prudence demands we ditch the testy Safire and return to King
Solomon. Safire is The Slimes most famous old guard pen; the mellow
house devil’s lapse into genuine plagiary is closer to the slops of Jayson
Blair than King Solomon. Safire’s ladle bill is long overdue sew cut to
the beef: Julia Roberts, talking to co-star Denzel Washington in their
suspense filled thriller, “The Pelican Brief,” referred to the jurists on our
highest court as, “Supremes.” Bill Safire has his plagiary route, an
obvious way out - he saw the movie.
How do we know for certain everything here and about is whelp,
hark, dear peers, the gaud awful troof, blowing off the roof?
President Clintstone told us sew himself. That master of parse,
definer of what ‘is, is,’ gave up the goods long before Elián landed.
Shortly after winning his reelection and retaking our oath of office,
Clintstone began to talk, nearly every day to his staff, and through them
to us, about his legacy!
A “legacy,” Webster tells, is a gift, a bequest by will, in this case
our inheritance of: Clintstonia. But Clintstone wasn’t on his deathbed,
political or otherwise; knot our Billy locked inside a Terry Schiavo like
daze, waiting to ride out the cosmic divide. Yet at the start of
Clintstone’s 2nd term, The Slimes esteemed Schmaltzy M. Dowd
reported our Clintstone seemed, “disjointed, at loose ends, removed in
67
spirit from his duties, and only interested in talking about his game of
golf.”
All that conjecture about Bill serving as Ambassador to the U.N.
after graduating from President, was Clintstone-canceled at the start of
his 2nd term. Yet Clintstone at the United Nations might have been
chosen as Secretary General, leading to nominations from every U.N.
quarter for a Nobel Prize. What a great place the United Nations
could’ve been for him. Clintstone Heaven: Clintstone pizza party
panoplies, multiples of multilingual fat hair chicks ascending.
Except between one presidential limousine ride around the White
House block, James and Mochtar Riadys read our Bill the Riot Act,
about Shrimp Throat Kim and Loral’s missile tech, which in Clintstone’s
own mind canceled his political future, thus Bill’s near compulsive,
continuous lame duck legacy talk, though he had nearly four years yet to
serve, our self-imagined top dog President.
The concept of our Bill Clintstone, a candidate for the Senate
representing Arkansas, his starter home state, notwithstanding the loss of
his license plate for practicing law, rumbling down his own self-roasted,
post presidential pike, also went down the same dead end cul de political
sac into the same dust heap.
The man whose life has been devoted to politics wants to stay in
public service, but Billy cannot chance another public office. All we
heard, every other day, from the start of his 2nd term, was “legacy
legacy,” as though, at the end of his term, Clintstone’s public career was
going to be over dead and buried, legs and all of the above to see.
But how could that be, when Clintstone, before Bush, was the
greatest political fundraiser in our history. He packed the house for
dinner regardless how much the ticket for a plate full of chickens.
At his last nominating convention while President, Clintstone self aggrandized, “Whenever you think about me, (not ‘ov’ me, as in love
me, rather about me, as in uh bout me), put people first.”
Parse: Ignore my transgressions but remember my programs.
What programs? Hillary Med-Care was scary, a potential gobble of every
available bureaucratic horse pistol hospital dollar. Billy’s seek writ
innermost reason for his whole “public servant” career was to rope the
likeliest fat hair chick seize stationed beneath him. The so-called master
of pallah sea plans was most always a sham. He is hardly admired, a
man amongst men; though he is knot thought of as a nasty guy, unless
the subject, in private is Bill about Barky Obama.
Al Gore blew more than his presidential future when he backed
off fighting for Elián. The kid, on sight, was an unmistakable nail in
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Castro’s Cuban coffin. Elián’s shining face was a beacon for every
potential Cuban kid immigrant! Elián, in America, would have collapsed
the shaky Cuban e con oh me.
Legacy. Oh legacy! Cya lay dur, say g’bye Alpha gay dur.
Gore’s political campaign death, with Billy’s, was right around the
Clintstone corner coming on fast at the 18th hole before you even had a
chance to cast a campaign glance at that pair of televised bra strapped
breasts on the rope line trail. What was the seek writ service doing when
the rope-line babe lifted her top, putting on display her coveted rack at a
campaign handshake stop.
Clintstone wouldn’t depart the poli-stage to give his legacy
replacement an even chance, sew with Billy’s Monica scent fuming,
Gore was slated to lose the race by a nose, a cheesy deal for Al.
Ironical, Al Gore targeted the states that he needed to win in the
Electoral College, instead of the populace at large, and that’s where he
lost the contest – in the Electoral College, though he held the majority of
votes, nationwide. Had Gore fought for Elián’s rights, he would have
decidedly won in the state of Florida. Miami-Dade County, Elián’s
Promised Land, cost Prince Albert the Oval Office.
The best presidential ticket in 2000 was Gore and Clintstone.
The demos would have had a landslide nationwide running their
incumbents reversed! Bill and Al won their first time out. They were
handily reelected. They chalked up a score of mini-programs on which
they could run again. The times looked good. Our e con oh me was
growing. But Bill couldn’t run what with Shrimp Throat Kim haunting
and Hillary wouldn’t stand for V.P. because she could knot stand the
thought of Tipper Gore first lady.
Then, when it appeared that George W. Bush was stealing the
election right from under his nose, Al challenged the count in Florida.
When Gore did that, the ensuing electoral crisis halted most big-ticket
spenders in their tracks. New car sales slipped to a stand still. People
tuned into the electoral crisis, on cable television all day long, and didn’t
care to go and spend one thin dime until the chads were counted. The
economy rippled, Internet stocks began to sweat, and the stock market
bubble burst. With all the corporate scandals, Wall Street took a chumpdump. Life savings were pruned, flushed down the toilet! They called it
an ‘unforeseen market adjustment.’
Clintstone haters would not have voted Albert of Bore regardless
whom Al chose for a running mate. But America would have given Bore
/ Clintstone the chance. Then, with Bill and Al, nay Al and Bill,
69
ensconced in office, we could have all hung out at the gate, waiting for
Judicial Watch to control their authority and indict the whole bunch.
Gore / Clintstone would have benched Bush / Cheney. But Billy
Clintstone won’t be standing for another political office, ever, because he
knows he cannot gamble on another public office. At any time, someone
could be knocking on his or Hillary’s door, seeking some underhanded
political favor, for openers, the poseur of Shrimp Throat Kimmy’s xxx,
their lever, thus Greg Craig for Barky.
Billy almost took off for Great Britain to teach impeachment law
at Oxford, such a panic, the very thought of Shrimp Throat Kim,
splattering public domains, making waves across the Atlantic.
The only requirement for an international splatter, for Kim Soo’s
tapes to have shhh hit the poli-fan was time in the slammer for James
Riady, who was indicted for campaign finance abuse. Riady in jail whilst
Clintstone went free wasn’t going to play. “I’m going down – you’re
going with me,” unless you Libby.
James Riady was cut loose from the government’s tentacled
redress with a five million dollar fine, in lieu of slammer time, his toll,
ironical, almost to the nickel what Fidel paid Riadi for the tapes of Kim
Soo and Bill. Else Clintstone would have been well, off to England,
before James Riady was tried for campaign finance abuse.
King Solomon muses:
Billy Clintstone’s Shrimp Throat saga won’t be over until it’s
over, which won’t be until our Billy kicks the politishinz’ bucket, bound
for nether, removed from his own picture.
Sew it’s England for sure, when the videos of Shrimp Throat
with Bill pop, spout about and blow off the roof, what with Hillary’s
presidential campaign bottomed out, and old Murphy’s Law in play,
anything can happen tape at 11 P.M., yodel lay in the hay.
But regardless the radioactivity from those televised details of
Shrimp Throat Kimmie’s leg roll specials, or the Cox Report, unsealed,
the English are duty bound to give ex-President Clintstone a forte night’s
notice to get out of town, with a free Chunnel pass to France. And that’s
why, down the unobstructed Shrimp Throat Kim Soo road, Sage Onlion
believes, one of these days, sooner rather than later, because of Kim
Soo’s nooners, our Clintstone could be off to merry England, then to
France, the guest of one Marc Rich, knot to be coming home until his
grassy caisson date with Arlington.
Our Billy Clintstone could supersede Richard Nixon; going
down in world history, the most tragic political fig of the 21st century.
He, who betrayed our nation, to save his imagined legacy, is a loser, his
70
personal reality cun fused for sure. Soon enough, much to grinning Bill’s
chagrin, Kim Soo’s throaty play, from soup to nuts, could come au jus,
splashing into view. This was a virtual guarantee had James Riady been
given some slammer time for violating our campaign finance laws.
Billy Clintstone could actually become our first ex-patriot exPresident, unwelcome in his own country! For that scenario to manifest,
the only requirement is Kim Soo’s tapes to decidedly leech into public
view, tied in with the Loral Group’s sale of their missile aiming tech to
the wily Cheyenne-easy.
Golly, Billy’s relationship to the good old U.S. of A. would
supersede Roman Polansky’s, that film award winning child rapier, and
Marc Rich’s, too, the infamous fugitive financier, ex Libby client Billy
pardoned for a bucket full of building fund ducats, in the throes of his
final everlastingly official, last presidential minute.
Yet King Solomon’s indictment of the slothful Clintstone is but
really an indictment of the whole 4th Estate, for closing their eyes to the
issues behind, knowingly allowing falsehoods to unfold, and covering
up, as that is Billy Clintstone’s presidential legacy: complete publicio
corruptus all of us, you included.
When Elián Gonzalez’s Miami family gave the press their
homemade video of Elián, on his great-uncle Lazaro’s bed, talking
through the unblinking camera’s eye to his “papa,” Billy Clintstone’s
talking heads went berserk. They screamed that Elián had been
“programmed” and that Elián’s Miami family’s making that tape of Elián
talking to his papa was “child abuse.”
King Solomon muses:
Hark! Peer-ships! Compare CBS’s October 2, 2005 60 Minutes
up-date glossing of Elián, back in Cuba, to Elián’s Miami family
recording of Elián, sitting on his great-uncle Lazaro’s bed, talking
through the unblinking home camera eye to his Papa. Judge for
yourselves the clear diff rinse between spontaneous and preprogrammed. CBS could have done that, but CBS didn’t intend on
uncovering the true Elián story.
Is it any wonder CBS News nestled down to the bottom of
broadcast news? Your ability to tell your own vision – television – is
God given, a blessing that comes from God. “Don’t lie onna screen.”
“Your mind is a chalice.” “The House of God is in your chest.”
Coincidentally, that very same bunch of squawking heads who
screamed that Elián was “programmed,” silent today, swore every day,
up and down the pocky road to Clintstone’s impeachment that
Clintstone’s under oath lying, his obstruction of justice wasn’t
71
impeachable because his lies involved extramarital activities which
anyone engaged in always lies about anyway and therefore Clintstone's
transgressions, reprehensibly offensive as they were, did knot rise to the
level of impeachment, though cream always rises.
King Solomon muses:
Sew how much diff rinse is there between Billy Clintstone and
George W. Bush? Upping his dad, “Little Bush” wanted to stick Saddam,
for sure an extra-marital fornicate unparalleled to none. In December of
2005, talking to news anchor Brian Williams, absent a forehead flinch,
President Bush thought 30,000 Iraqis had been killed since his flight suit
photo-op, his haunting “Mission Accomplished” speech on our aircraft
carrier, the navy flat top set to the wind for Bush’s back drop.
George lied to us about Saddam’s mass weapons, sticking
thousands of our kids into the ground, grounding out Saddam, the lute
playing tyrant, he, growing old as George’s dad, mellowing out on oil for
food. Upon our own 4,155 kids, dead patriots and counting, and, when
this was written down, thousands more innocent Iraqis, also gruesomely
killed, the grueling scene for his upstaging, President Bush did upstage
his dad.
We lost, are losing all of those kids, our treasures, the Iraqi
mothers’ treasures, kids, and keep losing more, their lives into the dust,
yet the underlying cause for getting us into this unjust war was, ‘just a
family affair,’ “Little Bush,” wun-upping his wimpy papa.
All that annihilation, marching in, and all the ongoing death
began, didn’t we know it from the start, as a family affair, King George’s
personal pay back to Saddam Hussein for taking a pot shot at his dad, in
mom Bar-Donna’s view, redemption for her alcoholic son made
President, the treasure of our patriotic youth risked to redeem his father’s
legacy. Anyone this war has touched prays for a pox on all the
politishinz’ houses! We support our presidency, knot this President.
King Solomon muses:
World events did not compel us into Iraq. The Jap Sin Easy
weren’t bombing Pearl Harbor, or the Nazis on a blitzkrieg, taking over
Europe. Bush was hot to get Saddam for his own personal reasons. He
wanted Saddam before 9-11, sew Bush’s orchestration was to war over
there, your kids and your neighbor’s kids in harm’s way, knot his, but
your kids’ lives given over to Cheney and Bush - their wampum of mass
destruction: Lies, and caskets covered up.
72
Sickening, this Wimp-in-Chief Bush, when out, selling his ‘State
of the Union’ speech, he told select audiences how much it moved his
heart, “spreading freedom,” watching “democracy on the march” he
paralleled Hitler who mouthed a similar line to his own Wehrmacht, after
his Waffen SS panzers rumbled into Paris.
Then, after billions of dollars spent, we got Saddam. Bush adlibbed to the press, upon Hussein’s capture, “I’ve got my own personal
views on how Saddam should be treated.” Exactly what our Founders
wanted us to avoid - wars decided on by Monarchs for their personal
reasons, the Founding Fathers’ reasoning behind their legacy, our
constitutional ‘checks and balances.’
Bush’s take down of Saddam was personal, the why behind our
attack on Iraq! King George verses the Tyrant Hussein, innocent
citizenry cannon fodder, our soldiers, roadside kill, our taxes to cover the
killing bill, the Iraqi’s stolen oil, some, into the insurgent’s till.
Regardless your belief, for a few days we felt relieved. For all
we knew, a couple more weeks and Saddam might have surfaced in
lower Manhattan, pushing a homeless grocery cart, his plastic bags
packed for a pilgrimage to Ground Zero, the Terrorist’s Mecca.
To hear Saddam’s side, he, Saddam Hussein, though on trial for
his life, was still legally the President of Iraq, sew how come no one
bothered to read the Big Salami his Miranda Rights?
Recollect those Iraqi kids from Bush the Elder’s first Gulf War,
cross-haired by Saddam’s death squads, or made smart rock fodder by
our guys, kids now gone more than a decade. Didn’t they have mothers
and fathers, too, loved ones waiting at home? Why did our first President
Bush skip over those fifty thousand dead Iraqis scattered around in
freshly plowed berms, until storm winds blew a leg sand clean for a fly
feed, or scorpion’s dessert? Surely those kids, too, were well worth $38
bucks a pop, the wages of body bags, our human duffels for carting out
the dead.
Oh! Surplus body bags are out there. The hardy duffels are great
for hauling a double load of dirty laundry, rigging up a back yard
hammock, or keeping your compost dry. But imagine Saddam the war
winner, and over here, astride a khaki scud, riding down Fifth Avenue on
St. Patrick's Day, an A-bomb under one arm and in his other, a crock
brim full with enough bio-poison to obliterate the whole east coast. We’d
have all been body-bagged.
It turns out Saddam, that self-described, “Lion of the Tigris,”
was just a fraidy cat; a ragged old man, with fear in his eyes and a
73
suitcase loaded with cash, but who knew? Had Saddam won the war he
might have opted to become our Commander-in-Chief.
Then all those Wall Street Gurgle readers driving Mercedes
would’ve had to turn in their cars. Mercedes Benz was Saddam
Hussein’s semi-official Fourth Estate government ride. The Gurgle
groupies would all be driving Saddam Deville.
Congress would reconvene in Saddamington. Pennsylvania Ave.
would have been renamed Saddam Blvd., and during Saddam’s yearly
State of Saddamy speech, all our elected officials would have responded
to Saddam’s sound bites with their laudatory cheers.
Saddam golf balls - thwack - would have been outlawed, but
Saddam cigarette lighters, guaranteed to blow up in the face of your
enemy, (his backfired), would still be around.
Saddam face-up on a twenty-dollar Saddam peso? Saddamy
mommy on a fifty? Saddam’s cousin, chemical Ali Hassan on a five
spot? Why knot? People don’t even bother to pick Abe up off the ground
anymore. Wanna Slurpie? Saddam-11. Chee-burger? Saddam-King,
Home of the Chopper. The TV ad would show the truck’s tailgate
slamming, and the deep over voice would proclaim, “Saddam Tough!”
Shuwop bop a loo bah - Saddam bang boom! And anyone who was
opposed to Saddam’s Patriot Act would have been hauled off to the
Hussein Asylum, Bush’s Guantánamo.
Only the innocent are called to Allah’s bosom. But for their
families here on the earth we could have bagged and tagged the first
50,000 bodies found on the ground, whilst they were identifiable.
The captured Iraqi GI’s could have dug grave rows for the
decimated shells of their brothers’ battered souls. Oh! What a great and
lasting scenery for “Armageddon, The Movie,” their ID papers
laminated, attached beneath a Crescent marker, the commonest of
respectfulness for the dead on behalf of the living.
Sure those poor Iraqi kids from the first Desert Storm, like you,
and me, had mothers and fathers, too; family living in Baghdad or some
small Iraqi town, praying with all their near broken hearts, wondering the
whereabouts of their poor conscripted sons, hopefully only missing in
action, secretly relocated, unable to telephone, alone in a Kuwaiti
restaurant, washing the floor, a part of King George the Elder’s new
world hors dóeuvre.
Is it any wonder why the Iraqis hate us? It’s a toss up who of
those three killed the most Iraqis, Little Bush, his father, George, the
Elder or their counterpart, Saddam.
74
Hark! Bush’s unending corruption of our Rights under his Patriot
Act, his illegal surveillances in our homeland, subverting the FISA court
were unconstitutional. History repeats! Our Congress and our Courts
equal Harry Truman v. Bush - Douglas MacArthur.
Recollect Truman’s Five Star General crossed our Founding
Fathers’ civilian line? Historians will judge, George Bush, like Douglas
MacArthur, crossed that same impermissible line. “Little Bush” is a bona
fide lame duck, qualified for censure, his just desert an impeachment by
Congress, in a special session, after the election.
Fascist is the “F” word in America’s pallah tics. George Orwell,
said it best: “Political language is designed to make lies sound truthful
and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure
wind.” We torture people in black hole prisons around the world yet
according to Bush, Freedom is on the march.
“The President is a liar,” was a judgment of Craig Crawford,
formerly an attack dog regular on MSNBC’s, “The Count Down,” hosted
by Keith Doberman. Crawford was referring to Bush’s oft-replayed 2004
speech, when Bush told an audience, in Buffalo, N.Y., “Any time you
hear the United States Government talking about wiretap, it requires—a
wiretap requires a court order. Nothing has changed, by the way. When
we're talking about chasing down terrorists, we're talking about getting a
court order before we do so.”
When Bush said, “Nothing has changed, by the way,” he splayed
his left hand fingers across his upper stomach, this, a gesture Bush
learned watching Marlon Brando as the Godfather, the Don Vito
Corleone. Brando is talking to the family heads at their peace meeting
about how he, Don Corleone will do his part to maintain their truce. As
Vito makes his promise to the heads of the families, “on the soul of my
grandchild,” Brando splays his fist, fingers spread across his upper chest.
It is a great movie moment, Marlon Brando with that gesture, awarding
himself a falsified air of innocence.
‘Little Bush’ sounded like Sonny Corleone too, the day he
proclaimed “I’m a wartime President.” The Godfather trilogy is popular
with the Bush family. George W. has seen The Godfather, as has mom,
Bar-Donna, as often as Bush’s dead counterpart, Saddam!
Bush’s statement in Buffalo was false, and he knew it as he
spoke. The President lied, just as Bill Clinton lied when he said: “I did
not have sexual relations with that woman, Ms. Lewinsky.”
Clintstone was impeached over his Ms demean hers. Bush
needed taking down for his High Crimes. Congress should be taken
down hard from their failure to have mete Bush his comeuppance.
75
Clintstone’s extramarital Shrimp Throat Kim pales when
compared to George Bush, she, the rye zing reason for Clintstone’s
corruption of Elián Gonzalez’s rights, Bill’s maladministration.
Hiding Shrimp Throat Kim was the reason behind all of Clintstone’s lies,
“even to my wife,” though it was only an occasional, curious talking
head, during the Elián affair, who axed the quest yin, “why,” that leading
mostly to vacuous blab speculations by the blabberifics amongst
themselves, off camera, during commercial breaks.
To keep waitress Shrimp Throat Kim suppressed, our Clintstone
tragically did what it took. Such was and is the life and times of Billy
Clintstone’s Modus Operandi: Lie and cover it up.
Why would Clintstone, a sophisticated fellow, have had any
dealings with a restaurateur the likes of Charlie Yah Lin Trie, beyond an
occasional lunch at Charlie’s convenient China Buff Eat?
Why countenance selling our sophisticated missile technology to
the shiny Cheyenne-easy? Sew the Chinese military can crosshair a
storefront in Taipei, or the sunken Arizona mast, wave lapped in Hawaii?
Or sell their U.S. tech enhanced missiles to Iran; sew to pass the missiles
on to the Syrians and Hezbollah?
People wondered, what could there possibly be in this blind for
us? What did Castro have on Clintstone, to tell U.S. how we should treat
our immigrants? The two issues only appear as separate entities. Both are
intertwined; and treason licked, both spell bind.
King Solomon muses on:
Fidel was holding super sex tapes of Billy with hot mouth
waitress, Shrimp Throat Kim, a frame by frame of which would have
instantly driven our Billy from his presidential office, besides devastating
significant poddy partner Hillary Rodham Clintstone, in clue ding, the
complete demise of her own senatorial, stepping stone future. That’s
what Fidel Castro held over Clintstone! Still.
Peer-ships! Wun sin fir all, before we part company from
Jacklegs’ fix shin, King Solomon needs unravel a couple well sewn
threads merely hinted starting out, the jurisdiction behind our “Jacklegs,
Jumping Up,” sew to put our ‘erasers in order’ and heck, as long as we
are here, due our part to change the course of human history, our
unfolding human story, on our good ship mother urf.
In current light, wif more than forty-six hundred of our guys, like
flies, swatted dead in Afghanistan and Iraq, fighting to their deaths in a
76
stupid war, in a fight we did knot need to pick, and thousands more of
our guys, home at last, yet physically, mentally, and emotively
challenged for the wrest of their lives, wouldn’t you like to change die
wreckt shin in our human story on our good ship mother urf? Is it time
for a change? Coming, The Big Time Change: We adapt the Cheyenneeasy calendar and may Kim happy, too!
Moses and King Solomon were Prophets of God. During their
life and times they were both renowned for the blessing of their wisdom,
and recollected by all who followed for their cosmic wizard sense. Could
our good ship mother urf stand another prophet from God, who sets the
cosmic table with a spoken poem for all mankind, to be served up live
from dusk until dawn, on world wide television, running and punning
through every spoken tongue, with every line a delicate sensible rhyme,
for all the world’s peoples together to sea, listen to and be a part of all at
once? Is there some thing wrong with that? You like it you listen you
don’t you won’t.
The Book ov Lev (sub-titled) It A Kiss is the hand-lettered,
Television Scripture in American lingo. Beginning with Adman and
Even in the Gar Den ov Edum, this work of prophetic art, c. 1971, with
sew many world events described in advance, was written down with an
eggs press purpose in mind, to enhance the performance live, on all
channels television, of the high bred Poet Prophet, telling his world wide
vision, his every line, Amer eye can line go, a mull tie ling well, sense a
bull rhyme, for all the world’s people to be part of all at once, a ringing
know bell world peace happenstance; whirled wide peace that begins
with a worldwide delicate peace full night!”
Is the above a world newsworthy peace concept, oar knot? Knotwithstanding all the fascists entrenched above us, on this, our good ship
mother urf; when it comes time to change the course of human history,
on our good ship mother urf, all the world’s peoples cry out for a spokes
man, a spokes person, to turn the wheel. World peace will begin on good
ship mother earth with a pizza full night, with all the world’s peoples
doing the same thing at the same time, watching one man tell his vision
on living television.
Our Jacklegs rocks your fash class deck a bit, but with our
treasures, our kids coming back from Iraq, dressed in body bags, oar,
thanks to God above, home alive, yet missing arms and legs, and partial
guts; is it enough, oar must you witness more barbaric stuff?
Michael Stephen Levinson is The Cosmic Wrapper, the mess eye
anic Poet Prophet foreteller of events on planet earth, his sense of words,
world orders, and word hor´s d´oeuvres, a new word order. The Walking
77
Talker is here to wheel the world on a course for peace, and lead our
world to a better place. ‘”For Keeps and a Single Day.”
“All this car bin mah
Nox ide in the air
Bruth er you aint
God ath leetz feet
You roas tin pole
Er ice caps gun er
Mel din you gunnuh
Gedda steam bath.”
C. 1971
King Solomon, the love Poet Prophet, muses a column on the 1st
page of the Television Scripture:
“Wen you slip frum
Her slime you cry out
In ang u ish not
Wher or why ra
Ther Adonoy.
Ego’s the band in
Frunt ov the eyes,
E goes up stairs
To go to sleep
And dreams nite mares,
Be hind the eyes
In bac ov yer he*d
Id ha pens ther
Wher all the myths
Live on and please.
You feel rite on
The top ov yer he*d
And speak fir man
Be the taw kin freak.
Spit it all out
Man talks to God
And God talks bac
My soul is free
Free dom ov speech
The house of God
78
Is in your chest.”
C. 1971
And 112 double column pages later, the beginning lines on the
very last page:
“And the veil shall
Bea up lift id
Iym the Messiah
The Hym the song
That blows thru mea
The Book ov Lev
Come ith frum God
It was giv in too
Is chow zen pea pull”
C. 1971
Onlion S. Shem interjects:
You are chosen you get wun, you aren’t you don’t. Yokels! The
Book ov Lev It A Kiss is prophecy. It’s your world. The polar ice caps are
melting! Solve your prob limbs and you solve the worlds.’
The Poet Prophet is on the planet, to deliver your world to peace,
beginning with a peaceful night. When you way cup the next day, what
you do, after breakfast and a stretch is your own affair.
Sew to Jacklegs, whose writing flows all poem all the time,
regardless how you lay an individual line, his whale of a tale, beyond a
mere fluke, His words for all peoples the Jacklegs will deliver. But set
aside our Jacklegs,’ The Book ov Lev It A Kiss, his Cosmic Wrap, the
magnum opus Television Scripture, with every line a delicate sensible
rhyme, His work of art that will forever enable all man kind.
Focus instead on your fascist FB Eye, their interference in your
Highest Court, J. Edgar Hoover’s most highly unconstitutional untold
legacy, Hoover’s ‘The Enema Within,’ J. Edgar’s followers who moved
in on our highest court and changed the most important First Amendment
case ever brought, after the Supreme Court’s galleys were proofed, when
it all comes out in the wash, beyond the scope of your biggest, most
complex murder plot, only part of what the author, our Golashés
Journalista Poet Prophet writes about!
79
The truth will set your pro se legal fee. ‘It don’t cost nothing to
listen.’ The natch a rill word master seeks a reasonable world wide time,
for his worldwide sprechen, in rhyme.
J. Edgarina seethes in his grave; not a chants the truth-cloud
misting clean over his wormy bones; and his descendents, his above-itall loyals, Hoover’s people, chosen by his chosen are, well outraged!
This light, shed here – this is it for J. Edgarina’s royals, the kiss off for
George the Elder’s Bar-Donna Bush Corleone, she, one of J. Edgar’s
purveyors, as classified FBI memoranda indicate, Hoover’s people
thought Bar-Donna Bush a special friend of theirs.
In October 1979, the Carter-Mondale Committee for Carter’s
reelection requested 30 prime-time minutes from ABC, NBC, and CBS,
to air a Gerald Rafshoon produced film, that, a toast of Carter’s
presidency, setting the tone for Carter’s presidential campaign. Jimmy
Carter expected to be challenged in the democrat primaries by Senator
Ted Kennedy, and in fact he was.
ABC, NBC and CBS individually counter-offered the CarterMondale Committee’s access request, offering five minutes of airtime.
The networks held, back then, that political broadcasting twelve months
before a presidential election was way too early, and, for broadcast
purposes, in the coming presidential campaign, the candidates’ rights to
political mass media speech would not attach until presidential Ground
Hog Day, that first day when presidential candidates can “officially”
become candidates for their party’s nomination, in 1979 New
Hampshire, the first week of December.
The networks also speculated they would be subject to even
more program disruptions because of e quill time requests from any
number of other candidates. Iowa’s caucus was only a blip in the 1980’s
political broadcasting mix. Iowa wasn’t on any mass media maps until
Jimmy Carter won there in ’76; that accomplished with cheese-box
busloads of volunteers from Plains, Georgia, Carter’s hometown. That
was then, 1979. This is now: The 2008 campaign for President kicked
into gear on cable television immediately after the congressional
elections of 2006.
On the networks’ five minutes counter offers, their response to
President Jimmy Carter’s request for thirty minutes of prime time,
Carter’s reelection campaign committee complained to FCC.
80
Whah lah! Allah tells yuh, Allah Akbar! The Ayatollah Ruhallah
Khomeini drafted Ted Koppel, and created Nightline. The Imam,
Ayatollah Khomeini, who sits with Big-Al, (Allah to you), mottled
Gerald Rafshoon’s celluloid proper gander, on the spot!
When the Iranian students seized our embassy, and held 53
Americans hostage, they roasted Carter’s peanut Rafshoonery along with
President Carter’s whole reelection campaign. The 30 minutes Carter
promo film was Ayatollah Khomeini toast, dead meat complete, Iranian
style, on the spit. Gerald Rafshoon’s 1979 film, pro deuced to set the
presidential tone, didn’t play on television. In fact, Ayatollah Khomeini
canceled Jimmy Carter’s reelection.
In light of the Hostage Crisis, President Carter’s request for
airtime was withdrawn, but Carter’s complaint to FCC bounced around
FCC’s General Counsel office. The networks’ five minutes counter
offers were insufficient; but requests could reoccur, with an end result:
independent factions could get their candidates elected.
Golly, with a single articulate rousing sprechen, from merely one
singular whale of a candidate, all our politishinz’ bling bling campaign
schemes could be cull lapsed in a blink. Hark! FCC to the politishinz’
rescue, bringing about J. Edgar Hoover’s secretly sought after seek writ
oversight over who could exercise their affirmative, constitutionally
guaranteed Right to give a mass media speech.
Peer-ships! Fascists confuse reality, what seems up is down.
The FCC came down hard against the networks, ruling in favor
of an individual candidate’s affirmative Constitutional Right to mass
media access for speech. The media giants appealed. Our 2nd highest
court, the District of Columbia Circuit Court of Appeals affirmed the
FCC’s ruling, and in 1981, shortly after the presidential election was
held, the case arrived at our Highest Court, with Chief of all Coats,
Warren Berger, deciding for the Court what was then, and is today,
though besmirched by FCC and FBI, the most far reaching decision in
our Supreme Coat’s near 200 year long history!
King Solomon muses:
It is your law George Bush believes he sits above, laws that
distinguishes our country from most other nations. You don’t need to be
a lawyer to read law. Enjoy these 17 chosen paragraphs from your most
famous First Amendment media access case in our history.
Passages starting with “quotes” in clue ding [b]rackets were
derived from the Commission’s rulings, or cases decided by lower
courts, or cases by a wealth of earlier Supremes that Justice Berger drew
from. Mostly, Chief Justice Berger’s own citations are omitted.
81
Onlion S. Shem’s bold commentary and words in italics are
beyond any shadow, vintage Shem, clearly penned by Mr. Shem. Sew to
the most far-reaching case ever decided in the history of our Supreme
Court, the case that defines your politic mass media rights!
By Supreme Court Chief Justice Berger:
Held: Section 312(a)(7) created an affirmative, promptly
enforceable right of reasonable access to broadcast stations for individual
candidates seeking federal elective offices, beyond merely codifying
prior FCC policies developed under the public interest standard.
Congress did not prescribe simply a general duty to afford some
measure of political programming, which the public interest obligation of
broadcasters already provided for. Rather Section 312(a)(7) focuses on
the individual ‘legally qualified candidate’ seeking air time to advocate
‘his candidacy,’ and guarantees him “reasonable access” enforceable by
specific governmental sanction. Further, the sanction may be imposed
for either “willful or repeated” failure to afford reasonable access.
“Th[e] role of the government as an ‘overseer’ and ultimate
arbiter and guardian of the public interest and the role of the licensee as a
journalistic ‘free agent’ call for a delicate balancing of competing
interests. The maintenance of this balance for more than 40 years has
called on both the regulators and the licensees to walk a ‘tightrope’ to
preserve the First Amendment values written into the Radio Act and its
successor, the Communications Act.”
Onlion S. Shem interjects: Berger’s ‘tight rope’ is fastened to a
couple of slippery slopes: Scarcity of limited bandwidth, requiring
regulation, is a peak whose icy cap has melted. Timeliness in response to
a citizen complaint, and the adjudication of any First Amendment
petition, is the prime issue here.
The phrase, “slippery slope” makes a first appearance in the
Congressional Record, in 1927, when the Senate was discussing their
original Radio Act. The senators realized their creating a Radio
Commission could be construed as an infringement on the citizenry’s
First Amendment Rights, but this radio bureau would knot breach the
constitution, as long as the issues there brought were dealt with timely;
thus, first use of the delightful constitutional phrase, ‘slippery slope.’
Your words have weight.
Chief Justice Berger quotes Dead Lion:
“It is the right of viewers and listeners, not the right of the
broadcasters, which is paramount. It is the purpose of the First
Amendment to preserve an uninhibited marketplace of ideas in which
truth will ultimately prevail, rather than to countenance monopolization
82
of that market. . . . It is the right of the public to receive suitable access to
social, political, esthetic, moral, and other ideas and experience which is
crucial here.” Red Lion Broadcasting Co. v. FCC.
Section 312(a)(7) makes a significant contribution to freedom of
expression by enhancing the ability of candidates to present, and the
public to receive, information necessary for the effective operation of the
democratic process.
The legislative history confirms that Section 312(a)(7) created a
right of access that enlarged the political broadcasting responsibilities of
licensees. When the subject of campaign reform was taken up by
Congress in 1971, three bills were introduced in the Senate. All three
measures, while differing in approach, were, “intended to increase a
candidate’s accessibility to the media and to reduce the level of spending
for its use.” [Senator Pastore].
The subsequent Report of the Senate Commerce Committee
stated that one of the primary purposes of the Federal Election Campaign
Act of 1971 was to “give candidates for public office greater access to
the media so that they may better explain their stand on the issues, and
thereby more fully and completely inform the voters.”
“[B]roadcasters [are required] to permit any legally qualified
candidate [for federal office] to purchase a ‘reasonable amount of time’
for his campaign advertising. Any broadcaster found in willful or
repeated violation of this requirement could lose his license and be
thrown out of business, his total record of public service
notwithstanding.”
The legislative history supports the plain meaning of the statute
that candidates for federal elective office have a right of reasonable
access to the use of stations for paid political broadcasts on behalf of
their candidacies, without reference to whether an opponent has secured
time.
Onlion S. Shem interjects: This means that the “e quill” time
provision in the law, section 315 in the code, cannot be invoked for the
purpose of canceling a candidate’s right to access for speech. The laws
are meant to function in concert, to protect our political speech, knot to
diminish or cancel the people’s affirmative paramount rights!
Back to Chief Justice Warren Berger:
The Commission’s repeated construction of Section 312(a)(7) as
affording an affirmative right of reasonable access to individual
candidates for federal elective office comports with the statute’s
language and legislative history and has received congressional review.
[d]eparture from that construction is unwarranted. “Congress’ failure to
83
repeal or revise [the statute] in the face of such administrative
interpretation [is] persuasive evidence that the interpretation is the one
intended by Congress.”
Onlion S. Shem once again: The next line of thought in the
Court’s decision is the heart of Justice Berger’s teaching:
Broadcasters are free to deny the sale of air time prior to the
commencement of a campaign, but once a campaign has begun, they
must give reasonable and good faith attention to access requests from
“legally qualified” candidates for federal elective office. Such requests
must be considered on an individualized basis, and broadcasters are
required to tailor their responses to accommodate, as much as reasonably
possible, a candidate’s stated purpose in seeking air time.
Onlion Shem: Justice Berger’s next sentence in the lengthy
paragraph is tricky, a judicial feint:
In responding to access requests, however, broadcasters may also
give weight to such factors as the amount of time previously sold to the
candidate, the disruptive impact on regular programming, and the
likelihood of requests for time by rival candidates under the equal
opportunities provision of Section 315(a).
That was followed by Chief Justice Berger’s icing on the cake,
his Supreme Coat intelligence, his elegance and grace:
These considerations may not be invoked as pretexts for denying
access; to justify a negative response, broadcasters must cite a realistic
danger of substantial program disruption – perhaps caused by insufficient
notice to allow adjustments in the schedule – or of an excessive number
of equal time requests. Further, in order to facilitate review by the
Commission, broadcasters must explain their reasons for refusing time or
making a more limited counteroffer.
Shem: The key here is realistic instead of a mere conjecture.
Chief Berger ends his paragraph with a peon to bureaucracy, in
retrospect, an unfortunate crack, opening up the bureaucratic ramrod
door to abuse: If broadcasters take the appropriate factors into account
and act reasonably and in good faith, their decisions will be entitled to
deference even if the Commission’s analysis would have differed in the
first instance. But if broadcasters adopt “across the board policies” and
do not attempt to respond to the individualized situation of a particular
candidate, the commission is not compelled to sustain their denial of
access.
Onlion S. Shem: And when the Ex-Communications
Commission adopts an across the board policy, that, to always deny one
particular candidate’s affirmative First Amendment Rights, the District
84
and / or Appellate Courts are not compelled to sustain the Commission’s
FBI inspired denials.
Although petitioners (ABC, NBC, and CBS) to the disruption of
regular programming and the potential adverted equal time requests from
rival candidates in their responses to the Carter-Mondale presidential
Committee’s complaint, the Commission [properly] rejected these claims
as ‘speculative and unsubstantiated at best.’
“[A]n arbitrary ‘blanket’ ban on the use by a candidate of a
particular class or length of time in a particular period cannot be
considered reasonable. A Federal candidate’s decisions as to the best
method of pursuing his or her media campaign should be honored as
much as possible under the ‘reasonable’ limits imposed by the licensee.”
King Solomon:
Above, give or take, are sixteen juicy key paragraphs from
Justice Berger’s teaching, with a touch of Shem slipped in. Justice
Berger concludes the most important ruling in his career, thusly:
Section 312(a)(7) represents an effort by Congress to assure that
an important resource – the airwaves – will be used in the public interest.
We hold that the statuary right of access, as defined by the commission
and applied in these cases, properly balances the First Amendment
Rights of federal candidates, the public, and broadcasters.
Justice Byron White wrote a compelling dissent, his opinion,
joined by Associate Rehnquist. John Paul Stevens dissented, too, his, a
separate opine; yet Stevens’ spare dissent is curiously lacking, unclear,
an anomaly, because, dear peers, something is missing there; AWOL- as
they say, absent with out leave.
Stevens’ Bill of Rights flashlight, his jewel, was befouled, black
bagged by J. Edgarina’s FBI, out of sight in the night, Edgar’s domestic
counter intelligencia at work, just as your 1st Amendment access Right
was muffled by an earmark, circa 2000, their unconstitutional iron clad
curtain, descending in the dead of night.
Some sing amiss in a Supreme Court case? An erasure after their
galleys were proofed, a poof? Justice Berger’s ruling, with the farthest
reach in our whole judicial history, dumpstered even more sew by a
fascist’s earmark? The High Court stench herewith is strong enough to
ride topside in noosey papers whirled-wide? This stench is unparalleled.
It will knot abate.
Luckily old Goldbar kicked his own trash bucket, sew he doesn’t
have to answer to you, or to his former colleagues benched, on the
Supreme issue did he, Chief Rehnquist realize he was locking down an
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unconstitutional, ‘impermissible,’ trenching of all the American people’s
First Amendment rights, which is knot permitted!
Goldbar breached our Court’s discretion when he ditched
Jacklegs’ First Amendment case, sloughing the Court’s (his) refusal to
hear the petition of an unsung, “frivolous” presidential candidate during
the Coats’ Friday case purview, deference to Rehnquist, Chief of all
Coats, and all of that. The stain on Goldbar’s career will live forever, his
unforgivable debauch of our jurisprudence, for law stew dense to ponder.
Nor was our candidate a ‘frivolous’ presidential.
Notwithstanding the fascist’s adulteration, Justice Stevens’
dissent remains the most far-reaching comment that he, John Paul
Stevens ever benched in his whole Supreme Court career, and in our
country’s and the Supreme Court’s whole primo history.
King Solomon muses:
It was a sunny day, August 21, 1995 when Jacklegs found
himself ‘jumping up’ on the granite steps of the United States Supreme
Court with his petition for a Writ of Certiorari, sew to pro se adjudicate
his First Amendment grievance verses the recalcitrant Federal
Communications Commission. Generally, complainants file their
petitions via Fed Ex, or U.S. Postal, from jail. Few are hand delivered,
but Jacklegs is a proponent of first person narratives, sew he journeyed to
Washington, D.C., to deliver his petition.
Jacklegs recollects going through the front doors, and inside to
the left, through a railing gate into a hall and on the left side, a doorway
into a room where petitions were received and stamped.
There were a couple college stew dent aged ‘clerks’ on duty.
They were the well-dressed grunts responsible for pushing the carts full
of fresh cases around to the various judges’ chambers.
Jacklegs gave the clerks an earful about his writ, which is
distinguished. In the whole Supreme Court record of juris prudence,
Jacklegs’ writ is the only case ever brought where petitioner is defending
the 1st Amendment mass media rights of all the American people to hear
a speech. Unless justice is blind, deaf, and dumb, the Supreme Court
does knot have discretion to knot hear the case!
Via snail mail from the Court, September 7, 1995, the Coats
acknowledge Jacklegs’ petition was received August 21, 1995, and
docketed as No. 95-5876. Note how slow the wheels of justice.
Monday, December 4, 1995, Groundhog Day for presidential
candidates in New Hampshire, was right around the corner. Jacklegs, on
the ballot, could officially reestablish his candidacy for President.
King Solomon muses:
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The Jacklegs, over the years, developed a debilitating case of
Seasonal Adjustment Disorder. He could not survive in his hometown,
Buffalo, New York another winter. There wasn’t enough sunshine. His
final overcast, sunless season in Buffalo was 1996-97.
During that final winter in Buffalo, Jacklegs posted in a “Gibe”
forum at www.annoy.com. The following is from a Jacklegs piece he
published at annoy dot commie, which FBI monitored.
312(a)(7) or Siberia, Standing Lookout for Public Office
Aboard the S. S. FCC Treblinka:
“The current Supreme Court matter, initiated in 1991, hangs with
the Supreme Coats barely by a shred of their own weave. But before you
can get it on with The Coats, you must first exhaust your remedies. That
was a slow, dark lit empty road, getting to the Supreme Coat’s doorstep.
I’d already given up on FCC’s final determination, upon my most
excellent Application for Review, to which the agency, run amok, could
not respond, as all of the cited major cases and previous adjudications
favored my request for access, and the one case exactly on point, was
brought to bear from an article in FCC’s own law journal, extrapolated
therein, by one of the Commission’s own former General Counsels.
A Wall Street Gurgle op-ed, written by NBC President, Robert
Wright, prompted me to write this retrospect of my own
telecommunication experience, and during my writing, I called the
FCC’s Political Branch, disguised my voice, and asked a common
question, sew to get connected, to some intern trainee, and then inquired,
had there been any change in the 312(a)(7) law, and by the way, before
he hung up, what was the final disposition of the case that bore my name,
but not revealing that it was me on the line. The novice intern, set back
on his heels, immediately put me on hold.
Then a voice, someone able to recognize mine came on the line
and stated, “Robert Baker.” I only had to repeat, “Robert Baker,” for the
bureau’s cat to screech right back, “Holy moely, it’s you.”
Then Baker slammed the phone back on hold, and finally, when
the novice intern picked up again, he acknowledged yes, the
Commissioners had ruled on my case, twelve days before, so I was in the
30 day window for appeal, and, “no we will not send you a copy,” as per
his orders on the spot, the novice acknowledged, from the now dead and
buried Bureau Chief Milton O. Gross, who was, as always, in the room
when my calls went through, their silent participant. Cocky and sticky,
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this alien bureaucracy sucks up the people’s tax, and feeds off itself, to
multiply.
After more than two years of delay, the FCC final ruling, which
ran four pages deep, a thesis for them, was slip cased into the Federal
Register during those long dog days of summer, before July 4, when
almost everybody is out of town, on a long weekend, before returning to
Washington, D.C. for the Independence Day fire works.
I petitioned the Appellate Court, District of Columbia Circuit.
The court issued orders to show cause, and voted en banq against hearing
my appeal, upon their own orders, citing two totally unrelated cases. The
first, an FCC case, had nothing to do with the 312(a)(7) statute. The
petitioners were granted a hearing at the administrative level, where FCC
ruled against, based on well-settled rules and careful adjudications. The
Appellate Court properly denied their Petition for Review, as it lacked
issue, was off point, and far removed, a churn for their broadcast
attorneys.
But the other citation was chilling. That was a frivolous case.
Petitioner was an employee of a government agency. He was fired,
evidently with cause, as it is difficult to get fired when you work for the
government, and he’d appealed the matter to the wrong court, there
claiming he sought redress of his grievance because, without his job
back, by Order of the Court of Appeals, Dist. of Columbia Circuit, he
couldn’t make his house payments, and this was distressing to petitioner,
thus, his petition. The citation, and other of the court’s self generated
papers, smacked of Herr Goebbels before Nuremberg, that chilling.
Grant there is humorous bent to my pronouncements, some of
them, but there aren’t any frivolous lines in my battle, over sixteen years,
(when this was writ –1997) to simply give a Political Speech on behalf of
my candidacy, or any frivolous characterizations herewith.
Relative to original papers filed, there was one typographical
error in petitioner’s Formal Complaint of 1991-2, which attorneys for my
opponents jumped on, of course, and blew out of proportion, a typo,
which FCC also quoted, with obvious malice.
There it sits, malice, nothing less, an obvious typo, trickily
included as though fact, alive in a rule making FCC determination, there
to stilt their public FCC Record of the facts.
My complaint was under 1st Amendment, 5th Amendment, and
14th Amendment. Somehow, in the Formal Complaint, 17, came up
instead of 14, in more than one place. Blame bifocals. But by the body
and four corners of my Complaint, that 17 could only be a typographic
error, as my Complaint clearly had nothing what-so-ever to do with a
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Senators’ terms in office, or reference to anything else in the dusty
Seventeenth Amendment.
Chilling, the Court of Appeals also relied on that one obvious
typo to somehow suggest that mine, or ours, was a frivolous matter.
Their citation was meant to discourage anyone from reading the papers
or the written record behind. Sew I hang by a thread in the Supreme
Court. They received my petition, timely, August 21, 1995 and it was
docketed September 7, 1995.”
A few weeks later the Solicitor General’s Office filed their, Brief
in Opposition, advising the Court against hearing the case. The
Solicitor’s Brief was deficient. The Solicitor General, an officer of the
Court, mislead our Highest Court with historical inaccuracies. Jacklegs
response focused on the Solicitor’s misinformation, an issue that would
have brought headlines in an earlier, jurisprudent time.
Onlion S. Shem interjects:
Peer-ships! The morph of the 14th Amendment into the 17th
Amendment was knot a typo! Jacklegs wrote his Application for Review
in a State University of New York library computer lab. The ad minis
traitor threatened the Jacklegs with removal, as he was knot a registered
stew dent. Then, for know apparent reason, the ad minis traitor ignored
Jacklegs use of the school’s networked computer lab.
Dig deep enough under Freedom of Information Act and you
will find an FBI associate slipped into Jacklegs’ computer from the
server room and changed 14 to 17 in Jacklegs’ Application, while the
Jacklegs was puffing a smoke outside, after his final, proof reading,
before the final laser printing. Ah, dear peers, such is the fascist’s style:
adulterate a legal brief, sew to claim the author, a Poet Prophet, is a de
minimus fool, knot worth hearing. Your tax dollars sponsored FBI’s
unconstitutional chicanery.
Dear peers, let us return to Jacklegs’ annoy dot com posting:
Then hark! The slow wheels of jurisprudential (used to be
prudence) started to peel. No. 95-5876, according to the Supreme Court’s
own data bank, was distributed to the clerks, for the Justices to prereview, on November 16, 1995 and the papers were delivered to their
Chambers for the Dec.1, 1995 Friday conference, where Rehnquist
jammed the conference vote to zap my petition, claiming to his
colleagues he read the papers; and, “frivolous, nothing there.”
But I have it from my own Supreme Court source, a ‘throat’
amongst those critters who scurry about, delivering papers, which
hopefully doesn’t reveal too much, that the only time the other Judges
saw those papers was the day of their conference! Whoops.
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I pointed this out to Rehnquist’s clerk, Chris Vasil, about when
the pile of papers first made their haul. Vasil was very testy on the
telephone, and demanded, “Who told you that? They are wrong”
On Friday morning, December 1, 1995 Jacklegs phoned the
Supreme Court office where the young clerks he met were stationed.
Jacklegs knew the papers had been delivered to the individual Judge’s
chambers for a pre-conference examination, a few weeks before, and this
call was to determine any progress.
The ‘throat’ on the telephone told Jacklegs they’d gone around
earlier that morning to all the Judge’s chambers and picked up the copies
and delivered them to the main conference chamber for the Supreme
Coats’ Friday conference. Jacklegs inquired, knot counting the judges’
clerks, had any of the Supreme Coats (beside Rehnquist) read the papers?
The clerk said, “No. Only the clerks.”
Jacklegs said, “It’s scary.”
The young clerk answered, “Yes it is. I must go now.” Click.
Had my Petition for a Writ of Certiorari been granted, on
December 1, 1995, I would have been instantly entitled to Standing, and
could have sought Bold Measures with the Coats, and make-up time
from the 1991 matter currently before the court, as I was still a candidate
in 1995; and, mootness to the wind, the wheels of injustice had begun
anew to turn, though I couldn’t achieve ballot status in New Hampshire
until December 4, 1995, so writ denied, to Sisyphus again, that slippery
slope of the Coats, into campaign oblivion.
King Solomon muses:
Had the Petition for Writ only been ‘pending,’ Jacklegs was
entitled to the same ‘Bold Measures,’ regardless, which would have
brought a hearing with the Coats before the vote in New Hampshire,
headlines in every newspaper, and his ‘Vehicle for World Peace’ speech
nationwide. The proof is in the records of the Coats’ Friday, December 1,
1995 conference. All of the cases have numbers. Upon examination find
the case numbers were disordered. Chief Rehnquist pushed the case
forward to deny Jacklegs his entitlement: justice via hearing in our
Highest Court. Does fascist aptly describe Rehnquist?
Federal Communication Commission DA 92-187, look it up,
stamp dated February 12, 1992, cited by the FCC since, is the fashy
ruling behind Jacklegs’ Supreme Court Writ. The case is yet alive
because Jacklegs resubmitted his Petition for Reconsideration within the
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Supreme Court’s 25-day window for Reconsideration. Jacklegs forgot to
include the affidavit stating that he was not attempting to delay the case
in order to forestall the outcome.
The Petition was duly noted by the highest court as having been
properly submitted, according to the Court’s own rules, within the
appropriate time frame, and returned to the pro se Petitioner because of
its missing affidavit, a minor defect.
Peer-ships, here is a sickening tidbit from Exhibit “J,” DA 92187, the FCC’s initial ruling in the Jacklegs case that yet hangs today by
a Kevlar thread with your Supreme Coats:
“You assert a right to reasonable access under Section 312(a)(7)
as a legally qualified candidate for the Republican nomination for the
office of President of the United States on the New Hampshire primary
ballot, a contention unchallenged by the licensees. In this capacity, you
requested a three-hour block of prime time programming from the abovenamed stations in order to present your message to the electorate. Each
licensee has responded to your request by offering five minutes of
programming during prime time hours. You have apparently rejected
each offer.”
King Solomon muses:
“You assert,” . . . . . . . “your message to the electorate.”
Speech is an affirmative First Amendment Right, knot an assertion. The
Media is the ‘Message. A ‘message’ may be denied, but knot the speech
itself, the giving of which is a paramount right. In the above FCC quote,
replace ‘present your message’ with ‘give your speech.’ In America
candidates for President are not denied their Right to give a speech. We
might not like the message inside the speech, but the privilege of mass
media before an election is the candidate’s.
Milton O. Gross drafted FCC DA 92 – 187, an exhibition of
Gross’ fascist mentality throughout. With quiet approval, the vicious
Communications bureaucrat trashed your First Amendment Rights.
From election to election, notwithstanding all the hot button
issues, the hottest of all the hottest buttons: abortion death vs. life
remains. “Those who cry out the loudest against abortion – they are the
ones who were aborted in a previous life, and their individual experience,
having lived through being an abortion, is stamped in their characters.”
The anti-abortion groups do not liken the message.
Might a Poet Prophet from God teach the populace God is the
wun who decides which souls are bodily born, and which are knot, for
His own reasons, which of His souls are given their own life to live?
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Might a God fearing electorate be interested in a candidate’s approach to
this issue of who is born and why who is knot?
The stations’ political offering, upon FCC DA 92 – 187, now
and forever, constitutes five minutes of airtime, totaling 300 seconds for
stating the nut and bolt solutions to every issue facing our nation.
The FCC’s certified ‘counter offer’ grossly insults all of the
American people who seek themselves a leader who will, upon his or her
election, become de facto, the world’s leader, and from our office of
President, lead the world to a better place.
King Solomon muses:
FCC’s approval of the station’s illegitimate counter offer to
Jacklegs, offering five minutes, violates the teachings of our Highest
Court, which is knot permitted!
Onlion S. Shem pipes up:
Hark!
The Iraq Study Group Report is published! The “Report” begins
with a letter from co-chair has-been political heavies, James A. Baker III,
and Lee H. Hamilton, on the set to bail out Bush’s failed administration.
Here is their opening preamble: “There is no magic formula to solve the
problems of Iraq,” followed by an Executive Summary that starts with an
oft quoted, “The situation in Iraq is grave and deteriorating.”
Hearken again! I, Shem, have respelled one word in BakerHamilton’s next sentence: “There is know path that can guarantee
success, but the prospects can be improved.” Knot in clue did in the Iraq
Study Group Report is our Jacklegs, the Poet Prophet, his
“recommendation[s] for action[s],” his vehicle for our “out,” leaving Iraq
secure and at peace with itself.
Peers! This comes down somewhere “Between the Gurgle and
the Slimes, Essays Unpublished by The Wall Street Journal and The New
York Times.” Here, re-upped, is a patent Lev Op-Ed, first written years
ago and universally rejected a couple years back, but knot the essay that
brought out FBI to come knock on Jacklegs’ door.
Our Strategy Out of Iraq
On September 12, 2006, in an interview with Matt Lauer,
President Bush stated, “ If we abandon those 15 million people who said
they want to live freely we will have given the enemy a tremendous
victory.” A few minutes later, Bush remarked, “This war is too important
to let politics get in the way.”
King Solomon muses: I could knot agree more.
92
“Grant, plucking Saddam was a necessary move on the road to
world peace; our ‘war on terror’ an excuse for taking him down; but our
democracy mission is far from accomplished, thousands have died since
Bush proclaimed, “Mission Accomplished,” and thousands more are
bound to needlessly die. The end won’t come into sight until we pluck
George W. Bush from our highest office.
Love him or hate him, we need to leave him, send Bush packing;
in fact, we cannot win in Iraq without first turning George out, as George
W. Bush is the dead Hussein’s vain counterpart. Bush needs to get
plucked big time, and the Iraqis need a fresh face.
It’s a sad day for republicans, but we backed a loser. In the
words of sage Yogi, “It’s déjà view a loser all over again.” To paraphrase
some democrat party pre-election claptrap, George W. Bush has led the
nation’s tax wealth in the wrong direction.
We should either refocus our presence in Iraq, on democracy and
commerce for their own sakes, or else we should pull up stakes! Anyone
wearing an American uniform in Iraq is a target.
Liken Iraq’s interim constitution to our own original Articles of
Confederation. Iraq needs a constitution that will last. Ours should be
their document, word for word. We are the youngest nation on the planet,
with the oldest standing government. Our constitution and Bill of Rights
should be translated, and the Iraqi people challenged to read them; then
vote to set aside what they ratified, to give our hearty constitution with
its built in religious freedom a ten years trial.
The Iraqi people in the outskirt towns might embrace our tried
and tested method where everyone’s rights are protected and all religions
are equal under the rule of law! Our own Constitution, in place, could
bring closure to the Iraqis’ internecine fighting, leaving only Saddam’s
pre-paid baathists, and al Qaeda’s terrorist insurgents, those, mostly
foreign interlopers for our guys to deal with.
We should be going over our constitution for the Iraqis line for
line on Iraqi television; and in their newspapers, all day long sew the
Iraqi people can adapt it as their own. Unless we win the peace, the war
was a terrible waste and our kids will have died in vain; but to win we
need to innovate, beyond our constitution, with thousands more of our
own people in Iraq than we presently have.
Those we send should be civilians, not soldiers in uniform. It’s
time the American people are imbedded with the Iraqi people, key for
our success. We need to deliver copies of our constitution to every Iraqi
village, pass them out by hand, and establish actual democracy in Iraq
from the bottom up, which is the way democracy has always started up,
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contrary to Bush’s top down style of business, and to do it right, to win,
we need the right truck.
In order to leave victorious we must supplement our troops with
40,000 citizen ambassadors. President Bush must immediately order an
independent retrofitting of ten thousand off road trucks and SUV’s that
today are gathering dust at our automobile dealerships, with volunteer
ambassadors from every state flying over with them, in forty vehicle
teams. Christen our trucks, The Scorpion Brigades, with license plates
from every state, and Onstar installed sew we can keep track. GMC
Sierras, Ford F 150’s, Toyota Tundra’s will all do the trick, the over
voice proclaiming regardless of brand, “like Iraq!”
This dangerous temporary civilian volunteer mission will pay
minimum $28 an hour plus double time for overtime, including life
insurance prepaid by Uncle Sam. The President should instruct our
potential citizen ambassadors to amble on by their favorite truck
dealership and register for emergency service.
Required, you bring your own assault rifles with cases of ammo,
too. Know how to pull the trigger or you can’t make the trip.
Commonest of sense, American ingenuity, dictates our menu for
gorilla war-mien retrofit embedding: coat machines desert cream,
especially the chrome; uniformly splotch beige; rig grills with cast iron
shields to protect motors, also splotch; beef suspensions; enlarge gas
tanks; install Mobile One in crank with charcoal dip filters of air
conditioning; stick-on dashboard compasses, besides the Onstar;
reupholster camper tops in Dragon Skin, same stuff in door panels. Plate
sides, doors and undersides. Use inch plate from junkyards.
Supply the best dash-bracketed 40 band, Citizen Band radios and
most importantly, high powered binoculars, with police radar guns too,
distance recalibrated, so when our Scorpion Brigades dash around the
desert floor in forty-tooth combs we mean any suspicious Iraqi rolling,
stopping to plant a road-side bomb, and then rolling on, is guaranteed a
surface-to-surface laser-guided ticket.
Load cases of bottled water, freeze-dried everything, and
microwaves, with delicious ready-to-eat meals bought off the shelf.
Every mission critical democracy truck flown over should have a
digital camcorder and laptop with wireless Internet access, so we can see
what is happening. Every camper top needs tow missile brackets, so over
night trained civilian gunners can park their tails on the spare tires to fire.
Every quad cab needs 50 caliber machine gun brackets on their roof, so
in case the need arises, whoever is riding shotgun can ride standing
upright in the sunroof, and stinger a border crossing suicide bomber, too.
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We should be getting our quad cabs ready for off road desert
duty immediately! The army pipeline for a bureaucracy armored GMC
Humvee is 18 months. Our Scorpion Brigades could get their iron plating
and painted for emergency service in less than 48 hours!
The President should speak to the nation and order it. His refusal
to do this is a major reason to push Bush out! We cannot let President
Bush lose any more of our precious kids in guerrilla fights to the finish,
guaranteed, absent these retrofitted trucks in the mix.
The threat of impeachment in absentia could motivate him!
Bush must surely know the more our troops are wounded or lost,
the less the likelihood for republicans holding office, proven by the midterm elections of 2006. When this was originally written, before FBI
knocked on my back door with my email to newspapers in hand,
Americans killed in Iraq numbered 650 and counting. 4000 were
reported as wounded, politic-speak for arms and legs sheared off, with a
total 13,000 casualties. What constitutes a casualty?
Ten thousand trucks, four civilian ambassadors in each, is the
minima required to establish a foundation for Iraqi democracy.
Besides visiting every hamlet and town, to make friends, assess
needs and begin a grass roots, people to people Marshall Plan; in groups
of forty, with cells and CB radios, our Scorpion Brigades will seal, in and
out, all of Iraq’s borders, and guard the oil pipe lines while watching the
highways and byways, in quartets or pairs, parked off-road a couple
miles apart, their CB’s and cop-car radar guns, powered to mark any
insurgent vehicle that pulls off road to drop off a makeshift bomb, along
with their human detonator, left back to click their remote trigger from
behind the nearest berm.
The spotters can CB down the two-lane which vehicle needs
disabling, etc., then proceed to take out the detonator left there to blow us
up. The Scorpion Brigades on guard will nail each and every insurgent
they encounter, enabling us to secure the country at large.
The Scorpion Brigades, trucks ten thousand strong, will own the
checkpoints, neutering that issue. The insurgents pay for their insurgency
smuggling oil, which they trade for cash in Jordan. We will ‘ticket’ those
tankers before they arrive at the border. Insurgency is a full time job.
Insurgents have to eat. When we own the length of all their border roads,
the continuous feed of Hezbollah terrorists from Lebanon, from all
around the Middle East, will be cancelled, as will their means of jihad
finance, which are smuggled goods.
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10,000 quad cabs, four people strong, ought to be enough to
control all of the Iraqi borders, visit every hamlet, and truly own the
roads that roll into the baathist and al Qaeda controlled districts.
We want the Iraqi parents to let us bring 50 thousand of their
kids back with us, to live in America and go to our schools, at least a
couple years anyway, sew they are safe from flaring violence, there, and
learning democracy here. This kid exchange, for Iraq, goes with
Congress also awarding Iraq favored nation status, sew our quad cab
ambassadors can make deals with every farmer for all their dates, figs,
and nuts for export, in exchange for American cash on the spot.
The above is my strategic way out. We will leave the oil rich
Iraqis in control of their country. With 50 thousand of their children
going to our schools in America, Iraq will become a very firm ally.”
The Poet Prophet is a leader. He sees a way to lead U.S out of
Bush’s barbaric mire in Iraq, on a positive note, with the Iraqis praising
the outcome. Might such an innovative approach – an exit strategy that
none of the media anointed would-be Presidents have, be worth ten
minutes on one of the people’s hundreds of channels of airtime? Bush’s
war in Iraq is costing $2000 a second, not counting coffins. Are the more
than 4,155 dead-ended worth one second each?
The fascist legacy of the FCC’s Milton O. Gross is clear: our
dead are knot worth more than five minutes total airtime for speech by
outsider candidates for President the FB Eye doesn’t like.
More than 45 million citizens cannot afford to pay for health
insurance. In the event a presidential candidate has a viable approach to
solving this prob limb, might his clearly stated program be worth seven
minutes of the tax paying public’s bandwidth? Knot according to Milton
O. Gross, or to Robert Baker, his protégé who carries forth.
Ah, dear peer-ship mates, have another dusty Op-Ed:
“I am an unknown, write-in candidate for President. I have asked
my name be withheld, because in today’s America, anyone spouting
anything of consequence, except forged documents, refuses to let loose
the truth unless they are kept out of the mix, anonymous.
It’s time I give up, shed my lifetime presidential dream, and
renounce my ambition. Practicing the art of pallah tics in America is
obscenely unhealthy. Sew I’m herewith setting forth non-partisan
solutions for the issues I’ve considered, a fair example, world peace, and
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plan my leave, to live and write, in China, a safe get-away for me, from
your FBI’s continuing veiled threats to my person.
Holding a press conference and stating my case is out of the
question. As far as the fash press is concerned, I’m an ‘anathematic’
poet, my entitlement denied, not worth a sliver of your time, but so what,
I’d be casting pearls on swine and with any success, set up by the press
for a 527 swift boat vaccination. New York Slimes publisher Arthur
Oakes Sulzberger sent me a note: “I wish you good luck in your
campaign [for President] and hereby return your book.”
In 2003 I sent Sulzberger my classic first edition Television
Scripture, where many of the world’s events were clearly described in
advance, and on the title page, inscribed, “In the event The New York
Times is unwilling to cover my press conference, please return my
prophetic Television Scripture in the pre-paid, stamped envelop.”
Sulzberger did return it. Cool! Here, the body of my Op-Ed:
“There are 45 million people in America without health
insurance. My purpose is to fully cover every single one with my
“policy,” rivaling the best insurance available. Here is how we cover all
the working poor, for a lot less money than meets your eye.
First, we reverse the Bush tax cuts that exclusively benefit his
base, returning our wealthiest to where they belong, in their own tax
bracket, instead of crowding us. This affects Members of Congress,
overpaid Sulzberger bureaucrats, all the blabberific talking heads on
cable TV, lawyers, doctors, dentists, Wall Street pros, most of the above,
incidentally, died in the cashmere Bushies.
Then, we tell our doctors and dentists, for every uninsured
person they treat, their charges will be treated as charity, deducted off
their tax, up to $50,000 worth, sliced off the top of their gross earnings.
Then, at the bottom line, after all of their deductions, another 25
thousand, or half, whichever reflects their total charitable work, deducted
from their net greenbacks owed to Uncle Sam.
There, incentives we need for Md.’s and DDS’s to elbow each
other for a chance to voluntarily treat the uninsured, as charity. Whatever
costs the doctors and dentists incur out of pocket, for a patient’s blood
work, and their office help, comes off their taxes, at the top, and cash
again, off the bottom, after their deductions.
Florida doctors will work a full day on Wednesday, instead of
going golfing, and a half day every Saturday, with only three weeks in
the Bahamas every year, instead of five. All of our doctors will want to
voluntarily participate in my program, especially baby-boomer doctors,
seeking to put away as much as they can, for their own retirements.
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The working poor, instead of crowding emergency rooms,
accruing debt they cannot satisfy without a credit killing bankruptcy, will
have a physician to treat their families, on a regular basis.
Seeing as we are paying for the hospitals’ unpaid emergency
room services, in the form of ever higher insurance rates, reflecting the
hospitals’ skyrocketing cost of ‘horse pistol’ care, everyone will benefit
from our doctors’ and dentists’ charitable deeds.
Then the government (well, me, your money saving Poet Prophet
President) can ask these working poor, would it be OK for uncle Sam to
collect a voluntary five or ten bucks a week from their gross pay, not to
be refunded, or tax deducted, to pay the government back, and establish
good credit, as bill payers with a bill paying record, sew they qualify to
purchase a decent running pre-owned car?
To determine the cost of my program, start with the taxes
forgiven from medical deliverers. Off set that with emergency room
savings, and add on top of that, all the projected dollars we will
voluntarily collect from the paychecks of the poor who will be glad for
the chance to round-about actually have a Dr., and pay their Dr.’s for
family services, so long as they don’t have any compounded interest
daily to pay to a lobbyist’s designated collection agency, or whatever
else the porkers and bureaucrats can think of to barrel on a sensible
health care program that covers all the uninsured.
Our health care industry needs reformation, the breaking issue,
supply vs. demand. Regardless your premiums, as the boomers age,
requiring more, you’ll be lucky to get five minutes with your Dr.
You want answers? Ask Arthur Oakes Sulzberger. Grant I’m
somewhat disgruntled, forever a candidate for President, but before I
relocate in Beijing I’m running again. See levinson4President.com; my
purpose, display my road to world peace, and win.” Oh! be well.
When leaders have words for their people and the people show
up it is because the leader has something to say worth hearing. That is
the nexus of our Broadcasting Laws: the protection of our First
Amendment Right to assemble wherever for a live broadcast political
speech from a potential leader, the nature of Jacklegs’ case v. FCC. It is
your Right to switch channels and change your views.
Exhibit “J” from the Supreme Court case: “The licensees have
raised two principle bases for denying your request and for making their
respective offers. First, they contend that your request for three hours of
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prime time programming would have a significant disruptive effect upon
each station’s programming.”
King Solomon muses
Is a ‘significant disruptive effect,’ the disruption of pre-set
programs actually disruption? News Flash: Tonight the Poet Prophet.
FCC clearly contradicts the Supreme Court ruling, quoted above.
A program disruption only occurs when the station doesn’t have proper
notice to change their newspaper listing which can knot be caused, but by
a candidate seeking airtime on and for the day his request for time is
tendered. 30-second ads are simply piled on, one after another. Your
access right is inviolate, an affirmative right!
FCC’s 2nd tenet, “the likelihood of requests for time by rival
candidates under the equal opportunities provision of Section 315(a),” is
also bogus. Other candidates are not even entitled to any ‘e quill’ time.
Chief Berger did not spell this out, because it was knot the issue before
Berger’s court, cataract justice and all of that. Any ‘free’ speech by any
candidate is a news event, and therefore, exempt from e quill time! Other
candidates would only be entitled to their own time, for which they could
make application at any time, as they do, with their back & forth 30second tack commercials, all the time.
The Commission’s ruling, the work of Milton O. Gross is, in its
four corners, fascist, and clearly contradicts the teachings of our Highest
Court, turning Chief Berger’s teaching into sew much tissue, to be
flushed from their chambers with the wastewater.
The Commissioners were not unapprised. The idea behind DA
92-187 was to insure the Poet Prophet was denied his opportunity, and
would be, for the rest of his life, denied the Right to speak his peace.
Poet Prophet purpose: set the stage for world peace.
FCC stalwart Gross willfully misquotes the Supreme Court,
ignoring a key passage where Justice Berger clearly stated, the old denial
excuses will not wash. The Poet Prophet made Application for Review.
The Commissioners sat on the poet’s Application for Review more than
two years, that, a slippery unconstitutional slope!
Finally FCC released their response, on a Friday, late in the
afternoon, before the July 4 weekend, two full years after the election
that inspired the First Amendment complaint in the first place!
Because it was late in the day, the FCC’s response would not
appear in the daily, bound Federal Record. It was instead, a ‘slip,’ folded
in the booklet jacket at the back, in absentia for a month from the Federal
Record, a fascist’s attempt to deny an Appellate Review.
99
The FCC’s response to Jacklegs’ Application for Review is
important, their delay sew unconstitutional, that in itself is enough to
relieve FCC from any jurisdictional obligation, to enforce the First
Amendment element of the 312(a)(7) telecommunications statute.
As long as the FCC holds any jurisdiction over access for
speech, instead of the Federal District Courts, the ‘312’ statute fails to
pass constitutional muster! FCC is unchecked, without balance, the
commissioners beholden only to the reigning political party, the FCC’s
bureaucrat professionals, quietly beholden to the FBI.
Jurisdiction is the primary issue, the missing habeas corpus for
all of us. The body of the candidate’s access denial complaint required
federal judicial action in the state where the candidate was campaigning
for public office, not in a faceless federal bureaucrat’s office thousands
of miles off.
Jacklegs holds that Hoover’s chosen are itching to order an
extremely prejudicial act on the Poet Prophet’s life, to moot these issues,
as the FCC’s FBI inspired administrative rulings cannot even remotely
withstand judicial review, opening the door for Jacklegs to finally give a
live televised uncensored speech.
Ten years after the famous Carter-Mondale case was heard, in
1991, the unknown Poet Prophet, our long time Cosmic Wrapper,
believing in our Supreme Coats and their, CBS, INC. v. FCC decision, as
above, crafted his own request for access to NBC, PBS, and the two PBS
stations serving New Hampshire, where Jacklegs was on the ballot bona
fide, a candidate for President.
Recollect Tom Brokaw had a half dozen democrat anointed
candidates on an NBC sponsored special, December 15, 1991, with Jerry
Brown at the end blurting out, “1-800 me me me.”
1-800 was, back then, a brand new technology, exclusive to Jerry
Brown’s presidential campaign. Clintstone was also part of Brokaw’s
panel, as was Governor Wilder, along with Senator’s Tom Harkin, Bob
Kerry, and the late Paul Tsongas.
But those NBC anointed candidates weren’t on any ballots
anywhere, except for Paul Tsongas, who had filed for nomination, as had
“Jacklegs,” on ‘Ground Hog Day for Presidential Candidates’ in New
Hampshire. For the record, Governor Wilder dropped out of the
primaries a couple weeks later, leaving one less candidate for the
networks to speculate about.
As long as Brokaw’s panel of presidential hopefuls, when they
were on his show, were not on any ballots in 10 states, an FCC
promulgated 1972 threshold presidential candidates were required to
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cross for the 312(a)(7) access privilege of televised nationwide speech to
kick, then, according to a well settled legal concept, e quill yap under the
law, also known as, “what’s good for the goose is good for the gander,”
constitutionally, the 14th Amendment, “Jacklegs” wasn’t required to be
on ballots in 10 states either, to be qualified for the privilege we grant
our presidential candidates: nationwide mass media live broadcast
network sprechen-zing.
This e quill yap broadcast fact was carefully spelled out in the
FCC’s original promulgations – their congressionally required
interpretation of the 312(a)(7) statute, upon its passage by Congress.
Sew much for the slack behind Jacklegs’ High Court case that
yet uncut, hangs today by a Kevlar thread with Goldbar and the Coats.
Goldbar, dusted, is out of the mix. At this juncture it’s Justice Roberts,
Chief of all Coats, with swinger Justice Sandra Day O’Conner retired
and out the door, her replacement nominated and marinated. Hark! Sam
Alito, an Appellate, lips under seal, slipped the gate and beat the demos’
veto. Jacklegs’ tale is come full circle!
“Jacklegs” was entitled to be given or sold the airtime he sought
on behalf of his campaign for President, to state his case for nomination,
and election. The American people were entitled, then and now, to hear
the Jacklegs’ speech on behalf of his presidential campaign, why he is a
candidate, the programs he intends on rolling, via Executive Order, upon
election, and more!
You have the right to stand for your public offices. It’s the main
stay of our Franchise. Voters have the right to spend an evening with
you, too, en masse, to understand why you seek their public office, your
public plans that reflect your sense over our ship of state, your personal
ideas and beliefs, beyond an inaugural oath to defend our constitution, in
Bush’s case, with his left hand hidden in his coat, his fingers crossed.
King Solomon muses:
Is something wrong with standing on your own two feet? State
your case for office.
The 312(a)(7) statute reflects your affirmative right to request
and be granted airtime, for speech. As long as your request is reasonable,
granting requests for bookings of political ads that start to run sew many
months before the ballots are cast is pro forma.
The TV stations are obligated to The Franchise, to our First
Amendment law. They cannot reject your constitutional right to airtime
without jeopardizing their broadcast license. Sew the station takes the
money and runs. Runs your 30-second political massage.
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“Requesting,” a purchase of time for a 30-second campaign blitz,
oar the time for a one-hour sprechen in depth, on behalf of an informed
electorate is pro forma, a formality. As our Supreme Coats ruled, a long
time ago, in Buckley v. Sarajevo: Money talks!
The 312(a)(7) access law was crafted by congress to protect and
encourage unbridled mass media political speeches, at the lowest unit
rate, knot for consultant pro deuced 30-second commercials, the playing
of which, though beneath our First Amendment umbrella, barely qualify
as speech. Sew granting your request for an extensive, informative
speech is as pro forma, as reasonable, as any 30-second commercial,
though in today’s world, a live sixty minutes speech by an incumbent, or
candidate is rare indeed, a news event!
The 435 House of Representatives Members, their districts
gerrymandered, have C-Span for personal ramblings, offering zip from
their collective guts, beyond “vote for me,” with whatever else the Rove
styled pro on their office payroll arranges to spew on their behalves, in
the macaca campaign street, beneath the radar.
Is that why we were compelled to the beaches of Normandy and
Iwo Jima, to germinate J. Edgarina’s fascist band above us, Bush’s
Gestapo-like overseers, who as we sit are quietly listening in?
The political poddy polls have turned pallah tickle life into a
stinking filth. Stuffing an incumbent is a counter productive slash burn
toilet mouthy deal that puts off most, and stunts our growth. But we are
entitled to go for word. Your right to purchase the airtime you require for
an uninterrupted, eyeball-to-eyeball televised speech is an affirmative
constitutional right, inviolate!
Except candidates are unapprised of their entitlement to give live
televised political speeches on behalf of their campaigns.
PBS stations are under that same 312(a)(7) statute, too. Noncommercial TV stations can charge for the use of their studios, but for
sprechen-zing on their FCC licensed channels, not one red cent is
required, where free describes their bandwidth spread of airtime!
Well, that’s the way it was, since the statute was passed, in 1971,
establishing the extension of your 1st Amendment Rights over the public
airwaves, into your living rooms; affirmed by the Supreme Coats, Berger
deciding, in 1981, until the Jacklegs exercised his First Amendment
Rights, in New Hampshire, in 1988, on NHPTV, New Hampshire Public
Television.
Then Congress, or someone, an aide, we don’t know who,
without discussion, 12 years later, circa 2000 - 2001, in the dark, more
than likely, after Bush was elected, when exactly is knot clear, silently
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earmarked out of our pallah tickle mix, all the PBS stations’ Public
Interest obligation to air political speeches, making it nearly impossible
to run for any federal office without at least a suitcase full of cash in
hand. Knot what our founding fodders intended!
“Earmarks” were created to slush limited dollars into ‘homedistrict pet projects,’ knot to eliminate your First Amendment Rights to
televised political speech, that, an impermissible violation!
The illegal, First Amendment “earmark” was accomplished via
insert into an appropriations bill. Legislative history is absent because the
Wehrmacht earmark violates our Bill of Rights, our First Amendment,
and more. The violation was and is, impermissible; cloaked, sew the
earmark culprit is a D.C. ‘who done it,’ well worth a hearty looking into.
Start at the bottom. Work your way up. When you locate the actual data
entry person, inquire who actually gave the earmark to them for entry.
Where did it come from? When? See where you get, grousing after this
gross illegality until head long you crash into the fascist’s tangle of maze
stonewalls.
Your First Amendment Rights are, as noted above, inviolate!
They bind us as a nation, distinguishing our country from all the rest.
You will knot locate a single Member of Congress, current or past,
owning up to besmirching our constitutional rights. Who ever it was that
did it, earmarking Wehrmacht trash into an appropriations bill, will lead
you back, perhaps to a rogue Duke Cunningham, and from him, to the
FBI! Why else did FBI ignore the openly corrupt goniff? Did
Cunningham do ‘earmarks’ for FBI’s private CIA agenda?
That famous photograph of FBI’s founder, your J. Edgarina,
clutching a Thompson sub-machine gun, set and ready to mow down
some unknown bank robber, is just that, a photograph. FBI stands for
Fascist Bureaucracy Ink. Edgarina Hoover’s ‘Seat of Power,’ his dome
est tickle Gestapo focused on all our creative people, operating like the
old East German Stasi, lite.
Earmarks, tax slushes, are musseled in, attached to every bill,
especially Acts of Congress that cannot but be passed, like
Appropriations Bills. Search the set of volumes known as, “United States
Statutes At Large.” Find, “106th Congress 2nd Session 2000 Volume
114 Part 5, p.p. 2763 – 3092 Public Laws,” or bribe a librarian with a
couple Hershey kisses to find it for you.
The top of the Page we seek carries, all in caps, “Public Law
106-554-Appendix D 114 Stat. 2763-251. We are on page 251.
Sample: “Sec. 150. There is hereby appropriated for payment to the
Ricky Ray Hemophilia Relief Fund, as provided by Public Law 105-369,
103
$105,000,000, of which notwithstanding any other provision of law
$10,000,000 shall be for program management of the Health Resources
and Services Administration, to remain available until expended.” When
is that?
Here is the next: “Sec 151. (a) There is hereby appropriated to a
separate account to be established in the Department of Labor for
expenses of administering the Energy Employees Occupational Illness
Compensation Act, $60,400,000, to remain available until expended:
Provided, That the Secretary of Labor is authorized to transfer to any
Executive agency with authority under the Energy Employees
Occupational Illness Compensation Act, such sums as may be necessary
in FY 2001 to carry out those authorities.”
King Solomon muses:
On and on they go, like the Energizer Bunny, our Treasury doors
blown open for anonymous congressional caprice. In 2005, Congress
authorized 13,999 earmarks, 26 for each Member of Congress, to
examine in detail, to deeply look into, when they aren’t out stuffing their
gullets, lunching with lobbyists. A couple earmarks were sponsored by
Bush’s disgraced, jail ensconced one-time friend, republican lobbyist
Jack Abramoff.
Peer-ships! Its time we cast a hard glance at the anti-Jacklegs
earmark. We name the unconstitutional earmark after Jacklegs for good
reason. In the thirty years since the access law passed, Jacklegs is the
only candidate ever to have ever exercised his affirmative Right to make
an unbridled extemporaneous speech on PBS, an idea your fascist
bureaucrats would like to sea permanently eliminated:
“Sec. 148. (a) Section 312(a)(7) of the Communications Act of
1934 (47 U.S.C. 312(a)(7)) is amended by inserting, “ other than a noncommercial educational broadcast station,” after “use of a broadcasting
station.” ”
“b) The Federal Communications Commission shall take no
action against any non-commercial educational broadcast station which
declines to carry a political advertisement.”
Whoops! The most important statute passed by the Congress in
the 20th century, establishing your First Amendment Right to assemble
and hear a speech, via mass media, or for you to deliver a political
speech, on PBS, via our airwaves on their mass media, into all the living
rooms of all the private people tuning in is now trashed:
Section 312(a)(7) now authorizes the FCC to revoke a
broadcaster’s license “ for willful or repeated failure to allow reasonable
access to or to permit purchase of reasonable amounts of time for the use
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of a broadcasting station, other than a non-commercial educational
broadcast station, by a legally qualified candidate for Federal elective
office on behalf of his candidacy.”
Part (b) of the earmark instructs the Federal Commission knot to
take action against any non-commercial station that declines to carry a
candidate’s political advertisement. What is behind that instruction,
which cedes an, Advertisement for Myself, back to the Federal District
Courts, clearly knot the FCC’s Wehrmachtian intent?
Judge Buckley, of the famous Buckley v. Sarajevo case, that
adjudicated when Buckley was a candidate for Senator in New York
State, before he lost the race and was handed his judgeship, insisted to all
the PBS stations in N.Y. S. they carry his five minute campaign infomercial, to be aired between programs, five times a day. PBS was / is
under the same access law as the commercial broadcasters, sew the
stations complied with candidate Buckley’s request.
Judge Buckley lost his race for Senator; and, he is the only
federal candidate ever to have run a five-minute political ad on PBS!
Peer-ships! There is sew much about your mass media freedom
you don’t know. As a secretary answering the telephone in the FCC’s
cable division remarked to Jacklegs, years ago, about PBS being under
the access law, with the same obligations as commercial stations, “It’s
the best kept secret in America.”
The earmark, slipped into an appropriations bill, 251 pages deep,
removes PBS’ more than 350 TV stations from any First Amendment
obligation to make their studios available to candidates for federal office,
for political speeches. This Wehrmachtian earmark rapes the constitution
and violates our Rights, leaving in play the outdated scarcity of
bandwidth concept, that, although washed years ago, stuffs all our
political speeches by candidates for office into that ancient, narrow band
of outrageously expensive, over-the-air, commercially networked
broadcast nets, which takes out all but the rich, the elected, and
connected from publicly speaking to any issue, most importantly, the
issue of who should be our next President.
In the words of John Fund, the esteemed Wall Street Gurgle
blabberific, “earmarks (are) the special pork projects members of
Congress secured often without hearings, notice or even disclosure to the
direct recipient.” Fund states further, [W]hen “President Reagan vetoed a
highway bill in 1987, he complained that it contained a thenunprecedented 152 earmarks. Last year's highway bill alone contained
6,371 earmarks, or 42 times as many.”
King Solomon muses:
105
Cubby macacas saddle up! Your constitutional Right to gather in
your living rooms, assembled there for a political speech by any
presidential candidate, or candidate for a House or Senate seat, given live
from a television station, is well settled, though earmarked by
government fascists for elimination.
The 312(a)(7) statute, circa 1971, and the Supreme Coat’s ruling,
nine years later, in 1980, sits beyond their fascist-try. Your right to give,
or hear a live political speech on PBS was impermissibly demolished. At
any time their fascist slop is a subject, over ripe, for judicial challenge in
the nearest Federal District Court.
Realize their insert, into an appropriations bill, in the name of a
self-serving Congress, eliminated from our pallah tics the mix of
political speech by candidates on PBS, which violates our Founding
Father’s Franchise, the protections of our Constitution and our Bill of
Rights, and the why of all our kids dying every day in Iraq, in George
Bush’s words, “standing watch for liberty in distant lands.”
Who but a fascist can justify Iraq’s annihilation, thousands of
miles away, as being somehow on behalf of our Founding Father’s
common sense, which has evolved into our way of life? But as long as
we keep sending our children overseas to die for democracy, then is it
time we start honoring our First Amendment principles in our own
country, where we hold our belief in democracy is more than a stars and
bars banner, in today’s post Abbie Hoffman world, beyond a blacked out
flag t-shirt on a Merv Griffen talk show?
Wanted: 435 maverick patriots. Are you ready to challenge the
current Lock-Steppers of Congress for a Seat in your own House of
Representatives? We shall see the Congress’ “earmark,” their
unconstitutional ‘darkness at noon’ in an appropriations bill, inserted
there to destroy your right to see and hear a speech, their fascist-try,
rightly undone in the Federal District Court closest by to your candidacy,
unless a newly elected Congress grabs the bit and undoes this fascist
transgression on their own. The departed beat poet, Alan Ginsburg, said
it best: “Democracy is like sex. Use it or lose it.”
Those deep ending on this current congressional lock-step band
of ‘liars in pub lick play siz’ are going down with them. Those who limo
rode with Tom DeLay will slide away with Tom DeLay.
King Solomon muses:
Every state has its own laws. Achieve ballot status for your
state’s primary, the vote that decides who gets the party line on the
general election ballot. Oh! You equally hate both dems and reps? Great!
Change your registration from independent to the incumbent’s party.
106
Once you establish ballot status for a primary, hold a press conference at
the doorway of the local PBS station.
The access law applies to primaries, as well as to the general
election. Expect lots of free publicity, too as the incumbent will claim
you are an interloper, knot a true potty person. Most people in your
district will love it. Simply talk good common sense from the heart, and
you can win. You don’t have to be a genius because you have one giant
reverberation on your side. You are knot them!
Distribute copies of your reasonable request for studio and
airtime to deliver your live, unbridled, Advertisement for Yourself on
television, on behalf of your candidacy for election to be the district’s
representative in our Congress. The Jacklegs, jumping up, will gladly
assist you in crafting your request, and give you a hand drafting your
campaign advertisement. You can rewrite your info-speech in your own
words, sew the speech you give is your speech.
Expect lots of free publicity as other decent people, like you,
might be doing exactly as you are, across America! ‘Raise up the
banner!’ In President Bush’s words, you are on “Freedom’s March,” in
our America, where it counts! The souls of our nation’s kids, all of our
valiant young warriors, those who fought and died, protecting your
rights, shine down from above on your righteousness, you, a patriot
reestablishing democracy in our country.
Expect your Gestapo styled FBI, unannounced, amidst the press,
in unmarked vehicles, also at the station’s door for your press meet,
getting down the license plates of your supporters. Act like you are
Sonny Corleone, but instead of shuffling the Edgarina’s, snap their
pictures. Hoover’s fash dirt bags will hide their faces and run.
King Solomon muses on, about Ross Perot:
All of candidate Ross Perot’s 30-minute speeches he paid to air
on network channels when he ran for President years ago, could have
aired for free on the loose flung PBS network. All Ross Perot had to do
was put in his request. But knot having read the access law, Perot didn’t
ask. Perot’s advisors neglected to inform Perot of the PBS’ noncommercial, cannot-charge-for-airtime status.
As it was lettered in the Television Scripture, foretelling the why
of Ross Perot in Ken Follett’s book, “On Wings of Eagles:”
“Ross Perot boogalee
Cay jun bruth er
Keep your guns
You’ve been caged be
107
for
Yer liv in in town
Hang up yer hole stir
You kin get off
Get yer rocks off” C. 1971
Is standing on your own self-written platform, and stating your
case for election to public office so scary? Upon your success you have a
choice: work the art of pallah tics, turning the planks in your platform
into law, or become another public liar, slouched at the lectern on your
fav forearm, talking down to the pretzels, your aides a linebacker
entourage set to scoot you out the door and gone.
Historically, requests for airtime, for airing live, uncensored
spontaneous, unrehearsed speeches are newsworthy challenges the
elected politishinz won’t accept! Especially incumbents. Politishinz
reject unscripted events where quest yins might arise, unrehearsed, they
haven’t focus-grouped answers to first. Today’s politishinz are not what
our Founders imagined.
Leaders come for word. They have clear heads. Leaders craft
their own best words, with good sense their test. Politishinz aren’t
leaders. With every district gerrymandered, the bleeders choose us, knot
we, choosing them. We don’t have any choice but take them on faith,
believing our read between the lines is what we will be getting.
Regardless, half of our populace, legally qualified to vote,
despise the politishinz, see them as bad poetry, shut them out; and in
refusing to cast their ballots, vote non, for none of the above!
Nationwide, by light of ebbing support for a fight in Iraq we
didn’t need to pick, Cindy Sheehan’s followers, other moms who lost
their spouse or son keep their memories alive, protesting. Congress
smells the blood on the wall. The Members want to see this war done
with, too, but there isn’t an end in sight! They’re knot leaders. Barky
Obama notwithstanding, for lots of people getting out looks bloody.
Bush’s conservative band of cable blabberifics attempted at first
to mute the opposition, with talking points: “Congress debated and voted
for the war,” and “criticizing our President and how we are doing the
fighting hurts our troops,” examples of the fascist’s brain, cranked on
overtime, straining reality. Criticizing the lackluster Bush doesn’t hurt
our troops, but will bother forever George Bush’s smug dry mother, BarDonna Bush Corleone!
Yet in our hearts we voted in favor of taking down Saddam. We
bought the Bush Deal: War, allowing our hatred of Saddam to cloud our
108
judgments, before our sense to end this tragedy burst from the Marine
war hero, Member of Congress, Jack Murtha.
Speaking to the horrible carnage in Iraq doesn’t hurt our troops;
rather speaking about it might save some lives! We were for this war
before an indiscriminate blood bath flipped us against it.
The Congress’ pre-war debates, tied into their re-elections,
cannot justify our death count, our loved ones dead, mere specs, from
dust to dust, forever gone, their hearts short circuited for Bush’s missing
mushroom cloud. Oh! Bush’s cause is just? Tell us. Oh! Is it, “we must
stay the course,” redressed for the press? What course was that beyond,
“trust us, we are the ones who know what’s best?”
Does Bush’s course point to an exit from Iraq, or a Crawford
roadside in Texas? It always seems up to someone else, up to the
President and his ribbon shirt band, up to the Iraq Study Group, up to the
knot quite ready for prime time Iraqis, but knot to us, the people whose
treasure, our kid’s, their lives snuffed out, is our life time cost.
Yet when it’s all sadly said, and all the fun undone, none of us
were opposed to taking down Saddam, the despot we despised. We all
wanted to get Saddam out! Bush claimed Hussein was on the brink, with
Weapons of Mass Destruction, planning to mushroom millions, and we
were swayed. We bought it. But Wholesale Mass Destructive goop
wasn’t to be found in Iraq because there was none.
As far as who actually voted in favor of this mayhem, besides
Hillary Rodham Clintstone, did you personally vote for writ?
Our
Electoral College, sensible in 1787, skewers our pallah tics. Add up our
total citizenry qualified to vote. It turns out ‘Little Bush,’ the Vietnam
era chicken hawk, was elected with 31% of the electorate, knot exactly
an overwhelmingly clear majority of citizens voting for Bush to drive us
into an obscene war we most certainly did knot have to fight.
The silent majority was against this war, big time, costing today,
minimum, $2000 per second. Worldwide, millions of unsilent marched
against US making war in Iraq, but Bush smelt Saddam was ripe to
pluck, and ‘Little Bush’ sought to wun up his daddy’s legacy, costing our
country, on the clock, knot counting all of those priceless lives forever
locked, $2000 bucks with every tock.
The key to freedom is free; rights are unalienable. Now that
thousands of our kids are dead, sew they won’t have died for Bush’s
vanity, how uh bout requiring that all of our candidates give two-hour
speeches, written by themselves, live, on the issues they choose, by
popular consent, teleprompting disallowed, sew to honor all our fallen
heroes who fought, are fighting, and dying over there, to protect our God
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given freedoms here, sew our treasures, our kids will knot have died for
naught, for Bush’s vanity, but gave their lives sew we could reestablish
our First Amendment Right to political media.
King Solomon muses:
Nada chants.
Broadcasters are tethered to a conduct in the Public Interest, to
maintain their franchise. Sew aren’t our elected officials also beholden to
a conduce of all our public affairs in the Public Interest?
Informing the electorate satisfies the Public Interest requisite for
a broadcaster’s license renewal, too. By the way, taxpayer, when was the
last time you saw any TV station publicize their station’s license was up
for renewal, and would you care to tender a comment on the Public
Interest job your local broadcaster is doing?
We are the youngest nation in the world, with the oldest standing
government. Our true lead er ship, the unknowns we have yet to realize,
ought to be capable of rising up, to stand for public office without
compromise, coming forward without having to barter their souls for the
nod from Tom DeLay’s special in trysts, or the go ahead for financing
from so-called party ‘officials.’
The avenue for Political Speech should be as our founding
fathers manifestly paved the way of our Constitution and Bill of Rights,
toll free as the air we breath. We are entitled to our Freedom of Speech
on our airwaves because our licensed airwaves belong to us, to we, the
people. The most important, key element of these broadcast licenses is
the Public Interest: access to media for political speech by candidates,
that guarantee, nothing less.
Political Speech, in America, is our highest, most protected form
of speech, higher than True Verse, which is our highest form of art, that
God given, stemming from the human heart. Political Speech, in
America, is higher yet than art, and more protected. But out on the
political trail, in our slush fed shrill campaigns for office, the viewing of
any Political Speech is governed by privately, pre-determined news
formats, and in that time frame, a two minute news content of a
candidate’s straight up speech on the broadcast evening noose constitutes
a mini-epic.
Out on the campaign trail, funded candidates are surrounded by
secret service, their personal protection at phenomenal taxpayer expense.
The candidates’ rights to give speeches are also constitutionally
protected, that First Amendment guarantee, airtight.
But the stump political speech itself is naked, unprotected, and
judged by medja noose editors, as good for a ten second clip, only that
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much, regardless of Barky Obama’s Gary Hart line, ‘new directions,’
Ezra Pound’s coinage, ‘nude erections,’ and all the wrest.
Well, we are obligated to protect our mass media Political
Speeches, and we are entitled to a more cost effective method, a better
way for truly unmitigated Political Speech on our televisions, a cleaner
campaign avenue, but our political soap-suds trailer comes with one old
fashioned Constitutional hitch: every citizen legally qualified for public
office, who runs, is also legally entitled to mass media access for
speeches, regardless how many ducats are docked in their campaign
socks.
King Solomon muses:
Are you, potentially, one of the 435 patriots ready to make a
stand on behalf of our freedom, and won’t, like Paul Hackett, be talked
into giving up your quest? Do you need issues you can adapt, embrace,
and articulate for your campaign? Original thinking is hardly requisite
for public service, but recognizing innovation, when it comes your way,
is, sew have a current innovative, eyeball opener:
“Afghanistan was not the key issue in our last presidential
campaign, though it should have been. For Bush, Afghanistan was a
mere truck stop on his road map to mayhem in Iraq. Afghani film clips
on the news show elderly farmers tending their opium poppies. This
year, as last, every farmer planted poppy, fields thick as those by the
yellow brick road scene in The Wizard of Oz.
Once again the Afghani farmers expect a record-breaking
bumper crop, this time more than 90 per cent of the world’s opium
production. Where is it going and who is it getting?
Opium is revolutionary medicine, part of Mother Nature’s
intelligent design. Opium has been cultivated in Afghanistan for dozens
of decades. Without fertilizer, the Afghani farmers bring to market what
all the opiate dealers claim is awful good stuff. Heroin is distilled from
opium. From heroin, we get codeine and morphine, drugs the world finds
useful agents, for eliminating pain.
The issue here isn’t a stand in opposition to our counter
productive, arbitrarily dumb ass drug wars, but what can and must be
accomplished to decapitate al Qaeda. Afghanistan’s opium crop is the
key to eliminating the bin Laden group. Osama bin Laden’s base
lieutenants count on the opium harvest to finance their Jihad. That is why
they promoted an increase in opium poppy acreage. Suicide bombers
aren’t blowing themselves up and away to enhance Jihad. Their families
are given thousands garnisheed from the opium sales. That is why they
cross the borders into Iraq, daily, to go bye bye A.S.A.P. The money.
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Follow Jacklegs’ Afghan plan and you will get to bin Laden, the elusive
gentle man whose people brought us 9-11.
The solution is clear: purchase Afghanistan’s entire opium crop,
directly from the farmers. The most heavy-duty of knockdown shootouts
will commence on that. All unholy hell is bound to break loose over who
gets to control the farmer’s black gold. These lowly opium farmers, like
opium growers world wide, are key to eliminating the underworld cash
cow their Afghan opium represents.
Would you like to neuter Osama bin Laden’s program? Then we
need creativity fast! The warlords, as the roadside poppies stand, plan on
first opium dibs, give or take, at gunpoint, and will pay, from farmer to
farmer, local prices tempered by heroin market conditions in Europe,
offset by what the local growers will accept for their crop.
We can defeat the Afghani warlords at their opium game. Out of
respect for Judge Buckley, when he campaigned for Senator in the great
State of New Yawk: Money talks!
The Afghanistan warlords, left to them selves, will oversee the
fresh opium crop cooked into heroin, that hardy, highly addictive
distillation, earmarked for bin Laden’s group. Osama’s Jihad gang will
smuggle the Afghani heroin to French Connection dealers in Europe, and
from Europe, an unhealthy portion into America, netting al Qaeda many
millions of fresh operational jihad dollars.
That is Osama bin Laden’s al Qaeda game plan. We need
seasoned troops in Afghanistan, over the whole country, more than we
have, immediately, before their next poppy crop goes into full bloom, our
seasoned troops wherever the opium is ready, to take on the warlords.
The opium poppy is knot harvested in one fell sweep, sew we have to
camp out on the farms until the harvest is complete, a very dangerous
mission indeed. As soon as the warlord opium traders find out they are
out bid, and down the bitter opium road, cut out of the cookery, unable to
meet their pay rolls, or pay for their deep fried egg rolls, eggs pect all
chaos to immediately break loose.
But we should not pay the farmers fully in cash, either. Instead
we need to create picture ID’s on the spot, with Master Card logos and
the understanding they are getting some cash in the hand, with the
balance deposited in a tax free Kabul bank account, protected, available
via ayteayem, so the war lords don’t show up the night after their opium
is delivered to ‘tax’ the farmer’s cash, which the growers fairly received
for their harvest.
In this manner we will infuse, minimum, a couple billion dollars
per harvest into Afghanistan’s farm economy, a pittance for us, as we are
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spen ding there, much of it on ourselves, one billion dollars a month,
anyway. We will infuse our opium ducats, into the bottom of the
Afghan’s e con oh me, enriching their country.
The Bin Laden group, counting cage free chickens before they
hatch, and bin Laden himself, might find he is financially strapped,
unable to cough up for security, opening the possibility that for a couple
million dollars a couple of Osama’s most trusted buds might give him
up. Don’t we want that?
We must also purchase all of Afghanistan’s marijuana and
hashish, and with diplomacy, see that cannabis shipped, over cost, with a
profit, to Amsterdam where the herb is politely sold in shops.
Is getting our total opium investment back the issue? It can’t be
with the current annihilation costing us minimum, $2000 every second!
Opium imported for manufacturing morphine and codeine comes from
opium fields we pay for in Turkey. Many other civilized countries, knot
the U.S., deal with their heroin undercurrents as a non-criminal medical
condition.
You imagine heroin a terrible drug that must be stamped out, but
you have yet to stamp it out. There have always been, for centuries, two
or three percent of the world’s population who use and abuse some form
of drug, to get through the day, regardless. As it is written in the
Television Scripture:
“In Samarian lands
They brewed ther beer
Fir six days in then
They drank it in rest id..”
C. 1971
And pages later:
“Raid E ay shun
Be our down fall
My ooo my how
Ther is a pow wow
Polly wanna crac er
Is my Pallah sea
Feed the hung re
Sly sup the peace pipe
Smoe cum O pea um
Cure all yer painz
In may ka lodda dreams
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It own le takes a way
Yer rap a tite fir food.
Sum kin tay ka
Trip on the ass id
Slide if you can
But re mem burr
Mind eggs pan ding
Drugs ar not food
fir thawt.
Speed kin kill bed
Er fass tiff you
Wanna get high.”
C. 1971
King Solomon muses:
Mind eggs pan ding drugs are knot food for thought. Ding, in
Chinese, translates ‘chopped up,’ as in the popular dish, chicken almond
ding. Tiff is computer language, that coming into view, years later. Mind
eggs pan ding is the imagery of an award winning anti-drug commercial,
sponsored by the non-profit Ad Council:
This is your brain – This is your brain on drugs. Recollect the
cast: iron fry pan, eggs fried hard. Very effective. It stuck. The ad guys
made tons of bucks from the ad contracts that followed. The commercial
was hot, but the fried eggs pan image was a stolen prop.
When Jacklegs finished writing His prophetic Television
Scripture, he sold first edition copies in the student union on the
university campus where he wrote his inspiration down. One of the stew
dent purchasers remarked, “My father works for an advertising agency in
New York City. I’m going to show The Book ov Lev It A Kiss to him.”
The stew dent’s father worked for Weiden and Kennedy. The agency
lifted a lot. Television’s old timers have been listening to snippets from
The Television Scripture, for years:
“This is the promised land
That was then
This is now
Each land show wit’s promise
Pow wow to the pea pull
Up with the folks.”
C. 1971
When a company can’t obtain needed raw materials to
manufacture their product, the company retrenches, or folds its tent,
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because their customers go elsewhere. The world’s heroin demand will
be met by opium growers in Iran, and also warlords from South East
Asia, for a more lucrative price, whatever the heroin markets will bear,
but bin Laden’s terrorists, the killers we want, will be out of the opium
mix. We cannot pass on this chance to get bin Laden.
The contraband opium al Qaeda nets in Afghanistan readily
translates into the dollars required to pay the families of martyrs who
blow themselves to smithereens every other day in Iraq. Absent the
proceeds from their opium smuggle, al Qaeda could be out martyred.
Saddam gave $25,000 to the families of the kids who martyred
themselves via suicide vests in Tel Aviv. Saddam is out of the picture,
his money shunted, and most of the suicide bombings in Israel, for the
time being, anyway, are on hold.
Purchasing the Afghanistan opium and hashish will bring on that
same effect in Iraq. Don’t we want to stop needless loss of lives?
Knot withstanding all your Members Of Congress being surely
opposed to a just renewal of our broadcast laws, against any opening of
our First Amendment doors, sew we can talk on these matters, there is a
brilliant, fail-safe constitutional way to secure our paramount right as a
free people to hear unbridled, mass media sprechens over our airwaves,
from all of our bona fide candidates for office, without any TV station
operators suffering any financial distress whatsoever, which is the
broadcaster’s only complaint, that, impeding this concept of our political
speech becoming, ‘free at last.’
The financial concept of, on request, set-asides for political
candidates to give free, ‘live’ campaign speeches, on behalf of an
informed electorate, isn’t free. The shmear-marked ‘free’ airtime that
belongs to the local broadcasters must be paid for.
King Solomon muses:
I, King Solomon, on behalf of the Jacklegs, could not agree
more. Airtime for speech must be paid for. A $3.00 voluntary check-off,
on your income tax, is the air tight check and balance required to keep
Money & Power, along with our whole Fourth Estate, our blabberific, socalled government watching, free press untouchables, as honest as the
daylight savings day is long.
In today’s bitter world, our Constitution and Bill of Rights
requires we create and maintain a Political Speech Fund! This First
Amendment concept: pre-paid time for mass media political speech by
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candidates for federal office can be readily accomplished via voluntary
income tax check-off.
The Federal Election Commission handles your voluntary
matching fund check off from your income tax. In the Bush Gore contest,
after the primaries, $75 million dollars were earmarked for the two
parties’ anointed, greasing their post convention lopes down the slope to
election. Yet each year, the voters check off less. Hmm. Fixing our
campaign finance law requires a radical approach.
We should dump matching funds, re play sing them with
common sense! But the political parties controlling Congress won’t sew
quickly give up their private political party feed off the public trough,
and sew what! We are regardless, entitled to an income tax check-off for
a First Amendment Speech Fund, that, to run side by side with their
matching ponzi re-election scheme.
Free, unmitigated political speech is finally within our reach;
what we are entitled to! Instead of strictly limited matching funds, with
billionaires like George Soros out there, guaranteed their 527 rights to
purchase unlimited airtime for airing their political views, we, the
people, are entitled to see mass media speeches by candidates backed by
a speech check-off on our income tax, to match billionaire George Soros’
money, establishing true constitutional balance!
You, standing for President, or Member of Congress, contact the
TV network of your choice, or stations airing in your district, and
affirmatively book your block. The broadcaster bills our First
Amendment Speech fund for all the ad dollars the station, or network
pre-booked in the time slot you chose for your proposed speech. Free
televised political speech is therefore guaranteed the populace!
Without any sacrifice, broadcasters get their money, which is
exactly the broadcaster’s issue! The station owner operators are entitled
to their dollars! We practice the political freedom our heroes sacrificed
their lives for on the beaches of Normandy, and Iwo Jima; and years
later, in the orange clad Vietnamese jungles, and in our most recent of
times, today, on the unprotected roadways through the baathist desert
slimes.
Our heroes, today’s kids in uniform, are giving their lives to
protect our rights. We owe them protection of their rights, to political
mass media speech, by virtue of a $3.00 income tax check off for our
Speech Fund. Could your self-serving Congress publicly come out
against reel political speech?
Competition is the best of necessities for our elected LockSteppers. Every Member of Congress should be primary challenged! And
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whoever won wouldn’t need to be meeting lobbyists every day; their
tongues hanging out for stir fried dollars and stuffed lobster. The newly
empowered would be freed up from their local poli-party for campaign
support; and knot be coerce-obligated into voting for any lock-step party
line. The elected dims in our House of Lock-Steppers, there on behalf of
doing the people’s business would fall by the electoral wayside, replaced
by decent people, who we would expect to display dollops of good old
fashioned intestinal fortitude, every official day they served.
Anyone can donate extra dollars for our Speech Fund, in clue
ding George Soros. Your stand-up speeches could carry a slow scroll at
the bottom of the screen, naming additional speech fund supporters, their
scrolling order, straw chosen: “This political speech paid in full by your
tax check-off dollars, along with donations from Halliburton, Microsoft,
Chet and Mel’s Auto, Apple Computer, Emily’s Diner, Pasquale’s
Pizzeria.”
Extra donations cover more unlimited political speeches on
television; balloons and junk mail candidates have to pay for from their
own campaign coffins. Live sporting events are exempted from speech
bumps, but sitcoms, and reruns are First Amendment trumped.
However, advance tape of your speech, for replay, does knot
qualify for Speech Fund guarantee. Only ‘in the flesh’ sprechen-zing
qualifies for our Public Interest funding. Publicly funded campaign
speeches must be given live, warts and all. Candidates are further
required to take an oath, live, on camera, on the Holy Books of their
choice, the words they are speaking, to us, over our public airwaves are
of their own making.
Abraham Lincoln didn’t have any focus groups, or a passel of
speechwriters to pen his Gettysburg Address. We cannot have less from
our candidates for office. Speech is exactly that: your words!
“Amer e kins feel
All men are e quill
Lead ers cum for wurd
They have clear heads
Be gin in log cab ins
Don't raise their voice is
Make a lodda sense in
Rite their own speech is.”
C. 1971
Congress’ intent behind our access statute, establishing
affirmative rights to television for broadcasting political speech, was to
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lower the cost of political campaigns, while protecting our First
Amendment Rights. Challenged, the Supreme Coats ruled, Justice Berger
deciding, mass media broadcast is an Affirmative Right. We have rights
dear peer-ship mates, both to broadcast and to listen.
George W. Bush does not believe in our constitution or Bill of
Rights. He, and his lock-step followers favor habeas corpuscle-ing your
First Amendment protections, to protect you from terrorists.
King Solomon muses:
There are 535 Members of Congress. You won’t find more than
a very few, willing to support your First Amendment Right to run for
their federal offices and present a mass media speech on behalf of your
candidacy, by virtue of a Speech Fund tax check-off to cover the cost, or
support your pro forma request for a prime time appearance on C-Span,
their Lamb established turf, to personally state your case for nomination,
with inquisitive call-ins from various news bureaus and classrooms of
participating stew dense.
Peer-ships, can you hear the beltway fascists’ bleat, “then
anyone can run,” exactly our Founders intent when they crafted the
Franchise - our Constitution and Bill of Rights? In light of today’s
technology, would the Founders knot agree that mass media political
speech ought to be funded by an income tax check off? Political speech
must be made available and free. Candidates pay for confetti.
Peer-ships! Are you above the law? C-Span, the ‘Network of
Political Record,’ sits above our telecommunications laws. Theirs is a
cable swath, three channels deep, without any broadcast or cable casting
license. Oh! C-Span has the broadest of license deals, which is none
whatsoever; none of the above. The C-Span is not obligated to our
telecommunication laws, as are all our other cable-casters.
That “F” word springs to mind. Communication fascists are most
creative when they sit, like C-Span’s puppet founder, Brian Lamb, above
our broadcast laws, beholden to none but the Pentagon!
Brian Lamb, the C-Span honcho, fits the fash status quo profile.
Oh! Dear peers, is poli-pro-filing so poli-incorrect? Does that “F” word
make you squirm?
Brian Lamb lobbied Congress to let his “company” cover the
House of Representatives, to start. Query any C-Span interns on the
telephone. They always refer to C-Span as, “this company,” just as
founder Lamb refers to Washington, as, “this town,” both soundings,
CIA which in-house stands for Cash-In-Advance.
Lamb established with a compliant Congress, that our First
Amendment was not applicable to his cable operation, sew Lamb’s in-
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house “company” sits above our broadcast laws, exempt, which is the
classic fascist method for cloaking, beholden to none, save his own status
quo, and his Pentagon cohorts on the other side of town.
America’s 24 / 7 “Network of Political Record,” is also the
comptroller of our televised political records, too. But whose “Political
Record” is it, dear peer-ships, C-Span’s, or ours? Clearly, the C-Span is
not required to provide e quill time to candidates for federal office,
because an appearance on C-Span, unlike appearing on David Letterman,
is a snooze event, and therefore exempt. But the cable companies’
funding money comes from you and me, cable’s subscribers. Lamb was
the C-Span founder, but we the American people are the actual C-Span
funders; our money, our airwaves!
C-Span, must be required by the Congress to provide airtime to
any and all candidates for federal elective office, whoever they may be,
upon their declarations of candidacy. Yet a million, millions of letters to
every Member of Congress won’t get but a few to budge on our
behalves, relative to the exercise of our 1st Amendment Right to political
speech. You are nothing but the dirt beneath their fealty. Your request to
C-Span will also be summarily dismissed, post haste, into C-Span’s
nearest land-of-the-free garbage bag, dumpster ready.
C-Span’s non-profit programming mission is uninterrupted
Congress, gavel-to-grovel coverage of both Houses. That is C-Span’s
official mission. When Congress is not in session, C-Span covers
unmitigated, uncensored, end-to-end records of commentators, in the
form of endless blabberific panels of beltway news and / oar think tank
events. With three cable channels airing 24 / 7, there is clearly unlimited
time for every candidate for all federal offices to state their case for their
party’s nomination, or for an independent nomination for election to the
Congress, or to our presidency.
King Solomon muses:
On September 3, 2006, radio talk show host Tammy Bruce was a
guest on C-Span’s book program. The call-in was repeated the following
Saturday morning, simulcast on two of the three C-Span channels.
Clearly plenty of C-Span space exists for speech and call-in interviews of
political candidates, but the word, in de pen dent, in C-Span’s overseer,
the United States Congress, is a duddy void.
C-Span determines what is covered, campaign speeches and all
the wrest. C-Span’s belt became their way to censor everything, the
opposite of freedom, with lasting consequence to us, the citizenry being
censored. Instead of our entitlement: new and original ideas, presented
by candidates, C-Span shells out dull process of campaign trivia. A
119
couple elections back, we viewed, on “Road to the White House,” knot
Senator Bradley, who was running to be our President, rather a couple
campaign volunteers trailed by C-Span’s cameras, walking down a New
Hampshire street, knocking on random doors.
The one prob limb with this First Amendment concept - the CSpan ceding their tight fisted control over their round-the-clock political
contents, their ceding even a sliver of their 24 / 7 program time, three
channels deep, to any candidate, e quill, or otherwise, upon request, is
obvious. This proposal of pow-wow transfer, that, in the form of mass
media political speech, into the hands of the candidates, via C-Span’s
studios, runs cross purpose to the Beltway’s we-above-know-what’sbest-for-you control freak culture, 4,155 kids, war dead weight with
which C-Span, and once upon a pre-Span time, the Pent-a-Navy based
Mr. Brian Lamb, are together anchored.
Here is our First Amendment program: access to C-Span’s
threshold media for political speech, for candidates for federal office,
made to work to everyone’s satisfaction, and especially, for C-Span’s
fascist redemption, as their above-the-law posture, is truly a fascistic,
CIA Cash In Advance in house, “company” operation.
Imagine yourself a federal candidate, running for Congress, for
Senator, or President. Ram tough, you file your pro forma request with
Brian Lamb’s D.C. based, subscriber sponsored cable operation,
exercising your affirmative, constitutionally protected right to jam, to
declare your political stand, smack right down our collective throats, into
the middle of our collective gut, uncensored live.
The rules governing your appearance are very clearly spelled out
in advance: you must appear live, and state your case for nomination, or
election, in the first thirty minutes of an uninterrupted hour, or forty-five
out of an uninterrupted ninety, and then take call-in-questions, on behalf
of an informed electorate, from identifiable sources, reporters in their
news rooms, bloggers, and questions also from school class rooms where
stew dense are participating, but knot live calls from the viewer-ship at
large, sew to avoid a monopoly of pre-arranged gush questions fronted
by the candidate’s died-in-the-wool supporters. The audience at large can
use email to ask genuine quest yins about your candidacy and inquire
what drives you to stand for their public office.
Repeat requests for access by candidates are reasonable, too, and
must be guaranteed. An hour with any potential leader is only a taste, an
eye opener. Are we entitled to a hard look, to see who our candidates
actually are, whoever they are, how they respond under sharp 4th Estate
media fire, with questions from all angles out of the blue, to judge the
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contents of their characters? Aren’t we entitled to more than a prescripted Rove styled fifteen-second clip?
Then, well before New Hampshire’s primary, we could have a
gnashional media intra-party straw poll, similar to how AP ranks our
NCAA teams, a pre-presidential “American Idol.” Our lowliest of cub
reporters, and stew dense, will be the exclusives, casting their straws for
those who should be officially “recognized by national news media” for
the primaries, which under our current laws, guarantees a candidate
ballot status in at least ten states, or for those whose appearance was,
charitably, de minimus; up or down.
De minimus winnows out all the candidly bizarre from their next
opportunity, the broadcast network level of privileged 312(a)(7) political
Speech Fund, tax dollar sponsored, unless said rejected de minimi happen
to be some Katharine Harris type millionairess with her own inherited
ducats to squander. As the Supreme Coats ruled, many decades ago in,
Buckley v. Sarajevo: money talks.
The ventriloquist’s live candidate, a pet pig, Mr. Piggy, we
assume, though an excellent talker about congressional pork, and a pig
hit on C-Span, pig time, will likely be voted off the broadcast platform
for non-constitutionality, as only the two legged variety of pig is allowed
a place on our ballots.
King Solomon muses:
Politishinz are puppets at heart with oinkable, piggy tastes, yet
human in form.
You are filthy rich. You believe live one-on-ones with the
electorate, absent pre-scripting are beneath your Bush-like approach?
Sew skip your C-Span opportunity and spend your own personal millions
on commercial ads showing your best sound bites from your favorite
select stump speech audience. All things being e quill, even a financially
challenged candidate can toss a couple hundred dollars into millions of
emails, sending the electorate links to their campaign website, where
voters can download all their pod cast speeches, and judge the
independent for themselves, instead of deep ending on a 3rd party’s
council: “He’s a leader. He looks you right in the eye.”
Knot withstanding Judge Buckley; Money & Power have
rearranged our pallah tics. Sew today is the best of days to rearrange our
guaranteed political rights, on the spot, this minute. Currently, without
mega ducats, you are cut from the mix before you kick off, which
contravenes our First Amendment principle.
Absent untold millions of rupees raised for your campaign,
noose medja simply ignores your challenge. The lobster stuffed media
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prima donnas, this newest breed of news people treat yours as a de
minimus candidacy. From their point of view, your viability is based on
money. But the tax collected Political Speech Fund, available to all of
our candidates, in one fell sweep, this ultra simple clear-cut proposal
totally levels the whole field of our politics.
As soon as you declare you’re in the running, after your nonpartisan C-Span appearances, you personally can tap into more than one
hundred million dollars in Fort Knox, earmarked by the citizenry to
cover the cost of your live, broadcast sprechenzing! Your live broadcast
network speech is free, protected by income tax check off!
You pay for the confetti. Sew who gives a hoot how much
lobbyist’s lucre the thievish incumbent politishinz are scum bagging for
their campaign coffins, or how much they squander, feting all the media
muffins who follow them around, their blabberific audience, or what they
spend on glossy brochures, or on lie filled banks of inflammatory
telephone scripts. The citizenry, wizened to all of their shenanigans, will
gladly tune in to judge you, their alternative.
Is it any wonder billions of our dollars, $2000 with every tick,
are being squandered halfway around the world, killing people, but in the
event of a second 9 /11 attack in U.S.A., by Bin Laden’s 2nd cousin,
Hezbollah for eggs ample, blowing off a dusted A-bomb from Russia’s
black market, well don’t you fret, dump-cough.
Guaranteed there is a carefully thought out get-away plan, but
the plan is knot for us - just them, your Members of Congress, selected
bureaucrats and their kin, exits ready for scrolling, the door behind them
ready set to slam, sew regardless how many millions of people are laid to
waste by terrorists, fend for yourself, poncho.
Bottoms up on Katrina’s image, folks in New Orleans, dying as
you watched, but for a drink of water. Washington’s bureaucrats, with
their own, will keep on trucking. Their survival plan is for them; knot
you taxpayer sucker. Your survival, ‘the terrorized sum of all your fears,’
is yours to imagine.
King Solomon clears his First Amendment throat:
Peers, digress is not digress.
Democrat Markey, in the yea olde democrat days, when he
chaired House Telecommunications, was a willing Lamb helpmate, quick
to eliminate cable TV’s obligation to honor the affirmative access rights
of candidates to give political speeches on local cable TV stations, yet
leaving in place the Fairness Doctrinaire “e quill opportunity”
obligations, sew to discourage local cable talk shows from inviting any
unsung, unknown candidates for interview .
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Cable producers were manipulated: You can invite a major
candidate on your cable program, but minor fringe candidates are bound
to demand e quill time, sew best knot have any candidates.
Even today, as noted above, with hundreds of channels, mass
media access for political speeches remains bottlenecked, squeezed into
the expensive broadcast nets, protecting all the Members of Congress
from an un-moneyed challenge by some unknown, though charismatic,
independent candidate.
But C-Span is distinguished – an industry user funded multichannel operation! Let e quill time apply to the rest of cable. It’s a direct
slice of your subscription money that pays for C-Span, which the Cable
operators are deducting from their corporate tax bills, sew you pay the
shot whilst they get off the hook, Scottie-free, unlocked.
Were access to C-Span’s studios, for independent political
speech, an affirmative, court protected 312(a)(7) Right, a well-settled
Public Interest duty of every broadcaster, then unaffiliated in de pen dent
candidates could affordably run for our public offices on their own gut
belief in themselves, instead of by the grace of Money & Power lobbyist
ducats, forked in advance.
The fascists confuse reality. They claim, “cable is private,” but
the cable television signal arrives at your local cable station over public
very un-private airwaves, which belong to the people.
Once upon a time, in 1980, all cable was under the 312(a)(7)
access law. It didn’t hurt, or inhibit cable casting then. It won’t hurt now.
Our First Amendment Right to unmitigated political speech on cable
makes sense unless you’re a fascist. Then you favor mass media to stay
as tightly controlled as it is, relative to political speech.
King Solomon muses:
C-Span has a grand and eloquent opportunity. C-Span can rocket
its company into America’s primo political clearinghouse for mass media
political speeches, our threshold for media broadcast speeches by all our
candidates for federal office! Freedom of Speech dissolves their fash
medja mentality. Candidates declare, therefore, access requests are taken
at their face value. The candidates are in charge of their own compelling
issues, with the call-ins controlled by C-Span, those exclusively from
schools and newsrooms, thwarting all the candidate’s gush supporters
from flooding the telephone lines.
Is this advance layout so complicated?
It is your own empowerment at stake. This is a fair method,
clearly enabling you to shake your truest leaders out from the mix, the
decent people we need to guard our Rights. With access to mass media
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for political speech within reach, you can decide for your self, on your
own, whether oar knot you support those few clear heads who come
before you, showing off their genuine common sense; reel people, knot
the wives and children of politishinz, and all the rest, confusing issues,
pressing hot buttons, promising the world and vote for them because they
know the ropes.
Of course there are bound to be abuses, besides occasional fringe
candidates, grabbing their chance, though knot cut like our Jacklegs, who
brings to the public domain his prophetic ‘Vehicle for World Peace,’
Jacklegs purpose on good ship mother urf: change the course of our
human history, at the least, an innovative solution for every prob limb
facing us, one excellent eggs ample, this First Amendment answer to
thwart the ongoing corruption of our pallah tics. Political discourse is
messy, but what the heck, democracy has always been messy, beginning
with the First Continental Congress.
The Senate hearings on the confirmation of Justice Roberts, for
Supreme Court Chief, were interrupted for a closed session. The Senators
were to hear testimony from FBI on their Roberts files.
Who put FBI in charge? What FBI Roberts files? Since when did
FBI get a voice-over who we choose to serve in our highest public
offices? What can there be that we need to know about any candidate’s
life the FB-Eye vets can apprise us of? But aren’t we, the people entitled
to know what FBI, in seek writ, lays claim to, about our own personal
lives; or do they only investigate the Paris Hiltons?
Downloadable at cointel dot org find J. Edgar Hoover’s own
well-settled thoughts about your constitutional entitlements. Read,
“Intelligence Activities and the Rights of Americans - Final Report of
The [Frank Church] Select Committee To Study Governmental
Operations With Respect To Intelligence Activities – U. S. Senate, April
1976, for the tip of the FB’s (fascist) Iceberg.
King Solomon muses:
Peer-ships! Have a taste of Senator Frank Church’s committee
finding, quoted below, to whet your appetite before you get engaged in
your own deep sea did 1976 www.cointel.org read:
“Too many people have been spied upon by too many
government agencies and too much information has been collected. The
government has often undertaken the secret surveillance of citizens on
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the basis of their political beliefs, even when those beliefs posed no
threat of violence or illegal acts on behalf of a hostile foreign power. . . ”
“FBI Headquarters alone has developed over five hundred
thousand domestic intelligence files, and these have been augmented by
additional files at FBI Field Offices. Sixty-five thousand of these files
were opened in one year alone. Each of these domestic files contained
information on more than one person, and the information was readily
obtainable through the FBI General Name Index.”
“Over a twenty-year period, nearly a quarter million letters were
opened and photographed in United States by the CIA, producing a CIA
computerized index of nearly one and a half million names. At least one
hundred thirty thousand first class letters were opened and photographed
by FBI, over a 26 year period, in eight separate U.S. cities.”
“Some three hundred thousand individuals were indexed in a
CIA computer system. Separate files were created on approximately
seven thousand two hundred Americans and over 100 domestic groups
during the course of CIA’s Operation Chaos. That program ran five
years, from 1967 to 1972.”
These unconstitutional FBI and CIA operations did knot cease!
They were killed in name only, revamped and fash re-stamped Classified
Top Seek Writ; then, still ongoing, perm sealed from view, and for what
it is worth, a bureaucracy in place, running today.
Onlion S. Shem interjects: Peers! When perusing Senator
Church’s Committee Reports, find one key fact: FBI decided what they
released to the Senator’s Committee. The Surveillance Act, and the
secret FISA Court that came out of the Act was a band-aid check for
unbalanced justice, a bureaucratic covering of another key fact:
FBI’s surveillancing in America was for its own sake. FB-Eye’s
main game was to maintain their personal, status quo careers! Poet
Prophet’s crime was escalating rhyme! HUAC, the House Un-American
Activities Committee investigated Hollywood’s writers!
“Millions of private telegrams sent from, to, or through the
United States were obtained by NSA from the late 40’s to the mid-70’s,
under a secret arrangement with three United States telegraph companies.
An estimated 100,000 Americans were the subjects of United States
Army intelligence files created between the mid 1960’s and 1971.”
Senator Church’s hearings did not end any of these intra-agency
activities. Senator Church’s televised hearings, as noted, exposed only
what FBI allowed Senator Church’s Committee to see!
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“At least twenty-six thousand individuals were catalogued on an
FBI list of persons to be rounded up in the event of a “national
emergency.” ”
And, after their roundup, where were these detainees to be
corralled? twenty-six thousand people is more than a minion. Were
‘Meals Ready To Eat’ on J. Edgarina’s Guantánamo lunch menu?
“Although the statutory law and the Constitution were often not
“[given] a thought” there was a general attitude that intelligence needs
were responsive to a higher law. Thus, as one witness testified, in
justifying the FBI’s mail opening program: “It was my assumption that
what we were doing was justified by what we had to do . . . the greater
good, the national security.” ”
Hoover’s ‘higher law’ was knot our constitution. In the words of
Paul Moskal, Special Agent, from Buffalo, NY, circa 1976, speaking to
Hoover’s ‘greater good:’ “We take people’s freedoms away. We put your
son we put your daughter in jail. We take away your freedom. We take
away your house. We take away your assets. We compile files of your
information – FBI dossiers – on you. If that doesn’t give you pause for
thought, nothing in this life will.”
King Solomon muses the facts:
Before the poet was on the ship 40 days and 40 nights, he was on
an FBI tap list. In 1969 he telephoned his mother from a small seaport on
the west coast of India. He told his mother that God showed him His face
in the wilderness, that God gave him words for all mankind. He needed
to get off the ship and fly home, but couldn’t get off the ship without a
telegram from home indicating emergency sickness in the family. His
mother sent the appropriate telegram and wired him $600 for a flight
back to USA from Bombay.
The poet flew from Bombay to Tel Aviv, where he caught the
sunrise, and from Tel Aviv to Athens, Greece. From Athens, after a plane
change, the passengers flew to Frankfort where Poet Prophet noted he
was under surveillance by an Interpol agent at the airport.
Months later, composing the Television Scripture, that a twelve
hours every day ten month effort, Poet Prophet was accosted by a grad
teacher, one Bob Cohen, in the hall of the student union where Poet was
doing a major portion of His prophetic writing. The bald, self-described
Stalinist who, years later, was reported to be FB-CIA, smilingly said,
“Lev, After the revolution comes and we are in power, you are the first
one we are coming for, to take you away.”
Onlion S. Shem interjects again:
Where is Wisconsin U.B. communist grad, Bob Cohen today?
126
Hark! Comrades! Thomas Frank recently published in The New
York Slimes, August 29, 2006. With purr mission granted from King
Solomon, here is articulate comrade Thomas Frank’s writing about the
convicted lobbyist, Jack Abramoff:
“Before he became K Street’s most enterprising racketeer, Jack
Abramoff was best known as a sort of young Robespierre of the Reagan
Revolution. In 1983, as [national] chairman of the College Republicans,
he declared that he and his minions did not “seek peaceful coexistence
with the left. Our job is to remove them from power permanently.” ”
“By all accounts, Abramoff carried out this mission with a
Ramboesque single-mindedness. A ferocious latter-day [Joseph
McCarthy] red-baiter, he seems to have encountered Communists
everywhere he went in early-80’s America.”
“Abramoff’s remark about liquidating the left was not just the
intemperate raving of a hot-blooded youth. It also expressed the essence
of the emerging conservative project: You don’t just argue with liberals,
you damage them. You use the power of the state to afflict their social
movements, to wreck their proudest government agencies, and to divert
their funding streams.”
Shem again: Does that knot sound exactly like the Fascist
Bureaucracy Inc. (FB-Eye) agent Paul Moskal, seven years earlier?
Comrade Frankovitch concludes his essay, “We are living out
Abramoff’s [legacy, his] dictum: that an idea is not worth hearing unless
a large amount of somebody’s money is behind it.”
The website www.cointel.org is where you find more than a
photograph of J. Edgarina, that domestic intelligencia cross dress fascist
pervert pro who spent decades, his whole life, violating our Constitution,
to solidify his hippo critter status quo, his legacy today, NSA’s mass
collections, terabytes worth of telephone taps into private talks of our
citizens from all walks of life, supposedly the purpose, uncovering
terrorists in U.S.A., but their actual, underlying reason, to eliminate
dissident patriots from getting government jobs, especially jobs coming
uh pin their domestic intelligence aristocracy.
July 20, 2005, The Wall Street Gurgle’s Opinion carried,
“Hoover’s Institution” by Attorney General emeritus Laurence H.
Silberman. Silberman recounts his reading Hoover’s “secret and
confidential files,” when he was the Attorney General, more than 30
127
years ago, in January 1975, after reading of Hoover’s “confidential
files,” in a front-page splash that day in The Washington Toast.
Silberman confronted then FBI Director, Clarence Kelly about J.
Edgar Hoover’s foul work. Director Kelly pointed Silberman to files,
sitting right out there, in plain sight, in Hoover’s outer sanctum. These
“secret and confidential files,” ended up in Hoover’s outer public office
during the public services of L. Patrick Grey and the unknown ‘depot
throat’ from Watergate, W. Mark Felt, Grey’s 2nd man in FB Eye’s inhouse chain of command.
The two guys, Messer’s Grey and Felt, cut loose for general
consumption, only what FBI’s faceless bureaucrats felt they could let slip
safely into view, into the public domain, without actually giving up their
insidiously on going, dough mess tickle black bag.
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated, sew some of his
files were in the pile, along with a couple controversial poets, a few left
leaning teachers, and the peep show recorded sexual shenanigans of only
a couple ex-officials thrown in the mix; nothing new, stuff,
coincidentally given over to Senator Church’s Committee, the group
charged with investigating J. Edgar Hoover’s unholy travesty.
Onlion S. Shem amuses: J. Edgarina, the fascist hypocrite, was a
classic, predisposed to people’s sexual transgressions to mask his own
cross dress, his favorite sniff, Clyde Tolson’s underpants.
WSJ’s editors flouted Silberman’s personal integrity in their
Wall Street Gurgle Opinion, edited from what had been a recent
Silberman speech: “I have always thought the most heinous acts a
democratic government can engage in is to use its law enforcement
machinery for political ends.” And this explosive gem, The WSJ’s
editors gurgled: “But surely the most bizarre episode that I discovered
(and can reveal) involves the investigation and trial of Bobby Baker,
LBJ’s top Senate aide.”
King Solomon muses:
Hark! Peer-ships, what is there, in J. Edgar Hoover’s files, that
Laurence Silberman saw, but could knot reveal, more than thirty years
later? Silberman went on to state, “I was rather surprised that the Church
Committee, which had access to the files, largely ignored FBI’s misdeeds
and concentrated instead on the rather less objectionable CIA activities.”
King Solomon is not amused.
Respected Appellate Judge, emeritus Attorney General Laurence
Silberman was asleep at the wheel. Obviously, Silberman is sleeping yet,
his most recent snooze, head of the presidential Commission on
Weapons Intelligence, which concluded CIA analysts had not been
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pressed to change their views on Saddam’s missing wampum of mass
destruction.
Our whole country, right today this minute, should revisit
www.cointel.org, and read, Books II and III, completely, in clue ding the
footnotes. I did. These “Books” comprise the famous Church
Committee’s domestic counter intelligence reports focused mostly on
Hoover’s FBI. Laurence Silberman did knot read them.
The Church Committee Reports must be required reading for
every high school stew dent, sew to lurn, in spite of our so-called
controlling FISA court, how our pallah tics and 4th Estate managed to
become so completely corrupted, a read required, upon Jacklegs election,
by Executive hors d’oeuvre, to judge the Cash in Advances, and Fascist
Bureaucracy Ink’s ongoing role, in the trample en masse, nationwide, of
our Constitution and Bill of Rights.
Stew dense! Hark! Your independent assignment: Sign up for
Freedom of Information Acting School. You can do it! Play a starring
role. With purr mission first, enlist your favorite teacher for subject
matter, or your college newspaper’s by-laws, the rules that govern how
stew dent editors get to be editors, that guarantee into graduate school
and potentially, somewhere, a journalist career. But don’t fall off your
chair fine ding your school’s newspaper charter parceled in FB Eye’s
dusty files.
How your school newspaper’s charter and by-laws got to
permanently reside in FBI’s covert domestic counter intelligence cabinet,
the drawer devoted to your school, and why FB Eye has an continuing
interest in monitoring your campus structures for developing domestic
reporters, is your independent study project, sponsored by your humble
Poet Prophet, one of the oldest, soon-to-be ‘officially,’ longest running
candidates for U.S. President.
How To Mend Your Stew Dent Press, by Jacklegs, the Poet
Prophet, candidate for President who, divinely inspired, created the
prophetic ‘Vehicle for World Peace.’ This fail safe plan on what to do –
what must be done to fix our stew dent presses, is edited on the run by
King Solomon’s prudent advisor, Rabbi Onlion S. Shem:
Stew Dense! Establish a Publisher’s Chair by amending your
school’s newspaper charter, your stew dent (dense is the plural form)
publisher, to be chosen, every year, by the paper’s readership!
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Whoever is voted Publisher, (free beer for the year), is sworn to
protect the developing writers along with the paper’s readership, campus
wide. Everyone at the school is entitled to cast their ballot.
Those opposed to establishing Publisher’s Chairs responsible for
protecting the campus press, its readership, and staff, the absence of
which is an FBI sponsored element in nearly all of our college
newspapers, those opposed to this fairness of balance, are those very
same critters who deserve to be shown above the fold, campus wide,
exposed for what they are: status quo aristocrats, the likelihood strong
they are domestic intelligencia, on the fascists’ dole, forever sinecured,
ensconced at the government’s near bottomless well!
Onlion S. Shem states furthermore:
Upon election of the Poet Prophet to our presidency, this very
necessary reorganization of every stew dent newspaper charter, along
with the renewal of every university stew dent government, nationwide,
the stew dent governments morphed, in one fell sweep, from hack
bureaucracies into free standing Undergraduate Houses of
Representatives, federally empowered by presidential mandate, for
elective course credit instead of money, will be accomplished via simple
Executive Order, punctuated by a healthy nationwide speech.
All the campus fascists will get their new deal, out loud raw: all
those dough mess tickle intelligence shekels that arrive in campus mail,
mostly unbeknownst to their spouses, are terminated.
In 1967, the anti-war movement organized a March To End The
War In Viet Nam, for October, in New York City. The gathering area
was Sheep’s Meadow, in Central Park. At dawn, yellow cheese box
school buses surrounded the whole of Central Park, parked two and three
buses deep, secured for the trip to NYC by stew dense from state
universities all around the country.
Most university student governments, in the sixties, were ‘polity’
governments. The officers called for meetings at convenient times,
generally, in the afternoon, in the student unions, where the constituents
were hanging out. Students showed up, and en masse, with an open floor,
voted for or against proposals by holding up their ID cards. Robert’s
Rules of Order were mostly a guide.
Students at the giant state universities voted to use their activities
fees to pay for busses, sew they could support the anti-war movement by
showing up. With a nod, the prod from Lyndon Johnson, J. Edgar
Hoover, he, with his panoply of domestic counter intelligence stew dent
informant infiltrators, moved in on all these undergraduate and graduate
stew dent ‘polity’ governments.
130
In the midst of nationwide campus anti-war riots, domestic riots
mostly brought on by FB Eye’s own home grown provocateurs, the loose
flung polity governments morphed into mini-bureaucracies.
Stew dent governments opposed to spending their activities fees
on political speakers replaced the polity governments that fought so hard
for student rights. Open microphones soon became a rarity. Activity fees
were redistributed, spread amongst bona fide clubs, to wink wink
squander on pizza and cases of beer for their meetings.
King Solomon muses:
Stew dense are hardly apathetic. They are transient, passing
through, absent any sense of their stew dent history. The ‘new’ stew dent
governments, restructured, turned their constituent student bodies off,
and shut them out, appealing only to stew dent bureaucrat hacks, knot our
potential leaders. All this manipulation, to control what people get to see
and hear, a domestic counter intelligence FBI program, is still an ongoing program at all of our major universities.
Don’t hold your breath, waiting to see the Poet Prophet on any
college campus in the U.S.A. The stew dent hacks in charge of who is
invited to ‘speak’ cannot invite the poet without tacit approval from an
ad minis traitor. Suffice to say, the Poet Prophet is FBI blacklisted. Were
the Poet Prophet actually invited to ‘perform’ from his creative works at
any University, FBI will have their own people on campus, provocateurs
to disrupt the speech event before it starts.
Years ago, Poet Prophet was invited to give a performance, on a
campus where he was in fact, a legend in his own time, the place where it
could be fairly said Jacklegs knew the territory. Flyers were posted
around and there were maybe a couple thousand kids hanging out,
expecting the story of Adman and Even in the Gar Den ov Edum,
whatever the poet might spout.
Jacklegs walked up to the microphone. From the back of the laid
back crowd suddenly all bellicose hell began to brake loose. A dozen
teenage skin head wanna bees dressed in bizarre, rented Nazi uniforms
appeared from who knew where, marching, and shouting, “Down with
the poet.”
It was weird, but effective. Poet Prophet gave up, turned off the
microphone, and walked. He ambled into the union, and noted the Nazi
kid leader, a fatty from South Buffalo, hired to play Nazi for the day, was
hanging near the water fountain. Jacklegs walked over, to get a drink.
The skinhead, clearly an FBI hireling, said to the word master, “Where
ever you go to speak, we will be there to stop you.” Under Freedom of
Info Act, read agent Paul Moskal’s FBI memo, “We will be there to stop
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you.” Why Paul Moskal’s underling agents obtained Nazi outfits for
those kids, and who’s kids they were, is stamped CLASSIFIED.
J. Edgar Hoover’s counter intelligence people designed their
programs to eliminate political dissidents, and chucked our constitutional
rights, targeting our most creative kids, investigating many for years,
absent any reason except they attended a meeting of some splinter
political groupies when they were undergraduates, or wrote a concert
review for a free, counter culture newspaper, thus qualifying themselves
as, “New Age Leftists,” capable of influencing how people think.
Every couple years, a highly paid covert government agent
informant would infiltrate the target’s life to conduct an “interview,” a
despicable squandering of tax dollars, still on going.
These sickeningly sinister docs exposing J. Edgar Hoover’s
institutionalized approach to counter intelligence were painstakingly
transcribed by Paul Wolf, and are readily downloadable at
www.cointel.org. Knock your socks off, but try not to read on a full
stomach, lest you regurgitate what began as a well-balanced lunch.
The Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act wrought the super
secretive FISA Court, the result of those Church committee reports,
noted above. The original FISA Court Judges rubber- stamped nearly all
the requests there tendered for domestic wiretaps. For more than two
decades, amongst thousands of warrant requests, those rejected by the
FISA judges numbered less than a dozen.
King Solomon muses:
Every single one of those judges, current and past, knows of the
Jacklegs, jumping up. Do you know what is up, grass hopper?
The Jacklegs goes online and registers his website at a free
forum for Flash animators. He is looking for someone to do some
animation work, and takes down a couple email addresses. One of the
email addresses is a Yahoo address for a software engineer in India. The
software engineer emails back, with a cell phone number.
Jacklegs calls India from his house in America. He and the
programmer talk exclusively about pre-school educational alphabet
learning software, for approximately one minute. The web site address
where the alphabet software sat was mentioned in passing.
Approximately ten days later, Jacklegs gets a phone call. Caller
asked for Jacklegs, and said, “You visited our company’s web site. You
registered your own software website with us, and my boss asked me to
132
give you a courtesy call.” Caller failed to identify himself, who his boss
was, who his ‘company’ was, or why he was making a ‘courtesy’ call,
featuring what, and for whose benefit?
Jacklegs immediately began to chirp away about his alphabet
learning software with his three Flash animated dolphins doing the actual
teaching. Caller stated, “I am on your web site looking at your software
now.” Jacklegs did not pass along his web site address. Caller had that
already. Then the caller blurted out, “You don’t even have Master Card.”
But Jacklegs had a PayPal link-logo prominently displayed. Anyone
Internet savvy knows PayPal is MasterCard, Visa, American Express,
Discover, debit cards besides electronic checks.
Jacklegs wondered, ‘what is this guy about?’ Then other voices
came on the line. It seemed caller was talking to someone else in a
roomful of talkers. The line went dead, disconnected. Caller did not
bother to reconnect, his company’s “courtesy” call and all of that.
Onlion S. Shem:
Schmucks way cup! Is there any ‘company’ in America with
grown up people making ‘courtesy calls’ from their ‘company’ office to
non-clients, offering nothing. “You don’t even have MasterCard?”
George Bush’s Al Qaeda tracking NSA captured Jacklegs’
telephone call, to India. That international telephone call, its contents
tapped, though clearly about educational software, was passed along to
FBI for follow up, because FBI is charged with keeping track of
whatever the Poet Prophet is doing, a task incidentally required, by
President Bush, the Elder’s Executive Order. ‘Courtesy’ caller was
FBCIA. Vonage service includes a data record of every phone call in and
out, but courtesy caller’s number was anonymous.
Dwight D. Eisenhower and the Powers U-2 incident come to
mind, but a heifer’s turd plopping foul, blossomed Bush’s mouth when
Bush-the-liar claimed NSA only listens to calls from al Qaeda.
FB Eye never ceased in their unconstitutional activities, and even
today run 30,000 questionable citizen check-ups yearly, to maintain
bureau growth, though years ago they began running out of actual
domestic counter intelligence subjects to mess with, those now down to,
at most, a few hundred they keep re-upping a papered right to listen to,
over and over, as though these fash bureaucracy whacks had nothing else
to do. Unless your phone has a semi-perm three-day on again off again
echo, knot yoo schmo.
The 30,000 people getting their lives name checked over are
mostly reporters in print media, also producers in television stations.
Were every editor and publisher to apply as a group, Freedom of
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Information and all of that, to simply view the list, under the physical
supervision of the FISA court judges, FBI would refuse because their
“name check” list is more than a peppering of newspaper journalists.
King Solomon muses:
Who gave FBI all the names to be checked? Colleagues?
All the original FISA Court judges have retired, replaced by a
new breed of appointees. One imagines, though certainly not on purpose,
Chief Rehnquist appointed judges who believed their higher duty was to
the Constitution and Bill of Rights, knot the FB Eye.
In a published Opinion, available in PDF, for download on the
Internet, the FISA Court has sharply criticized the Department of Justice
and the FBI for providing the secret Tribunal misleading information in
seventy-five cases, tipping the FB Ice berg.
Onlion S. Shem interjects: Dear peers, with King Solomon’s
purr mission, allow your humble servant, Shem, to chop and paste the
seek writ FISA snippet now out and available, on the Internet:
“The Court limited the request of the Department of Justice to
share intelligence information for criminal prosecutions. The Court said
Department of Justice substituted relaxed foreign intelligence gathering
wiretapping procedures to evade [the] higher requirements for standard
criminal investigations: “The 2002 procedures appear to be designed to
amend the law and substitute the FISA for Title III electronic
surveillances…”
The Court continues to say that this may be because “…the
government is unable to meet the substantive requirements of these law
enforcement tools...” (Aug. 23, 2002).”
Bush used NSA to subvert the FISA Court because the FISA
Court refused to cut his DOJ any more unconstitutional slack. The
Fascist Bureaucracy Ink is supposed to be tapping the telephone calls of
people doing crime, knot rhyme; criminal stuff, knot telephones because
they belong to poets or progressives on the move, on a list.
George W. Bush does not believe in our Constitution and Bill of
Rights. His thuggish FBI was founded on unconstitutionality, for J.
Edgar Hoover’s ‘higher good,’ before George W. was born.
Here, dear peers, is a reasonable way to institutionally alter the
interior culture of FBI. Bureaucracies are inward. Regardless of mission,
they are rigidly constructed. Bureaucracies are alien. They feed on
themselves, and multiply. FBI pays homage to Hoover by enforcing his
policies, and through his image, homage to themselves.
134
The intellectually curious hardly flower there. It’s a cultural
override: the natch a rill born leaders who could make a diff rinse are
blunted, stunted or dismissed, their public service lives dead-ended.
Find pictures of J. Edgar throughout FB Eye’s Washington
building that bears J. Edgar’s name. Bush’s picture is in the Post Office,
high on the wall, to avoid graffiti, the common folks’ spittle.
Did you watch TV highlights, from the 9-11 Commissioner
Show: “What ‘id’ you know and when did you know it?” The culprit
bureaucrats claimed their agencies’ guidelines kept them in a blind, and
they were therefore, blindsided. After all their finger pointing in public, it
added up knot one bureaucrat was retired because of failure to perform.
Yet the bureaus care and scare.
In case of atomic attack, or catastrophic event, beltways could be
cratered, sew they’ve spent millions of dollars, testing private getaway
plans, for them. The bureaucrat’s exclusive modus is operandi: The
government (insert the word: bureaucracy) has to run.
Not one person was found guilty of 9-11 malfeasance, but
discounting the pentagon, and United Air Flight 93, crashed in
Pennsylvania, twenty-seven hundred and forty-seven innocent souls lost
their lives in New York City when the towers were smashed and from
the jets’ explosive fuel, their structures melted and collapsed.
Every innocent there was special, including amongst them,
former FBI Special Agent John P. O’Neill who died in the South Tower
that sunny 9-11 morning, valiantly trying to save some lives.
When Special Agent John P. O’Neill was an FBI agent he was
guilty of inspiring his underlings to track Osama Bin Laden. Oh! John P.
O’Neill was guilty all right - of rightness! He smelt Osama Bin Laden
was behind the attack against the USS Cole, in Yemen, where 17
American sailors lost their lives. Yet Agent John P. O’Neill was taken
off the Cole investigation, his removal by FBI superiors; his personally
constructed FBI team in Yemen was withdrawn, sew the trail back to
Osama bin Laden evaporated.
FBI bureaucrats shafted O’Neill’s whole FBI career. They
pushed him out of the bureau because John P. O’Neill had style, a natural
bent for leadership. Movies made for television were produced about this
extraordinary American patriot, John P. O’Neill.
The ghost of J. Edgar Hoover must be removed, his name to
start, from all our FBI buildings, wherever they are. Changing FBI’s
institutional culture begins with their buildings newly renamed: John P.
O’Neill Bureau of Federal Investigations. BFI. FBI to BFI!
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John P. O’Neill’s story will be requisite reading and viewing for
all future BFI Special Agents. The Hoover group, those people chosen by
Hoover’s ‘chosen’ will be retired, with full pension. That will firmly
settle this issue of instantly changing FBI’s culture!
“Name is your aim. That is what you were given.” By this
proposal, a change of name, the Federal Bureau will be refocused, its
aim, Federal Investigations, knot your children, name checked for
‘questioning authority’ in their freshman political science class.
Philip Shenon reports, in The New York Slimes, October 19,
2005: “In its final, book-length report, the 9-11 Commission offered
some of its strongest criticism of FBI. They documented how FBI
repeatedly mishandled intelligence about terrorist threats before the 9-11
attacks, including detailed warnings that terrorists might try to use
commercial airplanes in an attack. The report stated FBI should retain
responsibility for domestic terrorism investigations “only if it makes an
all-out effort to institutionalize change.” ”
King Solomon muses:
Change? Name is your aim! BFI is the naim change, and John P.
O’Neill, the Special Agent American patriot to be emulated by a needed
new breed of BFI gents, or Hoover’s status remains.
FB Eye cannot change by them selves. Knot a chants, knot by
any buddy’s imaginative stretch. Bureaucrats are surrounded with an
impenetrable language. The bureaucracies survive, as though invasive
pods, from some distant soulless fash place, robbing all the sunshine,
water, and nutrients from our soil. They grow.
Bureaucracies feed on themselves and multiply. They are
opposed to our life flow. Chopping off their heads simply doesn’t cut it.
Can you make two of you, sucking on your toe? Government
bureaucracies can and do. They confuse realities, and kill. J. Edgar
Hoover’s legacy, his approach to doing business; his continuing bureau
trail of seek writ pay purrs is active, alive and well.
Eight months earlier, Johnston and Jehl reported, in The New
York Slimes, February 11, 2005:
“An ambitious new effort by the F.B.I. to recruit foreigners in
the United States and use them as spies overseas has created new
frictions with the CIA, which views the bureau’s actions as serious
encroachment on the agency’s traditional primacy in intelligence
gathering, senior government officials said.”
“In a departure from past practice, F.B.I. wants to manage the
foreigners it recruits under the new program after they return to their
home countries. The CIA wants to maintain its lead role in recruiting and
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managing these sources. The transformation of the F.B.I., [fascist
bureaucracy ink,] into an agency that collects intelligence [from]
overseas is causing unease within the CIA, [cash-in-advance,] where
officials question whether the F.B.I. has the expertise to play that role.”
27 years earlier, in 1978, in the aftermath of the Church
Committee reports, in the midst of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance
Act there was a flap at Harvard. Certain professors in various
departments were recruiting foreign grad students to work for CIA after
graduating, and returning to their homelands. This activity violated
Harvard University’s rules and regulations. At the time, many of their
professors were apparently quite upset.
Stansfield Turner, then Chief of CIA stated, “We are above the
rules and regulations of these institutions of higher learning.” Oh! Just
the Cash in Advance and knot the J. Edgarina group, too, above what we
construe our Franchise, granted to us by our Founders, our
constitutionally protected Rights George W. Bush and his cocksure
smarmy bunch have continuously besmirched since taking our office.
J. Edgar’s excuse for investigating the anti-war kids, and other
older stew dents at our universities, during the late 60’s, nearly 40 years
ago, before Senator Church’s washed out hearings, was to “detail”
relationships between Americans, born in the U.S.A., and revolutionary
foreign students, from over there, but for one “detail.”
The ‘Marxist’ foreign students being investigated in U.S.A. were
actually hired by CIA, while in their homelands, to become anti-war
revolutionaries upon their arrival here, befriending all their anti-war
American stew dent classmates, thus creating a supposedly valid excuse
for Hoover’s domestic intelligence aristocrats (here), to black bag
investigate our own home grown war resisting U.S. kids.
Most of the CIA hired foreign student provocateurs didn’t
repatriate to their countries of origin. They stayed in America, more than
a few covertly placed, others, relocated and openly employed by NSA,
CIA or FBI’s dough mess tickle intelligence.
Today, every department in all of our government agencies, and
every academic department at all of our universities has a station officer,
an ‘intelligence’ bureaucrat, on watch. The station officers, either in the
administration, or academic departments, generally have some cover,
teaching, besides updating the profiles of their own stew dense along
with profiling department colleagues; especially any newly hired fresh
faced professors.
In the government’s free standing agencies, the domestic
intelligence station officers’ job descriptions titles run to the order of
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‘analyst,’ or ‘regulator,’ but with nothing whatsoever to analyze or
regulate, beyond profiles of the younger up-and-coming bureaucrats. Can
any of these fresh hires really be trusted? Would they countenance
unconstitutional fash, or are they predisposed to be true patriots? Are
they with us, a part of our private fraternity, or are they they, from the
masses of Tom Paine’s freedom believing humanity?
Onlion S. Shem interrupts: Hearken yokels!
I must edit Jacklegs’ currency, His Prophet King Solomon:
“Between the Gurgle and the Slimes / Writings Unpublished by The
Wall Street Gurgle and The New York Slimes.” No less than a half dozen
essays, those trash tossed by the op-editors, are woven in these pages.
Peer-ships! Grant leave your humble Shem purr mission to showcase a
Poet Prophet essay:
“From TWA 800 to Ground Zero:”
When the blameless innocent perished on TWA flight 800, as
their souls departed for splash off into Heaven, God was instantaneously
right eon the spot, caring for His littlest ones with super-natch stuff only
God has on hand, to facilitate His human know-fault disasters.
On that particular night a couple stray angels, hanging out on
Long Island Sound called nine-treble-wun, hailing the ‘LAN’ Lord uh
pin Heaven as TWA 800 became smithereens else the crash might have
totaled, simply another obscenely cable-news-cycled, soon-to-be-over
event.
God, when this calamity happened, was far away, eons into the
next day, on another water planet, beyond the unseen end of our Milky
Way, brushing up on His evolutionary tricks, tending baby blue cachalot
whales, walking aground, carefully gathering the best of dust this time
around; ready to rustle His renewed water planet’s giant blue sperms
back to sea again, for a final divide, to hide His genetics in transitional
DNA, when boom TWA.
But busy as God was on His newfound water planet, when TWA
800 blew, God was right eon the spot, in an eye blink, here, because it
isn’t a breezy angel chore, taking charge of His little ones. Were you
God in Heaven how would you have handled that mess? Sometimes God
redresses His littlest kids as angels for the day, with papier-mâché wings,
instantly getting them out of the way, sending them packing on a failsafe
leafy flight to ice cream land, with cosmic cell phones clipped to their
pants.
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Often a seasoned angel tags along for the kids’ dressy rehearsal,
“This is the deal, little angels-to-be: always answer the cell call from
Big-Pa-beeper, even in the middle of a heavenly ice cream swirl, or else
you could get flunked out of angel school for inzub-ordination! Anyone
flunked out of angel school, from playing cloud hooky, not doing home
work, or pretending you didn't hear Big-Pa’s-beeper can’t come back to
visit ice cream land for a banana split until you’re old enough to stay up
late past eight. Worse than that, you could even get bounced out of
Heaven in a cloud burst, riding the wind on a raindrop, ’cause nobody
stays in Heaven forever.”
Our souls are a memory that belongs to God. When death comes,
without notice, your soul’s last thought, given the chance to have a last
thought is, “free dome again echh splat where am bye going next,” as
that’s how it is with your soul, whether you are old enough to review
your life in a millisecond or knot - because deep down in our bones in all
of our souls, we know, when push comes to shovel, God is the one in
ultimate charge of our lives, though God usually doesn’t take charge
until after our life is ended. His goes on.
Of those who were, for insurance purposes, ‘charged off’ on
TWA 800, most have joined the food chain, their souls attached to their
favorite creatures. All the passengers were granted their chance to ask,
“God, Could I go here? Could I blow around in the wind with Mommy?
Could I come with you, big Papa? Can we be watchers over Daddy?”
For those who perished that night on Long Island Sound, their
souls hung out in the clouds above, and in the next cloud over. They
didn’t depart that sea shore strip until they had one last look on their
loved ones here on the earth, their requests for a fresh last look granted
lickedy split by the LAN’ Lord owner of this universe, which is why all
of their sorrowful families migrated to that Long Island shore, to throw
garlands on the water, and go there to this day. They are compelled.
From our living rooms we could not leave the site of TWA 800’s
crash until all the victims’ bodies were retrieved, insuring their souls
would be carried up in the wind, to another moving cirrus, in spite of the
deaf-a-sit bureaucracies that sought to ash our memories.
Nor will God allow us to exit the mall of 9-11 that opposite of
know fault, Ground Zero.
In that first split plane crash moment, 167 innocent lives were
instantly vaporized, but their souls did not evaporate. Souls live on
forever. Within a few minutes, hundreds more were smoked and choked.
Of those trapped in the towers, one man celled his wife and said, “I love
you. We are in God’s hands.”
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Wherever you were, watching the Trade Center Towers collapse,
crumbling down hard on live television, for the living trapped inside,
staring at mere, hell-on-earth minutes to the ends of their lives, “in God’s
hands,” was not the worst end all of play siz.
Among three trillion pounds of twisted steel, crushed cement and
general debris, God with His own hand, carefully fostered twenty seven
hundred forty-nine of His souls, for the living to rake. A hook and ladder
gang became sew attached, their souls eluded capture. With their pull on
the LAN’ Lord, they stifle reconstruction, waiting for their entitlement:
Peace at Ground Zero.
Those sixteen acres are Hallowed Ground, America’s purple
heart! Nothing can be built there. On behalf of the remaining souls, and
they are all there, for all of us here on the earth, Ground Zero must be our
nation’s purple show. The government above-us-folks claim more mass
terror events are on bin Laden’s drawing board; that al Qaeda needles are
in sleeper cells, here in our promised land.
Therefore, before we slap up any new and improved billiondollar towers, for success to manifest Ground Zero must be appropriated,
by Popular Demand, then seeded, with cobblestones surrounding. From
various angles, cobblestone will break the sixteen acres of grass, their
convergence at Ground Zero center, where that one terror sculptured
skeletal tower wall should be reinstalled, as was promised.
Benches can edge the walks, to relax on in the sun and share a
pigeon’s lunch, but not so many benches to hinder an open doggy
acoustic Frisbee space. Ten-buck turnstiles will inhibit the homeless; off
setting the fed a rill buy-out. Every person who journeys to New York
City is bound to visit Ground Zero!
The outer walls will become a photo gallery of all who perished
at Ground Zero that warm and sunny day, juxtaposed with all weather
message boards showing the old skyline with panoramic Ground Zero,
from every September 11-13 angle.
Upon that, we will have created the perfect Qaeda tourist trap. In
the event bin Laden does have sleepers here, they will journey there!
With our purple heart a purple show, the perps will show. The Qaeda
needles, like bears drawn to honey, will be compelled to visit grassy
Ground Zero. More than once. Nothing can beat a Qaeda sleeper’s
respite from boxing pizza in Baltimore than a live inspirational visit to
Terrorist Mecca.
Throw in the mix all of the NSA technology displayed in
“Enemy of the State” and bet the shins, it’s guaranteed we cap a pair of
bin Laden’s Qaeda dots connecting at the boards, with muffled smirks
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and, ‘God is greater God is our Creator,’ whispered in their native
tongue.
God will deliver His hay stacked Qaeda needles to Ground Zero.
We should focus our energies on stacking the future deck, making al
Qaeda needle haystack at Ground Zero magnetic. So grab a bench,
schlep, throw your head back, soak up some old gold sun and smile,
dawg, but don’t go talking secretive inside stocks, you're on candid
automatic.”
Ah, dear Peers, King Solomon muses:
The fascists despise the Jacklegs’ message, and despise even
more so your Poet Prophet messenger. Your domestic plot sickens as it
thickens:
Dr. Philip Santa Maria was an Associate Vice President for Stew
Dent Affairs at Buffalo State Teacher’s College, on Elmwood Avenue, in
Buffalo, New York. Santa Maria, many years ago, spent a year, as an
exchange stew dent, at the University of Moscow where he met and
befriended a fellow stew dent, Vladimir Posner.
Vladimir Posner was of Jewish decent, and born in France. His
father, running from Hitler’s Nazis, immigrated to United States.
Vladimir was raised in Brooklyn. He conversated perfectly, absent giveaway inflections revealing his father’s Russian heritage, or their
neighborhood in Brooklyn. When his father, a staunch communist,
decided he wanted to return to his Russian homeland, Vladimir, an
American teenager, went along, too, and went on to become a prominent
Russian journalist, writing articles for the Russian dailies, Pravda, and
Izvestia. Liken this to blogging e quill time for both The Wall Street
Gurgle and The New York Slimes.
During the Cold War, whenever there was a conference in
United States that Vladimir Posner attended, regardless where or what
the conference was about, the conference sponsors also invited Philip
Santa Maria. Their rooms were always, wouldn’t you know it,
conveniently next door to each other, a guarantee they would meet and
reignite their college friendship.
Jacklegs inquired of his friend, Philip Santa Maria, “Who paid
for these conferences? Your school?” Santa Maria answered, “CIA.”
Jacklegs remarked, “So you had additional income to declare.” Santa
Maria was puzzled, “Are you on drugs, or what? CIA money was
undeclared. It had to be that way or they wouldn’t have done the deal.
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Someone would always touch base during the conference and slip me an
envelope stuffed with cash. Plenty dollars. More than enough to cover all
my travel, the hotel, meals, enough for me and Vladimir to go out and
dine at a five star restaurant, followed by a night on the town. We always
managed to have a supremely great time. Whatever we did, I always had
lots of money left over, so it was always profitable for me to go to these
conferences, regardless where they were held. CIA made it so”
Afterward, according to Dr. Santa Maria, someone from CIA
debriefed him, as an opposite party from the Russian embassy also
debriefed Vladimir Posner. The two college chums didn’t talk about that
part. These conference meetings and debriefings that followed kept on,
even as the old Cold War was winding down, with Vladimir Posner
regularly a guest of Ted Koppel’s, on ABC’s Nightline, he, a genuine
friend of Phil Donahue’s, too, often appearing on The Phil Donahue
Show, representing the U.S.S.R.’s point of view.
Vladimir Posner was in the U.S.A. so often, the old socialist
U.S.S.R. mortgaged a dacha for Posner’s use on Park Avenue, in
Manhattan, where Vladimir Posner may still be living today, retired.
On the issue of stipends for domestic counter intelligence
operatives in United States, Dr. Santa Maria remarked to Jacklegs, “I
don’t know how you figured it out but you are right on the money about
this. A fellow at Buff State, you don’t know him, was told by his handler
about my long-term CIA connections. The guy sidled up to me one day
on campus and bragged about his intelligence deal. He showed me his
check, as you have described, with his last name slightly misspelled, so
he could cash the check in a bank where the tellers know him.” Peers! ID
not required. Every month the extra government money undeclared, cash
stuffed away and out the door.”
Jacklegs concluded, “ Phil, iamb going to write about this, and
mention you by name.” Dr. Philip Santa Maria chuckled, “Jacklegs, you
are a true Lev Davidovitch. By all means do it. I’d love to see it. Be sure
you spell my name correctly as I have nothing to hide. Be well. And
Jacklegs, be careful.”
On the first page of Senator Church’s Counterintelligence Final
Report Book II, find this unpleasant un-American chill: “On occasion,
intelligence agencies failed to disclose candidly their programs and
practices to their own General Counsels, and to the Attorneys General,
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and deputy attorneys general, (a ready example, your piloted puppet
Silberman), Presidents, and Congress.”
Translation: Your domestic intell aristocrats operate above our
laws. They are beholden to none, up to and including even the President
of United States, sew the door to unsanctioned evil is ajar.
And what occasion is it, peer-ships, when government agencies
refuse to disclose a program(s) secretly ongoing, even to the President of
U.S.A.? Who’s in charge? Who’s on first? Because it’s a seek writ, you
don’t know! And FBI isn’t about to tell you, or any Member of
Congress. What you don’t know will always hurt you.
In light of Congress’ non-oversight, more than 3000 citizens
were murdered on September 11, 2001. What might your covert, tax
dollar funded FB Eye have hidden, our 9-11 commissioners failed to
find? Did FBI have specifics about bin Laden’s twin tower plans before
the towers were downed? Many believe FBI was apprised. They knew
something was coming down and planes were involved, but not where,
when or what. All possibilities exist in the cosmos.
King Solomon muses:
There is, ongoing today, a post J. Edgarina, CIA-FBI-NSA
unregulated opaque op, a classified seek writ committee, operating in the
agencies’ yonder, a non-specific upper, above their so-called cover-myrear statutory walls, somewhere high up, above all of our laws, as
characterized in the very popular domestic spy thrill movie, “Enemy of
the State,” remotely beyond all our civilian oversights.
For sure there is such an operation! But you aren’t about to
dislodge what deeply seated, above the law volks from intelligence will
knot acknowledge: their Chandra Levy Danny Casalaro committee, the
government’s go-to final solution group for matters of their own, inhouse EDP: Extreme Domestic Prejudice.
Fascists confuse realities. Bureaucracies’ upper levels are their
favored positions. We need people elected to our public offices who are
publicly committed to sliminating bureaucracies, taking down these
fascist bureaucrats, first, by suspending the Civil Service Act, then
personally digging out the fash bureaucrats one at a time, instead of
lunching away the day with their favorite lobbyists.
King Solomon muses:
The day after Jacklegs is elected, every person employed by the
fed a rill government will have a sheet of paper on their desk, with their
name, their government number, and the heading: “What Do I Do.”
Some will run to the filing cabinet, or begin to write their job description.
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The higher their bureau position, sew much stronger the likelihood their
essayish typed statements will defy penetration.
Others will recognize the graffiti on the door and opt for early
retirement, opting out, their sinecures including benefits well beyond the
year. Others still, will carefully craft, in a clearly normal language, every
program they worked on, what worked, what didn’t, and who or what
was the impediment, their focus, truth telling, an opportunity for them to
blow the shofar whistle while they work.
All of these papers, with the author’s names removed, will be
forwarded to composition classes at all of our universities and colleges,
for careful consideration by students and teachers together.
Those bureaucrats, whose words and sentence structures, simply
stated, defy penetration, will be cut loose from their positions, with
reduced severance. Though unfamiliar to all bureaucrats, there is an old
American adage, an apropos saying that comes to mind: ‘I was looking
for a job when I got this one.’
This one proposal, a very civil your services are rendered
program is excuse for an assassin’s attempt on the life of our sharp
tongued Poet Prophet, by those very targeted intelligence aristocrats, as
upper deck domestic intelligence volks will be held, feet to the fire, to the
same job bar as low lifers in our Bureau of Indian Affairs. These volks sit
above our law with unwritten, self –imagined power. Do knot imagine
they are going to wussily walk off into the dusk.
An assassination attempt on the Poet Prophet’s life, during the
current presidential campaign, or after, the evil potential thereof, in the
realm of USA is an electoral rarity, but within the realm of possibility
because all possibilities exist in the cosmos. Besides, we haven’t had a
political assassination since Hoover took down Dr. Martin Luther King
Jr. From FBI’s fash point of view we’re overdue.
Potential Poet Prophet Town Square campaign rallies could
morph overnight into scenery from downtown Baghdad. Instead of a
commercial cut out James Earl Ray wanna bee, attempting his antiSemite thing up front, our Poet Prophet candidate, via remote, could be
the subject of a Ray-gun cross hair cluster bomb, those assembled for the
poet candidate’s speech, upon a clustered delivery, collateral.
Would FB Eye commit such an atrocity in our country, a couple
dozen secret service agents thrown into the mix? What better way for
beltway FB Eye to make an act of most Extreme Domestic Prejudice
appear an anti-Semite hate crime? Who ever suggested life is fair, federal
agents ka-boom in the rubble, poof, it wasn’t them?
King Solomon muses:
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You don’t believe it? You don’t have to. The Poet Prophet is a
candidate for President and he believes it. Once war making is your
solution, death becomes a number, the collateral numbing, a comma.
The very same group that murdered Danny Casalaro, in 1991,
murdered the innocent Chandra Levy, in 2001. They are fascist in spirit,
fiercely rigid in their own twisted sense of the status quo.
Might a member of a prominent newspaper’s editorial board, or
fork-tongued journalist professor, a Department ‘Chair,’ touch base with
their FB Eye handler to demand Extreme Prejudice, when someone, our
Poet Prophet, is out-putting their on-going domestic intelligence connect,
to bring about their just deserves, an end to their journalist careers? They
won’t balk at putting the call through to an FB Eye screw, or to their
significant other cohort, who will.
King Solomon muses:
What might you do, say you the prominent N.Y.U. journalist
professor Jay Rosen, frozen, your journalism professor career at stake,
you the well paid self-imagined high priest editor, at the top of your
game, finally uncloaked in our public domain, your educator’s ‘Chair,’
clearly FBI sponsored; upon that, mocked, exposed, all these years the
nit-pick prominent ‘critic of journalists,’ Mr. Self-imagined ‘architect,’
just an ingratiating FBI shill, filling our 4th Estate First Amendment
Avenue with FB Eye’s ersatz journalists.
Is Rosen smiling, or screaming bloody murder to associates?
An examination of the graduate stew dent journalists Rosen
pushed for newsroom positions will show an inordinate number as
having family connections in our Department of Defense, or a related
department in domestic intelligence. Most were puppy bureaucrats, not
reporters, but would-be editors, seeking roles on the editorial boards,
they, always the devil’s advocates.
A cursory look at Rosen’s undergraduate newspaper career
shows his transcript is total independent study as Managing, then The
Spectrum Editor-in-Chief. His graduate stew dent instructor, who gave
Rosen all his illegitimate undergraduate credits, semesters worth of
independent study, was exposed in the English department as an FBI
domestic intell operative. Upon that exposure, Rosen’s non-course
mentor, Michael Sartisky, was instantly graduated.
In spite of Sartisky’s unreadable thesis, in a year when there
weren’t any English teaching positions anywhere at any Universities,
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impeccable unemployed PhD’s all over the place, their tongues hanging
out for an associate, publish or perish instructorship, the ivy league FBI
collie was boing, graduated and instantly hired, in Cajun New Orleans,
where he’s been hot sauced ever since, knot as a teacher, rather, for the
last twenty years an ad minis traitor, President and Executive Director of
Louisiana Endowment for the Humanities, with an eighteen person staff.
In a recent photograph, Sartisky sports a beard, with a weird
smirk. In an interview published on the Internet, Executive Director
Sartisky refers to his position in Louisiana as “the little parcel of the
world that was assigned to me.”
King Solomon muses:
Who assigned that “little parcel of the world” to Sartisky? The
counter intelligence aristocrats take care of their own.
It is years ago, but educators at SUNYAB remember how Jay
Rosen, under Sartisky’s tutelage, used his editorial position at the student
newspaper to destroy those people he, the high priest editor hated or
feared.
Black students wanted to join the paper, as journalists, and build
a resume of articles. Rosen threw them out by the color of their skins.
Every step of the way he used the school newspaper to lie and
manipulate, his own thirst, power and position.
A benchmark Ethics for Journalists could be composed of
papers Rosen edited, with the truth behind included. After graduating he
went to work as a reporter at the Buffalo Courier Express, and was
quietly dismissed, for lying. FBI strings were strung. Rosen was admitted
to N.Y.U., and bingo – tenured professor, his field, teaching ethics for
journalists.
The rest of Jay Rosen’s résumé is in the public record. Jay Rosen
was not qualified to teach. His ethical standard is nonexistent. Domestic
intelligence chits were cashed to get him where he is. FBI invested in
Rosen’s résumé. They see in him their perfect asset.
Rosen sees himself a high priest above us, a potentate press
critic, the architect; chosen, important, and behind the scenes, more than
anxious to be doing his part for domestic intelligence. But Rosen is only
an intell wanna-bee, a duplicitous shell, which is why the vicious J.
Edgarina gang did what it took, to get him where he is.
The republication of only a few articles Rosen wrote as the high
priest undergraduate editor-in-chief, absent the facts suppressed, simply
the articles on their face will turn your collective stomach.
King Solomon muses:
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To better understand the 4th Estate’s corruption, we must return
to the summer of 1971, when the Pentagon Papers’ publication was
imminent. Richard M. Nixon met with J. Edgar Hoover in Nixon’s Old
Executive Office Building office, a sidewalk away from the White
House. The un-taped issue on their table was the press, the 4th Estate,
and the measures needed to infiltrate newspapers, sew whoever was
President would have a handle on coming news events, like the Pentagon
Papers publication, and possibly be able to stultify that kind of
publishing travesty from ever taking place again. From our point of view,
the people’s 1st Amendment Right to be informed is paramount – but all
they saw were attacks on their personal realm.
Hoover’s idea: infiltrate the undergraduate newspapers at all the
huge state universities where his FBI had already established footholds in
the stew dent governments. Then FBI’s undergraduate hirelings could go
on from there to journalist school, and graduate into entry level positions
at the downtown papers, as reporter writers, with the idea to shoot for
controlling roles, desk editors, actively influencing what went into the
paper, at least keeping tabs, making the lives of decent reporters
miserable, writing up profiles of the better reporters for intelligence
purposes, a lead to “name checks.”
As long as the government could grease their infiltrator’s prepaid palms with additional ducats monthly, simply because they obtained
a position, regardless what the press covered under their tutelage, the
government’s infiltration program would be a supreme success. They
would have made editors inside, devil’s advocates, their ears un-waxed
to all the fascist bureaucracies’ points of view.
The best example of your FBI’s First Amendment caprice is
“The Spectrum,” ‘the official newspaper’ of the stew dense at the State
University of New York at Buffalo. In 1969, editors and their staff
numbered more than 60 undergraduates. At the annual meetings there
was a group photograph, and the newspaper staff would elect all the
various desk editors for the coming year.
In the event you were a candidate, for example, for editor-inchief, you wrote a letter to the editor-in-chief, stating your desire to seek
the position. On election night, you stood up before the body at large,
made your pitch, and went out in the hall. The other candidate, or
candidates followed suit, and followed you into the hall.
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Then the staff held a discussion. Everyone voted with paper
ballots. That is how all the editors, campus, sports, city, arts, music, and
managing editors were chosen. In 1971, following campus wide anti-war
riots instigated by FBI’s hired provocateurs; one Dennis Arnold was
elected editor-in-chief.
With a nationally recognized Music supplement, edited by Billy
Altman, cartoon art by Tom Toles; with campus writer reporter Jo-Ann
Armao and her protégé, Howard Kurtz, pumping out stories, “The
Spectrum” was first class and wining national awards. The editors, upon
graduation, were offered summer internships with Jack Anderson’s
nationally syndicated Washington Merry Go Round.
Arnold decided that he would, “take the paper private.” “The
Spectrum” became an educational purposes corporation. The Spectrum
Student Periodical, Inc. occupied space in Norton Hall, but “The
Spectrum” was not an open-bodied student group anymore. The ‘official
paper’ was now to be governed by a new set of rules.
The corporate by-laws read as follows: “The business and affairs
of The Spectrum shall be conducted by its members.” Membership
criteria: “Membership of The Spectrum shall consist of the Editorial
Board as designed and appointed by the Chairman.”
What came first, the chicken or the egg? The ‘staff,’ which any
student or community person could join, was taken out of the paper’s
editorial mix, and within a few years, there wasn’t any staff; only the
editorial board who were mostly buddies of the editor’s.
There were experimental colleges, and someone connected to the
English Department created a 101-composition course for freshman,
tying them to the paper, as staff. The students, taking and paying for a
credit course were each assigned to write a half dozen articles during the
semester. The masthead ‘editors’ weren’t Editors. They were mostly
would-be writer chums of the editor, quickly burned out from having to
produce fresh articles three times a week.
Onlion S. Shem interjects: Hark!
You choose me Editor-in-Chief and I will appoint you ersatz OpEd editor and raise your stipend. The by-law on impeaching the editorin-chief was an FBI masterpiece of FBI insularity. Firstly, only editorial
board members could peddle an impeachment hearing.
In order to begin an impeachment, you had to first get to the
other editors, most of them the chief’s cohorts, and have a majority sign
a paper the editor-in-chief should be removed; step one for a hearing
before trial. Impossible! Were any dissatisfied editor to even attempt an
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impeachment, the editor-in-chief, advised, could summon you to his
office, fire you; and call security to clean out your desk.
The paper turned into a moribund rag; its history, policies and
editing run by the back room employees who physically put out the
former award winner three times a week. Without them, the paper was
knot! An editor-in-chief explained to Jacklegs how he was chosen a
future editor-in-chief at the end of his first semester, in the midseventies; in his freshman year, au jus like that.
The editor, Richard Korman, today a senior hack at EMS
Magazine, for McGraw Hill, explained it thus: “I took The Spectrum
course my freshman year at school, and I was going to take some other
course my second semester. I worked for the campus editor. He told me,
“Take The Spectrum course and work at my desk one more semester. I
will see to it you get an A for the course. I will also recommend you for
Campus Editor. Whoever is the Campus Editor gets to be Managing
Editor the following year, for more money; and, whom ever is Managing
Editor works with the people in the back room and therefore gets to be
Editor-in-Chief.” And that is the way it went for Richard Korman,
anointed before the end of his freshman semester to become the editorin-chief for his senior year.
Dennis Arnold, with his FBI inspired by-laws, set in motion the
destruction of an exemplary college newspaper. Arnold’s protégé was
campus editor Jo-Ann Armao, her protégé, Howard Kurtz. Both left
Dennis Arnold’s insular corporate structure in place and ground the
paper further down, on behalf of furthering their own careers.
Before graduating Jo-Ann married her cohort, “The Spectrum”
photographer Larry McNeice. In the paper’s 1969 annual photograph, all
the undergraduate members are present. McNeice is on the left at the
back of the pack, not by accident looking away just as the photo is
snapped. McNeice did not want to be photographed.
The year before Dennis Arnold became editor-in-Chief, “The
Spectrum” was a nationally recognized award winning college paper.
Jack Anderson’s running internship offer with Washington Merry Go
Round was a plus, though Jack Anderson was a newspaper columnist J.
Edgar Hoover despised. FBI to this day, seeks to keep Anderson’s
archives under seal. Jack Anderson’s files inadvertently open the door to
the FBI domestic counter intelligence program for infiltrating our college
newspapers with their own people. That is their reason. When Jo-Ann
graduated, she immediately took a job at The Buffalo News. Her
husband, Larry could have gone there, too, but he stayed behind, for less
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money, working in “The Spectrum” back room, doing paste-up, layout
and design.
McNeice also ran “Gustav,” his own passport photograph
service, which he quietly self-advertised in the newspaper. Larry
McNeice was a lay out master; an expert on the IBM computers for
outputting copy in justified columns onto gloss paper to be chopped and
pasted, the sheets then photographed and turned into plates.
During the seventies McNeice conveniently continued taking
photos for “The Spectrum,” but only of student government hacks
invited to sit for file shots. “The Spectrum” would have a picture to run
of you in case your campus government doings were to be featured.
McNeice dressed like a stew dent, always in ragged jeans, but he was
soon getting downtown money for his backroom work.
An examination of McNeice pictures shot over a period of years
shows a pattern: all of the students who looked angelic, bathed in light
from above, were thieves, their grub hands in the till. Those in the
shadows were all decent kids, wanting to do the right thing.
King Solomon muses:
In 1973 our Poet Prophet was invited to submit a budget, to the
student’s corporation for a journal, Cosmos, to be a new campus
publication. However when Cosmos finally came out its budget was
immediately frozen, supposedly so the student corporation could conduct
an investigation into how Cosmos was published without the required
purchase order for the printer. The student government offices were on
the second floor, the backroom where Cosmos was laid out, on the third
floor. There wasn’t any investigation. It seemed at first made up out of
thin air to keep the Cosmos from becoming an actual alternative to the
student’s boring bill of newspaper fare.
The Poet Prophet participated as an overseer in the whole
production. Shirley Giglia, the advertizing lady insisted ‘courier’ was the
only font available for the page about the Television Scripture.
Jacklegs was perplexed. He recollects, as though yesterday:
“The night before Cosmos was published I was in “The
Spectrum” back room, supervising layout. I was Cosmos publisher, with
the student’s Sub-Board corporation footing the $300 bill. I watched
McNeice paste up all the copy. It was after 11:00 P.M.”
McNeice said, “I’m taking Cosmos out to the printers. You can
come along, but you have to promise, no talking to the printers.”
I hesitated. I said, “I don’t know. How will I get back here to get
my car?” I had a course I was teaching early the next morning.
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McNeice said, “Don’t worry. I have to come back this way. I’ll
bring you back. It isn’t out of my way.”
I said, “What about the Requisition Purchase Order from Lester,
in the business office? Don’t you need a purchase order?”
McNeice answered, “That isn’t any big deal. I don’t need an
R.E.P. for the printers. I drive out to their plant three times a week with
“The Spectrum” flats. I’ll get an R.E.P. from Lester, in the morning.”
“McNeice, out of character, insisted I go with him, so I went.
According to “The Spectrum” two days later, I’d supposedly gone out to
the printers behind everybody’s back with the flats, picked up Cosmos
the next day and distributed them – without purr mission!”
“The whole budgetary process was a scam from the day a
prominent grad student bureaucrat flagged me in Norton Hall and
suggested I put together a staff and a budget. Whatever the game was,
McNeice was a party to it. McNeice knew he invited me along, that he
delivered Cosmos to the print shop and that I wouldn’t have been there
had he not pressed me to go along for the ride.”
Tom Toles drew the cover reflecting the main article, “The Lev
Day Vid Report (subtitled), Millennium Television for the Tense Present
and the Coming Even.” Cosmos was instantly a collector’s item. The
journal’s prose form scandalized the English Department. It was
literature. Students were purchasing copies from each other.
The day, “Cosmos Budget Frozen,” was the paper’s lead story,
an undergraduate girl came up to the Poet Prophet standing by an open
door to the Rathskeller cafeteria.
She asked our Jacklegs, “Are you the Lev?”
Poet Prophet answered, “Yes, I am Lev. Why do you ask?”
She answered, “Do you know you are the subject of John
Greenwood’s thesis.”
Our Poet Prophet, the “Jacklegs, jumping up,” was floored.
John Greenwood was a super concerned involved-involved
Graduate Student Association activist officer in GSEU, the Graduate
Student Employee Union. Greenwood was also a long time Director on
the Board of the student’s corporation, Sub-Board.
John Greenwood was the grad student bureaucrat who had
invited our “happy Lev” to bring along students enrolled in his Lev
Course, to Sub-Board meetings and submit a budget for Cosmos.
Greenwood, months earlier, had run into Lev in the Student
Union and said, “Lev, I and the other Board Members are not happy with
our student sponsored publications. Everyone knows you’re the best
writer on campus, unofficially poet laureate of the university. Why don’t
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you put together a budget for a new publication and make a presentation
at our Sub-Board meeting. We’ve got extra money. I’m the longest
member on the board and I can make it happen.”
Lev asked the girl, “John Greenwood’s thesis?” He thought for a
moment. “How do you know that I’m the subject of his thesis?”
She answered him, smiling, “Lev, you are on every other page.
I’m Greenwood’s typist. He calls me in a couple times a week, to work,
typing his thesis in his office. I have a work-study grant.”
Lev kept going, “I’ve known him for awhile. He’s been an
involved graduate bureaucrat a long time What is his thesis about?”
She answered, “Group controls.”
Onlion S. Shem intercedes:
The next day Lev sought out pre-med student Stuart Berger, who
was the editor of a weekly publication, “Ethos.” Lev drafted a letter
calling John Greenwood reactionary green wood, very likely a CIA grad
student plant. Berger, accepted into med school, had nothing to lose. The
Lev letter appeared in the next issue of “Ethos.”
Immediately super involved John Greenwood was resigning all
his positions and leaving the university. Domestic intelligence needed to
get Greenwood and his group control thesis on controlling Michael
Stephen Levinson out of there in a hurry! That was 1973.
A year or so later, over lunch with a couple ad minis traitors one
of them, FBI connected blurted out, “Lev, you were right about John
Greenwood and his wife. They both work for CIA.”
Without a blink, Lev inquired, “How do you know that?”
The ad minis traitor answered, “John and his wife are both
working as embassy attachés, in Africa. They sent me a post card.”
A week after the letter about Greenwood came out in “Ethos,”
Lev’s father passed away, and Lev’s life changed. He didn’t go after
McNeice over the Cosmos rip. He didn’t renew his experimental Lev
course and stopped hanging around, but Lev did not forget.
A few years later the Poet Prophet, thought a living legend in his
own time, returned in full force. He petitioned for a referendum to have
the Student Association morph into an Undergraduate House of
Representatives, for course credit instead of money. The Editor-in-Chief,
Korman, named the referendum, The Leverendum.
The next Editor-in-Chief following Korman was a decent kid, a
French major, Brett Kline. Kline, like Rich Korman, but unlike Jo-Ann
Armao and Howie Kurtz, was friendly to our Poet Prophet the students
called Lev. Brett Kline was a stone pothead. Every day Kline smoked at
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least two or three huge joints in his corner office on the 3rd floor, often
inviting Lev and a few others to join him.
Onlion S. Shem interjects:
Jay Rosen walked in the door, one day, out of the blue, and was,
within the week, awarded a column. Rosen immediately began
ingratiating himself with the backroom full timers, who were in charge of
the paper’s look, besides the archive reference.
Rosen, FBI snookered after high school, was sent there as a
trainee, and to do what he did. Rosen wrote an article castigating the
Leverendum, Lev’s government for course credit concept, without
interviewing the man whose idea it was, instead, calling our Jacklegs
legendary Poet Prophet, “anathematic,” and, “the madman Lev.”
This was not exactly under Brett Kline’s nose as Kline was
smoking pot all day long, but in fairness to Kline he felt very badly about
“the madman Lev” article. Students were angry and wrote to Kline,
complaining about Rosen’s distortions, liable, and slander.
An ad minis traitor Vice-president manipulated Brett Kline into
hiring Rosen, with the promise to Kline of a recommendation into a
primo grad school; and this thoughtless mistake haunted Brett Kline for
many of his adult years!
It was getting to the end of Brett Kline’s tenure as “The
Spectrum” Editor-in-Chief, four years after Cosmos. The president of the
University, Robert Ketter, was addressing the student body in the Haas
Lounge, on the first floor of Norton Hall, the Stew dent Union.
President Ketter was explaining his Five Year Master Plan for
the university. As Dr. Ketter explained his master plan to the gathered
undergraduates, it was clear all the benefits were geared to the needs of
the graduate students, at the expense of the undergrads.
Lev, standing way in the back of the room, raised his hand. Dr.
Ketter stopped talking and took a question from the Poet Prophet. The
university president and the poet, the two of them, on occasion when
alone were on a first name basis.
Lev stated, “What you are describing is a pyramid upside down.
The lower your standing at the University, the narrower your possibilities
as a student. Unless you improve the undergrad’s life your Master Plan is
doomed. The undergrads are the more important element, the bottom
half. Their activities fees give the place it’s life.”
The undergraduates cheered. President Ketter admitted the Lev
analysis was correct, but pointed out the state of New York wanted
SUNYAB to focus on being a graduate research facility. Had the
president of the university given such a speech ten years previous the
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campus would have been in an uproar. The student press would have
been calling for a vote of no confidence! That was then.
Kline showed up, bleary eyed, just arriving from his office
upstairs, and hung out with the Lev. In spite of Jay Rosen’s vicious
writings, Lev and Kline remained friends. Then, out of nowhere,
standing next to president Ketter, wearing his faded student jeans and
blue work shirt, sleeves half rolled, was Larry McNeice, close enough to
president Ketter to smell Ketter’s sweat, almost cheek-to-cheek. Nikon in
hand, McNeice was photographing everyone in the front row of chairs
lined up for the president’s speech. Going from left to right
a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h,i,j,k McNeice was snapping away.
Lev was transfixed, watching Larry McNeice shooting each
individual with whomever was sitting next to them, and the student
bureaucrat next to that bureaucrat, moving across the row of student
government bureaucrats perched in front row attendance.
Lev nudged Editor-in-Chief Kline, “Hey Brett? What is
McNeice doing up there taking pictures? He’s not one of your
undergraduate photographers on an assignment. He’s a back room
employee.
“Lev, you’re right. What the hell is McNeice doing there?”
“Listen to me Brett. You owe me. Tomorrow morning you tell
McNeice that you want to see those pictures he just took, in the paper.
That’s what you tell him. He will balk. Brett, you tell him. You are the
Editor-in-Chief. Either he prints the pictures or he’s out of the paper.
That’s what you say to him!”
Kline looked at Lev. He knew. He said, “OK. I’ll do it.”
King Solomon muses:
Ah dear peers, the record will show a couple weeks went by, and
Kline had to be reminded, but the McNeice pictures were finally printed,
not as rogues gallery of student bureaucrats, in a row, loyal attendees of
president Ketter’s Five Year Master Plan sprechen, rather they were in a
couple film strips, at discouraging angles in the “creative white space”
opposite the editorial, in mini film strip size.
McNeice had been selling his photography to the domestic
intelligence agencies for years. He was a major domestic intelligence
operative on the campus, his photographs government contracted by the
piece. University president Ketter knew it, too.
Were McNeice to have printed the pictures as a 2”x4” half tone
rogue’s gallery of bureaucrats he couldn’t have sold them to the FBI, or
the CIA, which ever of the agencies was is Larry McNeice’s sponsor.
There are 16 separate domestic intelligence agencies.
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But the filmstrips, reduced, at awkward angles would slide
unnoticed. In the event, down the road, were any of the front row
bureaucrats to write for their file under the Freedom of Information Act,
and an 8.5”x11” glossy was included they would be unlikely to put
together when the photo was taken, or who took the picture.
Those kids can be identified. There are people on the campus
able to look at the filmstrip and say who each one of them is. Under
freedom of Information Act their files can be obtained. The 8.5x11
glossies will be included as long as you ask. But the government will
refuse to release the photos, to protect their photographer, upon this
exposure of them in New World Hors D’oeuvres, further proof those
glossies do exist in a government domestic intelligence file!
King Solomon muses:
And Larry McNeice’s wife, Jo-Ann Armao? In 1980, after an
unsuccessful run for president, Jacklegs went out of his way to tell all
sorts of people he was leaving the university community. It would be
years before he returned to any of his old haunts. For all practical
purposes it appeared the ancient Lev had actually moved away.
Jo-Ann Armao around this time decided she was no longer
interested in pursuing her career at The Buffalo News with the SUNYAB
campus her beat. She got in touch with her old protégé, Howard Kurtz,
and called in the chit. After all, he wasn’t the only candidate for The
Spectrum editor-in-Chief job, years before when she was editor. Could
Howie get her into The Washington Post?
King Solomon muses:
Today Jo-Ann Armao is a member of The Washington Post
Editorial Board. One is given to wonder, does Jo-Ann Armao record
every word spoken, for FB-CIA, or does she merely take notes?
Hark! April 13, 2006, cable blabberific, conservative Tucker
Carlson, of MSNBC, interviewed Special Agent, Paul Moskal, in
Buffalo, New York. Moskal held a Muslim American town hall out reach
meeting, earlier that day, in Orchard Park.
27 year veteran, FBI Special Agent Moskal, spokesman of
Church Committee fame stated, “The FBI’s primary mission these days
is the detection and prevention of another terrorist act (Onlion S. Shem:
what about monitoring war protestors and chasing bank robbers? Not
enough banksters out there?), and of course we go out into the
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community every day; and one of our responsibilities is the Muslim
American Community.” (Shem: gee, thanks you boss).
“The FBI is responsible not only for the investigation and
detection of another terrorist act (Shem: A talking point from the seat of
government) . . . but also the protection of Muslim Americans’ civil
rights. We also have a tertiary purpose, to let them (dot heads) know the
FBI is always soliciting good men and good women to join the FBI
(Shem: Join. Become an informant. You can do it. Extra money!). . . One
of our primary missions is the protection of people’s civil rights (Shem:
Aren’t our civil rights the jurisdiction of our courts?). . . . .We need to
protect the public from another terrorist act, but we also need to enforce
the civil rights laws of this country. (Boots click!) It’s a fine line the
American public . . expects of FBI. Voice raises, boots click again, “We
cannot fail… ”
To his credit, the lightweight Tucker Carlson did interject, about
the FB Eye’s Muslim community outreach, “Responsible for their civil
rights? Is there a problem with the civil rights of Muslim Americans? I
must have missed that? I haven’t noticed a great backlash against
Muslim Americans. I wonder if this is the best use of FBI resources
though, to solicit complaints from people when isn’t (garble) thwarting
terror?”
King Solomon muses:
The sadness in the case of Special Agent Paul Mark Moskal, he,
one of J. Edgar’s chosen who personally over saw to it the Poet Prophet’s
life was, metaphorically speaking, shot up in Western New York, is that
Special Agent Moskal actually subscribes to all the fascist trash he
spouts, when Paul Moskal isn’t drooling on himself over the crime scene
photo of J. Edgarina that graces his office wall.
The officials, in charge of FBI’s supremely unconstitutional 4th
Estate show see themselves as controller overseers. The Seat of
Government. Them! Not the folks you voted for. J. Edgarina referred to
his Director’s office as “The Seat of Government”: The Seat of Power
was Hoover’s Seat of Talcum Powder. Hoover’s FBI lifers, those people
chosen by his chosen manage more than 70,000 well paid government,
some covertly placed, domestic U.S.A. informants.
These masters of false witness, wannabe agents, the troops in the
field, each with their own semi-related careers, with buckets of ducats at
stake, fume whilst they digest New World Hors D’oeuvres. Some, like
Jay Rosen and Jo-Ann Armao fear public exposure, but mostly these
70,000 falsehood masters fear the permanent loss of their government
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cash, their FB-Eye cash-well evaporated, their golden FBI coup, finally
goose flown and cooked.
Ask poor Chandra Levy about the Seat of Talcum Power.
Read Senator Church: “The implementation and continuation of
illegal and questionable programs would not have been possible without
the cooperation or tacit approval of people at all levels within and above
the intelligence community, through many successive administrations.”
Sound familiar? That was then. And NSA today? This is now.
That tacit approval of FB-Eye’s Secret Police includes every Member of
Congress! The whole House of Representatives was made, behind their
backs, a party to FBI’s evil. Near every Member of Congress has an
essential, key Rovian person on their staff who puts the tacit call through
to FB-Eye for a ‘name check,’ the person named, the independent citizen
to be checked, a candidate who it just sew happens, declared for the
primary, going after the Member’s seat. When a congressman states, I
didn’t know my chief of staff did that Gestapo-ish stuff, then what –
whom do you trust?
Who is at fault? Who is behind this anti-American fascist try?
Who’s on first? Was Karl Rove given the blame for outing Valid re
Plame, or was it Cheney’s man, Scooter Libby, a run amok shame, guilty
without flame. Dirty trickles, illegal or knot, are old hat. They all do it. In
the post 9-11 world, was even one bureaucrat faulted and dismissed for
their failure to advise us in advance, sew what is to be expected? Poet
Prophet is unequivocal: these bureaucrats were complicit, yet these
fascist pig-lits all sit above our laws, unchecked.
Karl Rove was Bush’s architect. His job was to tell George Bush
exactly what to say and how to say it. Rove was to Bush, as the onearmed ghetto Jew in Schindler’s List, was defended to the Nazi guard,
loading the boxcars for Auschwitz, “essential.”
King Solomon poses:
Every time Bush remarked, and Cheney, too, about Iraq, that
‘staying the course’ was, “essential,” didn’t a bell from Schindler’s Nazi
List go off in hell, an uncollected call? Had Bush reinstalled the military
draft via Executive hors d’oeuvre, millions of Bush chickens would raise
up the banner, to rumble on Bushington, against his war.
Jacklegs was inspired to create His Vehicle, sew to turn the
wheel, and set a course for whirled peace on good ship mother earth.
Words mean something. Read your Senator Church:
“Under pressure from above to accomplish their assigned tasks,
and without the realistic threat of prosecution to remind them of their
legal obligations, it is understandable these agents frequently acted
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without concern for issues of law and at times, assumed that legal
restraints and prohibitions did not apply to their activities.”
What are understandable times when, it is essential, “Thou Shalt
Knot Kill,” does knot apply? When a highly placed ‘civilian,’ in the field,
in plain sight, his position stamped TOP SECRET, imagines, as
professor Jay Rosen knows, that exposure is imminent? Is that when
murdering a citizen patriot solves an intelligence agency prob limb? In so
many of our movies, the villainous government agents promote to their
deaths their vicious, we are in charge agenda.
Church: “Significantly, those officials at the highest levels of
government, who had a duty to control the intelligence community, set in
motion the forces that permitted lawlessness to occur.”
What? Officials at the highest government levels set in motion
forces that permitted lawlessness? Are our elected congress elected to
protect our rights? Former Congressman, Gary Condit, a sex addicted
rake, is a prime example of someone whose public duties entailed an
agency control, through oversight, but who set in motion forces that
permitted major lawlessness.
Condit’s paramour, Chandra Levy had a lot to say about
lawlessness, besides the seat of powder. Chandra was murdered because
she was Condit’s lover. The intelligence aristocrats wanted Condit out.
The way to accomplish that was to do what they did - murder Chandra
Levy, sew to scandalize Condit out of his office.
Counter intelligence operatives decided that from Chandra’s soft
seat, in front of boyfriend, Gary Condit’s computer, Chandra saw the full
panoply of secret congressional files, with all those 70,000 thousand
domestic FBI informants on the fed payroll; with the CIA and Defense
Dept.’s domestic informants included, and sew, because they simply
couldn’t say for sure just what Chandra Levy knew, or what she would
do after Condit cut her loose, they snuffed her, just like that, before the
Congressman could dump her. A life. Government bureaucrats, to protect
an op involving their domestic intelligence bureaucracy, murdered one of
our daughters.
When the Poet Prophet becomes President he proves what he
says about all these players. Poet Prophet is a marked man. Chandra
Levy, for whatever their reason, was collateral, a marked woman.
The Church Committee Reports Attorney General Silberman
snoozed through, Books II and III, ought to be a solid semester’s worth
required reading with discussion in every civics class in all our high
schools and every university nationwide. Today! Immediately!
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Lurn your history, or suffer repeat! Upon Jacklegs’ election to
our presidency –the Church reports will be required reading, by
Executive Order: ‘You kids had better read these Church Committee
reports and write your President a Bill of Rights essay, answering a key
quest yin, “What Is Important Here,” this for independent study credit, or
else. The United States President might read your paper.’
Returning to Jacklegs request for nationwide access, the case that
began in 1991, lest we get scrambled in a fascist inspired ramble, NBC’s
Public’s Interest obligation required NBC network to give or sell
Jacklegs airtime the Jacklegs was entitled to.
Jacklegs would have had all the publicity he needed to be
“recognized by gnashional noose media” which then qualified him, near
automatically, for primary ballot status in at least another twenty states,
and campaigning from state to state, more statewide PBS speeches,
regardless, qualified in any case for at least one two hour prime time live
speech on PBS nationwide, said speech to have taken place in January,
after access to all the other states’ primary ballots were closed, which
would have also closed the mass media door on all those other so-called
e quill time “publicity seekers,” who in fact, don’t even exist. Brilliant!
Justice Warren Berger, when Chief of all Coats, was beyond any
shadow, clear, in the Carter / Mondale case, CBS v. FCC, the
telecommunications end all quoted above, that speculations about
potential e quill time requests did not suffice as a reason for denying a
reasonable request for access by a candidate, for time, to make a speech
on behalf of their candidacy.
Before Justice Berger, it seems centuries ago, bandwidth was
limited, and scarce. The Fairness Doctrinaire e quill time provision was
our protection. A candidate’s appearance on any radio or TV show was
considered a “use” sew other candidates were entitled to the same
opportunity. That was the intent behind the law.
Mass media was new and pow wow er full. Unless a program
was ruled exempt, and determined a “news” program, like “Meet The
Pretzels,” the program was subject to e quill time requests from others,
calling forth the fear that, gasp, some goose stepping commie fascistic
demagogue would appear and on sight, roil the electorate, therefore nonpolitical talk shows had to be discouraged from having any candidates
on, to keep the splinters out. Our communications laws, in place to
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protect all the candidate’s media rights brought far fewer opportunities to
see and hear any candidates for federal office.
Meet The Pretzels, This Week with David Brinkley, and other
news programs were exempt. The editorial decision, which candidates
would be anointed, for interviews, was in the hands of the program
producers. But The Phil Donahue Show, certainly a more popular
vehicle, was not exempt. Donahue made application to FCC, and sought
the 315 e quill time exemption. FCC ruled against Phil. FCC said The
Donahue Show was an entertainment show, knot news. Yet an extensive
interview, with audience interaction, on The Phil Donahue Show would
have, for its content, made the news.
Section 312(a)(7) put everyone’s media rights into balance.
Network news divisions were free to cover whomever they felt were
viable, and you, the unknown, under 312(a)(7) could purchase or could
be given as much air time as you needed to state your case for
nomination and or election, regardless what the network news shows
were doing, a constitutional check and balance.
King Solomon muses, and Onlion S. Shem, interjects:
Dear peer-ships: Can you agree that you do not need an FCC, or
any overseer, to determine who and what you are entitled to view and
hear? A nip of Janet Jackson did knot hurt you, but cost CBS, her under
bra sponsor, a half million dollar appealable charge.
The Congress, by statute, requires FCC review our access laws,
for public comment, every four years.
At the 11th hour of their public promulgations, in 1991, FCC
attempted to claim 312(a)(7) requests for access would be subjected to
review based on potential 315 e quill time requests, contradicting the tea
ching of Supreme Court Justice Berger, decided when he was Chief of all
Coats, in the famous 312(a)(7) Supreme Court case. Berger was retired
for years, and well out of it.
The purpose behind their illegitimate 11th hour change was to
subvert our Jacklegs from getting another opportunity to address the
electorate on a non-commercial PBS station, where the airtime is free.
Jacklegs gave a half hour prime time speech on NHPTV, in 1988, and
these fascistic bureau critters were determined. They bent rules and
violated applicable laws, to eliminate the possibility that Jacklegs would
repeat his speech / performance on PBS.
The plot thickens, like homemade soup. A public interest group
of attorneys challenged FCC’s 11th hour promulgation. FCC’s violating
the FCC’s statutory requirement was hardly constitutional. The public
interest group appealed FCC’s decision, moving against FCC in the 9th
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Circuit Appellate Court, in California where members of the bench are
known to believe in the law. The Appellate Court in California is knot
exactly home for political hacks, as the District of Columbia Circuit
Court sadly has, in recent years become.
The public interest attorneys had an airtight case! But the night
before the hearing commenced, in 1994, FCC backed off. They folded
their cards, telling the court, ‘no contest.’ The attorneys assumed FCC
gave it up because they were spoilsports. By dropping out, and copping
to ‘no contest,’ FCC beat the public interest attorneys out of their
entitlement, a court award for legal fees. That’s what the public interest
lawyers thought, but that was only part of it.
Jacklegs was the actual issue behind FCC’s chicanery. When
Jacklegs returned to New Hampshire, in 1991, besides his request to
purchase time from NBC, and his request for nationwide access from
PBS, he also filed a request for access with New Hampshire Public
Television.
New Hampshire Public Television shot back, there are sooo
many candidates for President; if we grant your request for access we
will be liable to e quill time requests from all the other candidates. In
fact, dear peers their fascistic legal logic, whether challenged or knot, is
clearly deficient.
The other candidates for President, according to the station,
sleeping outside in the station’s parking lot, were not entitled to any e
quill time. But they were, under 312(a)(7), entitled to their own time!
There is a diff rinse. E quill time is a “use” demand, knot negotiable.
Access for time via 312(a)(7) is via reasonable request.
The laws were clearly crafted with the purpose of balancing the
rights of the candidates, the people, and the broadcasters, on behalf of
more politic speech for less money. Our mass media laws, protecting
speech, cannot be misconstrued to self- cancel access for speech without
violating our constitution, which is impermissible!
But our Federal Communications Commission, with Chief
Justice Berger out of the picture, always rules with the stations, what
brought Jacklegs to the granite steps of the United States Supreme Court
in the first place! Had the public interest attorneys’ case been heard in
the 9th Circuit Court, they would have prevailed; statutes required FCC
to appeal the 9th Circuit decision to the Supreme Court.
The public interest legal beagles would have brushed cuffs with
Jacklegs, jumping rope up and down the granite steps, itching to get his
case on with the Coats, and uncovered the injustice driving their own
case. Had the two related cases leap-frogged, Jacklegs’ de facto legal
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team, a group of public interest lawyers, would have gone on to publicly
soak and smoke the FCC, for unconstitutionality!
Hark cub reporters! Macacas saddle up! It’s time you gallop
down the road to win your Pulitzer Prize!
Contact William Gardner, Secretary of State in the great state of
New Hampshire. Request his list of unknown candidates who were on
the ballot for the 1992 and 1996 primaries. Do your home phone work.
It’s time to write a human interest story about all those unknowns who
were campaigning to win New Hampshire’s primary, to then go on from
New Hampshire, down the campaign trail, after their party’s nomination
for President; all those so-called candidates for President who would
have sought e quill time on the PBS station, had they only seen or heard
about our Jacklegs giving a speech there.
There might be, adding democrats and republicans together,
sixty unknowns, total from both parties’ primary campaigns. You might
reach a lady in Texas. She will be adamant, asking, how you obtained her
unlisted telephone number. Remind her that via U.S. Postal, she plunked
a healthy buck chunk on the table – one thousand dollars - the fee
required to establish herself on New Hampshire’s primary ballot with
New Hampshire Secretary of State Gardner, as a bona fide for President.
You want her recollections about her campaign experiences in New
Hampshire. How many days did she spend in the state, and sew forth;
what issue prompted her to run? She will deny she ran for President,
deny she ever went to New Hampshire, which is true, she didn’t go to
New Hampshire, and she will likely hang up the phone on you.
Fly toTexas. Cab on over to her house. Lean on the doorbell.
Demand an answer. Maybe the lady might admit that someone,
government connected, gave her that thousand dollars and put her up to
claiming her candidacy. Knot running for office, mind you, Herr dummy,
just filing. Pretending, on paper, to be a candidate. $1000.00
Find on Gardner’s list a name and address in Manhattan. In the
event the telephone number next to the candidate is no longer in service,
do your research. Find that candidate’s telephone was in fact the public
telephone, on the wall in a Dunkin Donuts located on the Avenue of the
Americas. What a great expose for your noose paper.
Both republican and democrat ballots had candidates who had
filed the $1000 fee, except they weren’t actually candidates for office,
knot even dogcatcher. Their names were on the ballot to flood the ballot,
sew the station could deny Jacklegs his entitlement to make a political
speech, and FCC, in concert with the station, could back them up, and
bury Jacklegs complaint, sew the fringe candidate (also known as dirty
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Jew) would be crushed. Your Pulitzer Prize for exposing FBI’s hand in
our politics is waiting in the wings.
Dig deep. Find a manipulative, fascist FBI was behind this
electoral charade, which amounts to destruction of your pallah tics.
Peer-ships! From state to state, our election laws differ. It’s
codified in many states: The Secretaries of Slate place your name on
their ballots for the presidential primaries in the event you qualify for
matching funds, or you are “recognized by national news media.”
Therefore, after an initial appearances on C-Span, we hold
ourselves a gnashional noose medja straw poll to determine who is
“recognized,” a legal threshold for ballot status regardless how much
money your campaign has raised. It is codified, well settled Election Law
in a couple dozen states! Recognition by national noose media is a
threshold that qualifies you for ballot status in the states, upon written
request to the various individual Secretaries of State.
With or without any 4th Estate nod, NBC was obligated to sell
“Jacklegs” airtime he was entitled to purchase, which guaranteed our
Jacklegs an evening in your living room, nationwide on PBS!
King Solomon muses:
What are these people afraid of? Jacklegs’ story of creation?
Adman and Even in the Gar Den ov Edum? The Book ov Lev It A Kiss, c.
1971, is a book of living prophesy, a Television Scripture, ‘The Vehicle
for World Peace.’ Are they afraid of world peace?
As world events unfold it turns out many were written down in
advance. Richard Nixon is described leaving the White House, ‘slinking’
out the back door; Vice-President Spiro Agnew is a tragic hero, over
money; Nixon aide John Erlichman grew a beard, and disappeared,
behind bars; Governor George Wallace gets a ‘scrue’ in the back, and
more; the ozone layer depletes and the arctic ice caps begin their melt.
The demise of Apollo 13 was in fact described and published before it
happened, in a journal at York University.
The prophetic walking talker, Lev man, own le held the pen.
Onlion S. Shem offers an interjection:
The Poet Prophet’s prophetic writings are all over the place.
Here is his description of 9-11 that first appeared in 1991, in the c.
1991 chapter about the first Gulf War, Kuwaiting for the Dough:
“It’s obvious from viewing the surrendering forces we’d
rendered them helpless - even with a just cause, like Jihad and country,
there wasn’t any taste for battle in the Iraqis. Not after all those smart
rocks from above. But we ought to have eased up on the stick and
quelled Chief Thousand Lights’ handlers in their thirst for how-do-we-
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get-George-re-elected-blood-footage, because, it could happen we all end
up going down the Abu Nye Dolly Road, choking on our own.”
‘Nye’ is a brood, a flock of pheasants, here a brood of 757’s,
flocked for hatching evil. A ‘dolly’ is a cart, used for hauling trash. Abu
Nidal was the famous Palestinian terrorist. Watching the towers
crumbling down, we were all, en masse, ‘choking’ on our own.
Money & Power are against free political speech on TV. Their
money loses its power. Who needs special in trysts when you can pow
wow with the people free on PBS’ independent air, raise campaign bucks
while there, and get it on without obtaining purr mission from Tom
DeLay, or his special in trysts. Hark! DeLay is gone under, his faceless
speshle in trysts living yonder. Sir Tom shall become, upon exit from the
House, a near unparalleled King of lobbyists, reportedly best at twisting
arms whilst forking over ducats.
Of course PBS will discourage under funded, independent
presidential candidates from seeking any airtime on their loose flung
network, notwithstanding PBS’ unconstitutional removal from the pallah
tickle mix by some unknown earmarked Member of Congress.
Regardless, most PBS stations will fight your right to mass
media speech, when the congressional seat under challenge is in their
uncontested neighborhood. Were any PBS stations allowing any amateur
Jack-leggy candidates to exercise their constitutional right to access,
whelp, the incumbent challenged by the upstart independent would be
upset, and the PBS stations, pressured, more than likely feel they cannot
afford that.
But knot to fret. FBI has FCC tentacles running decades deep.
The National Association of Broadcasters controls the middle ground.
The tentacles communicate with the stations, via NAB. Conspiratorially,
one-step-away commercial cut outs are all over the place, abounding all
around town, sew the parties involved get it straight, behind closed doors,
commercial or non, you have a goose full of gold, piss on the law when
told and your broadcast license is beyond challenge, a far cry from the
paramount CBS v. FCC.
In 1988, on the very last day for declaring candidacies for the
office of U.S. President, with less than an hour to go before New
Hampshire’s Secretary of State, William Gardner, closed his state’s firstin-the-nation nominating process, the stealthy Jacklegs showed up in
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Concord with the required one thousand dollars filing fee. He was on the
ballot, a bona fide candidate for President.
On the way out of town, heading back to Buffalo, N.Y. Jacklegs
posted a request for access to the two neighborhood PBS stations;
WGBH in Boston, Mass., and NHPTV, in New Hampshire.
WGBH, broadcasts from Boston, and serves nearly half of New
Hampshire. WGBH was belligerent. They claimed they weren’t
obligated to air Jacklegs’ proposed speech, and they refused access.
Jacklegs complaint to FCC fell on deaf ears, but NHPTV, New
Hampshire’s primary PBS channel, could not refuse. The famous First
Amendment access case, decided by Justice Berger was fresh, and
Berger, only recently retired, had all of his wits.
A letter to Warren Berger might have brought him out of
retirement, as the access case, establishing the affirmative rights of
candidates to mass media speech was by far, the most far reaching,
important decision in Berger’s whole career, and the emeritus Chief
Justice, though off the bench, sensed that much in his bones.
NHPTV acknowledged, under the law, they were obligated to
make some time available. The candidate sought, knot “some” time,
rather a prime time evening with the electorate, with every line a delicate
sensible rhyme, punctuated by lyric paragraphs.
Jacklegs’ request reflected that.
He wrote a couple hundred words focused on an issue, and
suggested the issue was worth 10 minutes, to extrapolate an in depth
explanation. Every prob limb facing US was explained with a Jacklegs
proposed solution. At the conclusion, upon adding up all the minutes, the
time required for the candidate’s policy program sprechen was beyond
four hours! The candidate suggested he could condense the planks in his
platform, and therefore sought, give or take, two hours for his speech.
In retrospect, Jacklegs’ proposed speech challenges all our
candidates for President, to spend an evening with the voters, stating
their cases as to where they stand, their positions on all the issues, what
we should do and why, their lead er ship, their sense over ship, the
solutions they bring for solving the prob limbs facing our nation. Absent
teleprompter sound bytes, as seen at our most recent political
conventions, scripted by poli-pro writers, the so-called candidates would
all be obfuscated from our electoral contest. Then our nation’s reel
leaders might start to come forward, our Founding Father’s legacy, a free
nation, with leaders freely elected.
Since Richard Nixon resigned we’ve lived with a leadership
vacuum, our candidates’ read-between-the-lines-litany, a crud poetry,
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their wish wash verses as much the legacy of J. Edgarina and his ongoing
counter intelligence programs, as all the bought and paid for incumbent
politishinz in both political parties. The politishinz are knot leaders,
except as head of the pack, their stampede to a non-stop feed off the
public trough, spouses and kids in clue did.
Tom DeLay is a ready example. His wife and kid were both on
the bacon take, D.C. lobbyists, nay, election consultants. The art of
pallah tics, to Mr. DeLay, his family’s pretence to power was his private
money rake, his control of the lobbyist money. 535 House of
Representatives leadership vacuums spell DeLay’s corrupt legacy.
New Hampshire PBS countered Jacklegs’ request for access,
their take it or leave it offer, 30 minutes of prime time, and put his
proposed speech off more than a month, claiming scheduling issues, sew
any opportunity for a follow-up speech was squelched.
That was enough of a violation, under well-settled law, for FCC
to suggest to the station their license was in jeopardy. All FCC had to do
was telephone the station and ‘unofficially’ tell them to get off their
stick. That would have been more than sufficient to generate an instant
change in the station’s fascist attitude. But the FCC is the station’s
protector! Your rights as a citizen don’t add up to dog poop, sew ‘pay
your tax and keep your mouths shut’ becomes a valid view.
King Solomon muses:
Would the stations have treated Ted Kennedy in the same
unseemly fashion when Senator Kennedy was running for President?
Senators Kerry, Dole, Hillary Rodham Clintstone? Any of them?
It is not for any broadcast station to tell you, the candidate, when
they will allow you to make a speech from their studios upon your
candidacy for congress, or for our presidency! ‘When’ you give your
speech is for you to decide! The station’s response to Jacklegs’ request
exemplifies your government bureaucracy’s heavy-handed approach to
controlling your First Amendment Rights, in spite of an affirmative
ruling favoring the individual, by your Supreme Coats.
Jacklegs has the right to speak and you the right to assemble and
listen. The First Amendment doesn’t state your right to make a speech in
the town square, or using mass media, over the air, is contingent on
whether George W. Bush will permit it. The grant for your assembly and
speech is Pro Forma, constitutionally guaranteed. The permit is yours on
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your request. You apply and pay a nominal fee; and the Town Square
permit for your sprechen is granted!
Jacklegs registered a telephone ‘complaint’ with the Federal ExCommunications Commission. Robert Baker, the ‘Political Branch
Enforcement Division’ lead attorney, stated, “Cut bait and run because
that is all you are going to get.” On the issue of the Supreme Coats’
decision, that access for a mass media speech is an affirmative right,
according to Chief Justice Berger’s tea ching, based on the candidate’s
needs, Baker stated, “You cannot expect your access request to be given
the same deference we would give a sitting President’s request. ”
Baker’s FCC policy statement, under our constitution, is
impermissible, exactly what Supreme Coat Justice John Paul Stevens
meant with his dissent, in the most telling case in the Supreme Court’s
whole history, quoted above, that, soon to be given an urf shaking
exegetical, top of the fold look, herewith below.
Baker’s off the cuff remark, his official response, though at that
time not yet written down, but official none the less, trashed your
Supreme Court’s ruling on this issue, trashed your constitution, and
trashed all your entitled rights as a citizenry, to assemble and hear a
candidate’s uncensored political speech in your living room.
A fascistic bureaucrat, protégé of the bureau’s master fascist rat,
Milton O. Gross, did that. Worldwide, fascist bureaucracies feed off
themselves, suck up the tax wealth, and multiply.
NHPTV demanded $515 for their studio time; three times the
going rate for the use of a TV studio in 1988, illegal. Upon that
complaint, FCC’s Robert Baker brushed off the Poet Prophet, he, seeking
equal treatment under the law with, “We can’t be bothered looking into
that.” New Hampshire’s PBS, through their attorney, suggested the
unknown candidate had until the night of the broadcast to fork over $515
for the studio, on behalf of an informed electorate.
The Poet Prophet thought that suspicious, and sent NHPTV
$515, twelve days before his slated speech. On the Friday before the
Monday when his speech was scheduled to air, an intern at the station
laughed at Jacklegs over the telephone. The intern, about TV listings,
stated: “You aren’t listed anywhere.” Instead of, “Michael Stephen
Levinson, candidate for President” all the papers’ TV guides statewide,
for the coming Monday evening read, “Motor Week.”
Jacklegs tried to get the television program listings changed, but
every newspaper in the state, along with the TV station NHPTV, ignored
the Jacklegs’ pleading for an advance public notice. The candidate called
every newspaper in New Hampshire. Someone told the newspapers to
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ignore the poet candidate and the papers went along with it. We cannot
say the newspapers were aware, in advance, they were printing
misinformation in their weekly TV guides, but for sure, they would knot
do anything to right their print misinformation.
King Solomon muses:
Grant, Friday before the Monday of the scheduled live 30-minute
political campaign speech was too late to change the weekly program
guides already printed for their Sunday papers. How about the daily
editions? An FBI memo lays buried in a top seek writ, classified file
about FBI’s role in shafting the candidate. The memo went from whom
to whom? Uncover the fascist in your newsroom!
Those people in charge of running that television station, the
station manager in particular, grossly violated your Constitution, what
George W. Bush says your children are defending, and giving their lives
for in Iraq, our Franchise, our Constitution and Bill of Rights, our way of
life. Into that place inside your head where words form, an FCC inspired
verse, comes to mind:
Wear this gold star, Jew
So we can see who you are
Board this railroad car
Your campaign is goin’ to Babi Yar.
Secretary of State Gardner estimated 500 people saw the
Jacklegs’ 1988 televised speech. Of that 500, half were voters. Secretary
Gardner and the candidate figured there were, give or take, 80 democrats,
80 republicans, and 80 independent who did see at least part of the
candidate’s sprechen, by accident, clicking their remotes. On primary
day, 32 republicans, and 10 independents cast their ballot for Jacklegs,
the unknown Poet Prophet, for President.
Had his 1988 speech been listed in the newspapers, because it
was a political speech in New Hampshire, thousands of citizens would
have tuned in to see the candidate, and many thousands would have cast
their ballot for Jacklegs, putting him on the map; exactly what Hoover’s
people will knot let; what Bush the Elder’s deceased governor friend,
Hugh Gregg stomped on to his dying breath.
‘Live Free or Die,’ in New Hampshire, means your children
volunteers, the new generation of Paul Revere’s, battling in Iraq around
the clock, swatted like flies, blown to bits on the roadside, are protecting
your right to speak, oar to hear a candidate’s speech, when the evil doers
aren’t in Iraq, there to destroy your right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of
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your happiness; rather these evildoers are ensconced here, J. Edgarina’s
home grown baathist fascists, J. Edgar Hoover’s The Enema Within, his
legacy, people above you in government; people who hold your rights do
knot amount or count!
Although a few newspaper reporters did see the candidate’s
speech, and talked about it to their editors, not one of the state’s
newspapers had bothered to list the mass media political speech, so
writing about the Poet Prophet’s television appearance was knot exactly a
ticket for newsroom advancement. In New Hampshire, the license plate
is, ‘Live Free or Die,’ but for Jacklegs their motto translates: We will
keep your mouth shut, so better you toe the line.
Jacklegs arrived at the station 4:50 PM, to set up for his live
broadcast, scheduled for 7:00 PM. On entering the station Jacklegs noted
there was more than one college stew dent on the premises and each of
the stew dense displayed unfriendly looks, as though an evil, dangerous
person had just walked through their station’s door.
Specifically, they were told the Poet Prophet was a Jim Jones
type person, coming to give a speech on television, and their job was to
do what they were told to do, sew the General Manager could use the
station to foul the candidate’s demagogic, mess eye anic speech.
Jacklegs slipped out of his shirt and trousers, into a suit, and, in
the studio, directed the camera set up and monitors, the shoulders-up
screen shot, his best angle for viewing. The floor manager was a stew
dent, promoted to be floor director for that night only, though it wasn’t
clear why, until it was too late. The actual full time employee floor boss
was in the control room, with the station manager.
The station manager was getting overtime, expressly to pull the
plug. Poet Prophet sensed that much before they set up. In case Poet
Prophet went heavy into his prophetic work of art, with his plan for
bringing peace, worldwide, beginning with a peaceful night; and that he,
the Jacklegs presidential candidate could deliver this world to peace,
with his vehicle, The Television Scripture, there, every line a delicate
sensible rhyme, and for starters, His story of Adman and Even in the Gar
Den ov Edum, and how Ad, the Sun ov Dad, arrived on the set, sew the
viewers would know in their bones, before them stood a true Poet
Prophet, was out of the quest yin. Knot a chants for you, or the New
Hampshire electorate, to sit back, get set, get your television set, quest
169
your chin and take the Poet Prophet’s miraculous blessing in! The station
manager had his orders; was giving orders.
King Solomon muses:
Knot then and knot today. Knot before they at least try again to
murder hymn. The fash FBI can ill afford to let this man his life.
Ten minutes into the program, Jacklegs glanced at the monitor,
which showed him viewed 15 ft away, full body, from the shoes up,
instead of head and shoulders, as pre-arranged, this, the work of the
station manager, trying to ruin the show from the control room, adjusting
the controls expressly to diminish Jacklegs’ speech.
Jacklegs began edging toward the camera. Under the Freedom of
Information Act, get a copy of the PBS tape from FBI. They have it.
With your own ears, listen to the stew dent novice behind the camera
shouting, “He’s moving. He’s moving. What do I do?” The stew dent
brought in for the night, had never even dreamed of operating a TV
studio camera. She forgot her instructions, froze, and panicked!
The next day Jacklegs returned to the station to retrieve the
oxford cloth shirt he’d changed out of and left, accidentally, the night
before. He had a talk, over coffee, with the actual floor manager control
room guy. They sat in an alcove, close to the snack machines. People
kept walking by. The full time studio man, whispering, told the Jacklegs,
“I had to go with what the manager told me to do. He was in charge.
What could I say? I can’t afford to lose my job.”
For a minute they were alone. “Your speech was great. You
walked in here with a single sheet of paper, a series of your ideas
scribbled down, and you went through everything. Your timing was
amazing. Too bad you came here all alone.” His comments were those of
a frightened person in a fascist environment. NHPTV’s one night only
amateur $5 per hour TV crew: $515. “F” comes to mind.
And yes, the full time studio professional agreed the General
Manager was there, on overtime, “just in case,” to pull the broadcast
plug. The Jacklegs inquired, “Just in case of what?” The full time
employee stated, “Well, you could have stripped naked. That is what Mr.
Parks told us was more than likely to happen.”
In classified FBI folders tampered TOP SECRET, hangs their
memoranda about the NHPTV station manager’s studio role that night in
New Hampshire, 1988. J. Edgarina saw himself the Seat of Government.
J. Edgar loved his own knockdown cross dress strips, doing an in-andout of his lacy brassiere, panties and garter for his 2nd in charge, number
one shower lover guy, Clyde the Tolson. Hoover’s chosen believe any
potential mess eye anic must be a fake.
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King Solomon muses:
Poet Prophet is here to tell you the messiah everyone is waiting
for isn’t going to show up for 185,000 years, which is why Poet needs to
purr form whirled wide, frum dus cun till dawn; sew every buddy will
know what’s up at the end, when they get reborn.
Knot to fear Lev Paul Revere; the LAN Lord will appear.
Set aside J. Edgar Dung-bat. J. Edgar is gone, long dead. But
Hoover’s legacy lives on. Does it insult your intelligence, the idea
someone would be a candidate for President, arrange to give a ‘free’
speech on the local PBS channel, and then, during his or her speech, strip
down naked on live television? Why would anyone do that? Yet that is
exactly what those kids working at the TV station that evening were told
was virtually guaranteed to happen during the broadcast.
Recollect the Church’s Committee hearings exposing FBI’s and
CIA’s very unconstitutional domestic transgressions, their covert counter
intelligence activities having arbitrarily corrupted the rights of all those
American citizens, thousands, that Hoover despised, Jews, poets, and
other creatives, Bob Dylan, and John Lennon, who believed in peace and
freedom? Senator Frank Church’s counter intelligence hearings were
held in 1976. The spread between Senator Church’s televised hearings
and our Jacklegs, running for President, in the NHPTV television studio,
was twelve years. Nothing changed.
Peer-ships! Dig! Uncover memoranda between the station’s law
firm and FCC Enforcement Division Chief, Milton O. Gross, with
Political Branch Chief Gross, spelling out in advance what the station
should do, and upon the candidate’s complaint, what FCC would
disregard. And you thought, upon Senator Church’s hearings, that
Hoover’s unconstitutional skullduggery was over with, history. You
thought Hoover’s black book of domestic chicanery, shafting all those
people Hoover despised, was closed, that our saddest swinging noose
chapter in our nation’s history, in this case, the noosing of an intellect,
was over.
Except bureaucracies don’t know when to fold, regardless how
many committees of Congress conduct hearings. Bureaucracies feed on
themselves, and multiply. FBI’s domestic counter-intell op was Hoover’s
pet, violating all our Rights, yet today, an op still operational! Dig deeply
enough in FBI’s files and find FCC Bureau Chief Milton O. Gross was
one of FBI’s most prized players, his years at FCC exclusively focused
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on doing J. Edgarina’s FBI bidding; and after Hoover was gone, Gross
kept the policies on.
The people J. Edgar Hoover chose to advance in FBI, those J.
Edgarina personally promoted, see your world in Hoover’s view. The
political parties play dirty, tricks in the street, but broadcasters, to
maintain their Franchise, must be transparent. They’re supposed to be.
We are a democracy. Speech is healthy. J. Edgar Hoover did knot agree,
and used his considerable powers to subvert our constitution.
As long as J. Edgarina’s name is on our federal buildings his
culture and policies will prevail, regardless of whom you elect.
For some it seems yesterday, August 1963, at the march on
Washington, D.C., when Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. told the country his
“dream” that “all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and
Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in
the words of the old Negro spiritual, “Free at last, free at last, thank God
almighty, I’m free at last.” ”
Read in your Church Committee Book II: “The Bureau’s
Domestic Intelligence Division concluded this ‘demagogic speech’
established Dr. King as the “most dangerous and effective Negro in the
country.” Within days after Dr. King was named ‘Man of the Year’ by
Time Magazine, FBI decided to “take him off his pedestal,” reduce him
completely in influence,” and select and promote its own candidate to
“the role of the leadership of the Negro people.”
King Solomon muses:
Poet Prophet met up with his friend, Abbie Hoffman, in
Manhattan, in July 1969. Poet was invited to join Hoffman’s Yippie
commune, come to Woodstock to help build the stage, and perform his
anti-war and love poems between the bands performing. Poet Prophet
electrified Abbie’s commune with an elegy for the Cuban revolutionary,
Che´ Guevara. FBI infiltrators in the room took note.
Poet thanked Abbie for the invite to perform, but turned the offer
down. He felt he needed one last trip on an ocean going ship.
Forty some odd days later, Poet Prophet phoned home from
India, told his mother he was the Messiah, God revealed His word into
his mind; and it was time to deliver His words for all man kind.
Peer-ships! Read another Church Committee paragraph:
“In early 1968 FBI Bureau Headquarters explained to its agents
in the field that Dr. King must be destroyed because he was a potential
“messiah” who could “unify and electrify” the “Black Nationalist
movement.” Indeed, to the FBI, King was a potential threat because he
might “abandon his supposed ‘obedience’ to white liberal doctrines (non-
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violence).” In short, a non-violent man was to be secretly attacked and
destroyed as insurance against his abandoning non-violence.”
Poet Prophet was marked by Hoover’s FBI a ‘potential’ messiah.
With King Solomon’s purr mission, we must go deeper yet:
“The government’s surveillance activities in the aggregate tends,
as the Committee concludes at page 290, to deter the exercise of First
Amendment Rights by American citizens who become aware of the
government’s domestic intelligence program.”
“Speakers, teachers, writers, and their publications were targets
of the FBI’s counterintelligence program. The FBI’s efforts to interfere
with the free exchange of ideas included: anonymously attempting to
prevent an alleged “Communist-front” group from holding a forum on a
Midwest campus, and then investigating the judge who ordered that the
meeting be allowed to proceed.”
Poet Prophet published New World Hors D’oeuvres under the
pen name Golashés Journalista, reading the newspapers wearing hip
boots. Not one independent bookstore placed an order. It turns out
Ingram Books listed New World Hors D’oeuvres as art. The ISBN
database said, “witty humor,” this book, a “specialty” book for kids aged
13 to 17 years old. What bookseller would order that?
FBI, in violation of our Bill of Rights, altered New World Hors
D’oeuvres ISBN data base listing. Interfering with what people see and
hear is not in FBI’s charter, in fact a far cry from their nabbing a
streetwalker, on her way to turn a trick across state lines.
Back home, Jacklegs met some stew dense, one of whom it
happened was a friend of the floor manager stew dent intern from New
Hampshire Public Television. She explained to Jacklegs, as her friend
had recounted to her on the phone the night before, he was asked by the
manager to bring in some classmates, stew dense from the dorm, for just
that one night only, to operate the studio cameras.
The NHPTV station manager’s uptight plan, in retrospect, was
clear: screw up the program and blame the amateur crew. The New
Hampshire station manager, circa 1988, came from Langley, Virginia.
He was, too, a dues paying member, in good standing, in the Association
of Retired Intelligence Officers, managing NHPTV, sew to double dip a
2nd pension. Yep. Live free or die. Stand for public office. ‘You can do
it.’ Get your CIA Cash In Advance purr mission from the FBI.
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Most local PBS managers are floats, moving from station to
station, but hailing from some distant, Langley place. The station’s
boards of directors approve their appointments every time. Wouldn’t
these PBS stations be in better shape, hiring from within their own
station’s ranks, sew the managers reflect the communities where they are,
where their audience lives and dies? Might a local manager, raised with
community roots, be pre-disposed to develop a local fare, providing a
place for all your local talents there, to flower and grow?
Except that new voices broadcasting would contradict J.
Edgarina’s fash status quo policies., his loyals the ones to decide on the
next generation of voices to be heard. The FBI’s counter intelligence
process of winnowing trubble makers begins in school!
Did you raise your off spring to stand on his or her own two feet
and ‘question authority,’ to be a free thinker, installing the moral diff
rinse between right and wrong as they grew into themselves?
Under your Freedom of Information Act, write your request to
all 16 intelligence agencies, knot only J. Edgar Hoover’s FB Eye.
Eventually, months later the pages will show, though mostly blacked out;
but you don’t need to know which teacher profiled your son or daughter,
identifying your kid, the apple of your eye, as a commie pinko. You only
need to know that counter intelligence files on your free-spirited patriotic
kid were created with your public tax dollars.
Peer-ships! Supposedly, the idea your local PBS, supported by
donations from the viewer ship, should pay the six figure salaries of ad
minis traitors who, in some cases don’t even live full time in your
neighborhood, is part of PBS’ culture. Find this element of your PBS
culture in a dusty FBI study stamped CLASSIFIED.
A Pulitzer awaits the reporter who obtains the names of all the
PBS station managers, from 1968 on, quite a group as there are more
than 350 television stations, and runs those names against the classified
membership lists of the Association of Retired Intelligence Officers.
Don’t neglect uncovering the golden parachutes these intelligence peeps
come into for their final fascist double dips, the payola for their careers
sub slime, full of services, well rendered.
Hoover’s people believe, through FCC, they are the ones to
decide whom you can see to vote for. Your loved ones, thousands who
gave it up in Iraq, or were wounded, who gave arms or legs, or half of
their brains to protect your Bill of Rights, died or gave what can’t be
gotten back to protect your freedom to stand on a street corner and talk to
yourself, knot stand for your public offices, with mass media access, to
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make a full rich speech on behalf of your candidacy, on free PBS air
waves, on a rich network you paid for.
As far as Mr. Money J. Edgar and Powers are concerned, the
masses are fodder, uncouth classes, knot entitled. You.
In the Church Committee Books find this commentary, on
testimony from the hearings: “The pattern of intelligence agencies
expanding the scope of their activities was well described by one
witness, who in 1970 had coordinated an effort by the intelligence
community to obtain authority to undertake more illegal domestic
activity. [He stated]:
“The risk was you would get people who would be susceptible
to political considerations, or would construe political considerations to
be national security considerations, to move from the kid with a bomb to
the kid with a picket sign, and from the kid with the picket sign to the kid
with the bumper sticker of the opposing candidate.” ”
There was a famous FBI case, years ago, in New York State. A
thirteen years old boy wrote to the Russian Embassy for information
about life in Russia, for a term paper. The FBI went after the child with
full surveillance. FBI’s whole panoply of fascist information gathering
measures were put into play against a thirteen years old kid. The
agency’s ongoing squander of your tax wealth is beyond the scope of a
normal imagination.
Dear peers, due you sense the Poet Prophet’s distress in this
digression about the fash beginnings of our repression? Sew much for the
moment, those Hooverite fascists of ’88 and all the rest, near two
decades past who keep coming back to haunt us.
Jacklegs’ 1991 access request went to NBC TV President,
Robert Wright, quoting Chief Justice Berger’s telling Supreme Court
decision and the Telecommunications statute, Section 312(a)(7), with its
impermissible slippery slope built in; also the learnéd Nixon appointee,
Justice Pell, in Flory v. FCC; and two other FCC cases, Kennedy v.
FCC’s, both decided in concert, by the legal giant, Spotswood Robinson,
for the District of Columbia Circuit.
The unknown Poet Prophet believes in and loves the law. He
suggested to NBC President Robert Wright, that he, the ‘Jacklegs’ should
pay the same bucks for the airtime as what those six democrat contenders
coughed up to NBC for their network appearance December 15, 1991,
zip, and that could be taken up later with FCC.
175
In the meantime, the Poet Prophet inquired how much would his
312(a)(7) broadcast cost, with the same request also going out to the PBS
network, and the two recalcitrant PBS stations, WGBH, broadcasting
from Boston, and NHPTV, in New Hampshire. A copy of the request
also went to Michael Gartner, then President of NBC News, as a scoop,
for free publicity’s sake.
The networks and stations stonewalled Jackleg’s request for
broadcast access, clearly violating our telecommunication law, and after
the ballots were closed, NBC stated they were knot obligated to sell
airtime to Jacklegs because he wasn’t on the ballot in ten states, FCC’s
original promulgation from 1972, still in place, their ten state threshold
for national sprechens, well outdated, arbitrarily enforced to protect the
broadcasters from having to sell their airtime to any unknown under
funded one issue one state candidates they, or an FBI controller,
positioned in power above them, were, or are against.
Politishin-zing in America has its own, musical chair reality. The
number of public offices to go around, with their feed off the public’s
trough guaranteed, is limited. Tartuffe breakfasts, the cream sauce a
lobster special from Taiwan included, is funded by lobbyists.
Hark! The Senate passed a Lobby Reform Bill. Lobster
garnished with filet mignon is off the menu, unless the Senators are
surfing back to their own home turf, in flight, on a private corporate jet.
Then who can say who ate what, from state to state, surfing the berth
with girlfriend or wife.
In 1972, the status quo bureaucracy was knot about to let any
unknown Poet Prophets, or commie pinko candidates self anoint with
their own innovative ideas in an affirmative live televised speech. Knot a
chants; knot unless the candidate obtained some ballot status in ten states
first, a fascist mix of cold war thresholds to be goosed!
Sew what good juice is for the goose, this media mogul brood,
was knot good enough for the Poet Prophet’s gander. NBC’s ploy, their
reality confusion, waiting until the ballots were closed to answer
Jacklegs’ request for access, then claiming they were knot required to sell
Jacklegs any time because he wasn’t on the ballot in ten states, is beyond
the wipe, an NBC blot on our constitutional rights that will knot out.
Beginning with the Radio Act of 1927, in the legislative history of all our
Communications Law, two elements underlay: “Scarcity” of bandwidth
spreads, and that amazing phrase, ‘the slippery slope.’
The Senators realized the Radio Commission’s oversight of First
Amendment political speech could not pass constitutional muster. But
the Senators felt, in 1927, as long as the issues brought before the
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Commission were heard and ruled on timely, it would be all right. That
most ‘slippery constitutional slope’ would be avoided.
45 years later, in 1972, when the access law was passed, there
was a choice of three networks on the limited UHF dial. ABC was a
fledgling up start. By 1992, there were hundreds of television channels,
any one of which could be turned into a super station.
Cable today is into the 700 blocks. Bandwidth isn’t scarce. It is
unlimited. 700 TV channels cannot be individually watched; quite a giant
scope, like the Internet; an eggs pan ding universe, unlocked.
In 1972, when the 312(a)(7) access statute was passed, and fresh,
remotes were yet to be invented! There were 13 UHF channels on the
rotary dial and PBS, on VHF, was only accessible, via set top rabbit ears.
Cable TV was brand new. There were hundreds of cable companies,
locally franchised, with television studios for hometown program
production, their franchise requirement. All of cable television, every
cable channel was under our 312(a)(7) access law.
Scarcity of bandwidth, ‘slippery slope’ underlay, circa 1927,
Congress’ reason for creating a regulatory FCC agency in the first place,
to protect the public’s paramount right to unmitigated, political sprechenzing, mass media, is history. Today’s technology reigns supreme.
‘Scarcity of bandwidth,’ the issue, does knot wash!
Our Constitution doesn’t require a Federal Communications
Commission. The opposite! Upon FCC’s dissolution, upon Executive
Order by the Poet Prophet his first day as President, all of the FCC’s
inspired taxes on cable access and telephone usage will also, by
presidential Order, be washed, saving every household in America, rich
and poor alike, hundreds of dollars each and every year.
King Solomon muses:
That, a universal tax cut, is across-the-board. In our free
enterprise marketplace, absent the telecommunications commission’s
fascist interface, the residential cost for telephone service, cable, and
broadband Internet will plummet, saving us billions.
Onlion S. Shem interjects: Ah, Dear Peer-ships. Art thou
prepped and ready for your fascist fash first, a presidential bath?
On January 16, 1992, The New York Slimes’ front page had
President Bush (the elder) petting a cow in a New Hampshire barn above
the bold, “Bush Barnstorms New Hampshire.” Maureen Dowd was The
Slimes by-line reporter. Schmaltzy M. wrote, that as Bush the Elder
unlimbered, up and down the campaign trail, (and his sleeping potion, his
Halcyon prescribed, began to trail), Bush’s voice rose and he slipped into
what the President self-characterized his, “red meat vocabulary.” “He
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lashed out at, “mournful pundits,” “egg head academicians,” “smart
aleck columnists,” “Jacklegs jumping up demanding equal time with
some screwy scheme. . . ” ’’
“Jacklegs?” “Jumping up?” Well how about that? “Jacklegs,
jumping up,” sought a nationwide speech on PBS, upon NBC’s
agreement to sell the “Jacklegs” the air time Jacklegs was qualified to
purchase, and entitled to, a concept worthy of every magazine cover in
our country, garbled from the Halcyonic lips of POTUS, an acronym for
your ‘President Of The United States.’
The elder Bush, his wife, Bar-Donna Bush Corleone, and Little
Bush, their son made President, those three people know who Jacklegs
is! They’ve known of the Poet Prophet since 1988. How about you?
What do you know? What is it Bush’s operators have tried to insure you
would knot get the chants to see, uncovered clear?
Sew “Jacklegs, Jumping Up,” “Jacklegs,” for short, is originally,
the knot-sew affectionate name given to our unknown Poet Prophet by
US President Bush, the Elder, that January morning, out campaigning in
New Hampshire. Or was “Jacklegs,” a nick thrown on our unknown
world-class poet, author of prophetic works, by Bush’s intelligence volks,
adopted on the spot by your loose-lipped cry baby wimp ex-President?
Use the Freedom of Information Act. Find who originated
“Jacklegs,” the phrase. Was it Bush the Elder, live? Jacklegs sounds sew
Yale, or were Bush’s secret service schmucks the nickname developers?
Under the Information Act, find out, for history’s sake.
You are an unknown candidate for President. The sitting
President despairingly calls you a “Jacklegs jumping up.” What chants
do you have, with his whole intelligence aristocracy ready to do their
President’s, or his wife Bar-Donna Bush Corleone’s bidding, with or
without an Executive Order in place? In the event the counter
intelligence surveillance Order was executed in 1988-89, and was in
play, ‘signed by me’ – why that was all the fascistic better.
By the way, dear peers, what was sew “screwy” about the
presidential candidate, upon an oath of office, the rightful defender of
your constitutional Rights, getting a commitment from NBC, to which
the candidate was affirmatively entitled, and then switching to the PBS,
which is free? Was that such a screwy scheme? Whoever presents the
most intelligent approach to office, and spends the least amount of
money, is the winner, or ought to be.
According to our Congressional Record, Jacklegs’ request for
access exemplified the concept that inspired the 312(a)(7) statute in the
first place - to give the most political speech on mass media - for the
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least amount of money! The Senators subscribing to that First
Amendment Bill of Rights ideal, to protect your kids who died in defense
of our freedoms, are long out of mind, their integrity, dusted.
Bush the Elder mischaracterized Jacklegs’ proposal as a Fairness
Doctrinaire Section 315 e quill time request, when clearly, ‘Jacklegs’
wasn’t seeking e quill time. Jacklegs’ sought his own time, under Section
312(a)(7), the affirmative must carry access law, the First Amendment
umbrella under which all those move on dot orgs and 527 swift boat misinfomercials roiled.
Recollect the giant flap when Jimmy Carter’s debate prep
notebook showed up in Ronald Reagan’s camp?
Sew who, illegally, slid the Poet Prophet’s carefully crafted
access request across President Bush, the Elder’s Oval Office desk? Or
was Jacklegs’ mass media request tossed on President Bush’s boney
knees for a fast Halcyonic glance during his plane ride to New
Hampshire? Was it that greasy purr chaser of candidates, Mr. Web Softmoney, the Abramoff, seeking chits? NBC’s prezzo, Robert Wright?
NBC News’ Michael Gartner? Milton O. Gross of FCC? Or was
Jacklegs’ access request delivered via some domestic, cash-in-advance
spooks from the Elder Bush’s own Executive Odour past?
King Solomon is clearly amused:
You need some more information, sew you can properly choose.
New Hampshire Secretary of State Bill Gardner suggested to the
unknown presidential candidate, in 1988, that he campaign for votes on
Primary Day, in the town of Derry, a republican stronghold. The sky was
brilliant blue and the wind was down, but Primary Day was a bitterly
cold day, and in the shining sun, only ten degrees above zero.
The Jacklegs showed in Derry with a red fox Chinese fur hat,
and beneath, industrial strength thermal long underwear. He also wore
thermal shoes, two pair of socks, herring bone wool pants, an oxford
cloth shirt with red power tie, a wool V-neck sweater, and an all wool
Hickey Freeman tweed sport coat. Topped with his fox fur hat, the Poet
Prophet was warm as toast. Hot. The other candidates’ volunteers stood
around, shivering in their topcoats, whilst an upbeat Jacklegs greeted all
the voters, walking by, “High. What a great day for democracy. How are
you – I’m Michael Levinson. Vote for me.”
The poet spotted Elizabeth Dole, Senator Bob Dole’s wife, today
a Senator herself, close by the door to the school, hawking voters with a
Dole brochure and admonishing whom ever would pay her any mind,
“Vote Bob Dole for President.” The other candidates’ volunteers were
stranded on a rope line, not allowed that close to the door. Jacklegs
179
ambled over, to say hello, but before he could finish his first sentence,
“Good morning Mrs. Dole I’m,” ‘Liddy’ Dole interrupted him, sneering,
“I know who you are.” Then the senator’s wife turned her back on our
Jacklegs, to hawk some more voters, on their way to the ballot box
inside.
King Solomon muses:
The people of New Hampshire, via their television listings, were
denied advance knowledge that an unknown, independently minded
republican candidate for President was making a mass media speech on
behalf of his candidacy, on their PBS station, but all the anointed major
poli-players were told about his sprechen in advance, and they were all
tuned into Jacklegs’ speech, in their hotel suites.
The Jacklegs returned to the rope line where the various
volunteers were corralled. 10 minutes later he glanced over to Mrs. Dole,
but she was gone. Fifteen feet away from where Bob Dole’s wife, Liddy
had been standing, stood Barbara Bush, all by herself, in a full length
mink fur coat. No need for a swirl of secret service on a bitterly cold day
at a republican stronghold in New Hampshire.
The Jacklegs walked over to Barbara Bush. He introduced
himself. The smug doyenne Bar-Donna Bush Corleone stood there,
silent. Jacklegs then offered that he, the Jacklegs, was also running for
President, as was her husband. Bar-Donna stood rock silent. Then
Jacklegs asked, “I’d like you to give your husband a message for me.”
Bar-Donna held her ground, mouse quiet. Jacklegs said, “Please tell your
husband that I said he should give “Lev” a chance. Bar-Donna was stone
silent, with a look on her face, as though she was about to burst into
laughter, or something. The Jacklegs, puzzled at the one-way talk,
returned to hailing the voters coming up the walk.
Approximately two years after the electorate put George the
Elder out to pasture, Bar-Donna was interviewed in the Sunday Parade
Magazine. Onlion S. Shem paraphrases the Parade reporter’s question:
‘Over the years you went to many functions with your husband. How did
you handle the situation when you were to meet someone you didn’t
particularly like?’ Bar-Donna Bush Corleone answered, “When I meet
someone I despise, I remain stone silent.”
King Solomon muses: Is that sew?
To paraphrase the Television Scripture, “Don’t take the Lord’s
name in vain, or in aim, ’cause God don’t give a damn, and besides, He
could care less.” Bush, the Elder was blaspheming God’s name in vain at
a campaign event in New Hampshire, in ’88, complaining about
something, unaware his microphone was live and everyone in the
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audience heard the ivy league President, loud and arrogantly
Kennebunkport clear.
Over the NSA flap, ‘Little Bush’s’ unconstitutional multimillion-person wire tap, our current, supposedly born again President
was quoted blaspheming our Constitution and Bill of Rights as a, “
(Lord’s name in vain here) damn piece of paper.” And you bought that
turd-ass claptrap about Bush and his Higher Father, as he led our nation’s
on-the-line patriots into his God forsaken obscene war.
The King of Kings who created our universe doesn’t put His
children to war against each other, only human kings do that, with gun
barrel guards, and always someone else’s kids who do the dying.
King Solomon muses the Holiness of Rabbi Onlion Shem:
“Ear laps! Schmucks! Way cup! Like father like son.”
Jacklegs, during his HHPTV campaign speech, reminded the
smattering of tuned in voters that Bush took the Lord’s name in vain,
blaspheming God with regularity. Jacklegs looked into the camera and
stated: “We cannot elect someone to our presidency, the highest office in
the world, who talks like that.” That is when the station manager started
adjusting the Jacklegs’ view from the control room.
Bar-Donna Bush Corleone saw the Jacklegs’ speech on New
Hampshire Public Television, with her wimp hubby and son George in
the suite, as did both Doles in their own sets of rooms. Bar-Donna
insisted to George the Elder he issue an Executive Order, insuring the
continuation of J. Edgar Hoover’s original surveillance, but taken to a
higher, oar, deep ending on your disposition, lower level.
Bush’s Executive Order states, that beyond the continuous
unending corruption of the Poet Prophet’s life, whatever needs to be
done, as though the poet is an Enemy of the State; that know physical
harm should be brought on the poet.
King Solomon muses:
Know physical harm is to be brought on the poet. Reading
through their convolutions, Bush the Elder’s Executive Order is a death
warrant! The poet is only physically safe, as long as the poet does not
make any attempt to reach the populace via mass media speech, as
candidate for President. Then the poet is facing big time risk, as indicated
by the most recent arrogant FBI house visit.
But the fascist Bar-Donna’s inspired order was written long
before Internet drew the world at large online. Therefore, at the least,
New World Hors D’oeuvres, out of the box anonymous can land in your
email Bach’s, perhaps beneath the Bush’s fascist radar, oar on to your
desktop from a server in Madrid, or an Amazon.com sale.
181
In the late ’60’s, whichever year it was, Lady Bird Johnson
invited performing artist, Eartha Kitt to the White House for a luncheon.
What happened after lunch played on television. Bless the songstress
youngsters call the Cat Lady, Eartha Kitt stood up and stated for the
White House and television audience, in her opinion, “You send the best
of this country off to be shot and maimed.”
Lady Bird Johnson felt betrayed and insulted by that, and was
outraged. The next day Eartha Kitt found all her club dates were
cancelled. The great performing songstress, a black lady, was black listed
in her own country! Friends advised her, go to Europe, which she did, to
the delight of a great and loyal European audience.
Decades passed before Eartha Kitt returned to USA. In fact, Ms
Kitt had to wait for Lady Bird Johnson to be dead and buried, protocols
and all the rest, before she could permanently return to live and semioccasionally make public appearances in her own country.
King Solomon muses:
On the issue raised above, which of the fash anti-Jacklegs bands
should you label the prevaricator:
Choose the current spooky group, because Bush the Elder’s
Executive Fash Order is actively ongoing. The first thing ‘Little Bush’
did, upon his oath of office, was to issue an Order, sealing his father’s
Executive Orders, the stuff of office, under lock and key in his
Presidential Library. What is George the Elder ashamed of admitting, in
his papers, that Bar-Donna had to tell her on-the-wagon son made
President, to make sure everything remained under seal?
When swinger vote Justice Sandra Day O’Conner let it out she
planned to retire from the Supreme Court, First Lady Laura Bush played
her part, setting the stage by publicly stating, supposedly on her own, she
felt George ought to nominate a woman to replace Sandra Day
O’Conner. Then out of the blue, a woman with judicial creed, Bush
family friend and loyalist, period, was the nominee.
Frank Rich, the unusually astute New York Slimes columnist
wrote that Harriet Miers’ nomination to the Supreme Court was a
“penumbra,” his cloudy characterization, an understatement.
The nomination was non sense. Bush claimed he ‘knew her
heart’ and Harriet wouldn’t have 2nd thoughts about abortion after she
was benched. A stand up comic claimed she’d had one, years ago and
didn’t like it. The democrats were nonplussed. The President’s right wing
bleats, eyes mostly closed to emperor George, missing his clothes,
fumed. Harriet was knot Primo Court. Harriet Miers, simply stated, was
knot up to the Halls of Supreme Coat Justice. Harriet knew her Supreme
182
Court nomination was an uncalled for act. Harriet requested that
President Bush withdraw her name, and he did.
Karl Rove had zip to do with Harriet Miers’ nomination. Bush’s
architect was temporarily out of clout, concentrating on Valid re Plame,
avoiding the special prosecutor who had already charged Scooter Libby,
for perjury in the CIA leak brouhaha. The prosecutor appeared to be after
Karl. But Rove dared knot interface with Bush’s Supreme Court choice
regardless, except to tell President Bush that, in his opinion, Harriet
Miers’ nomination, an as yet unopened can of worms, was knot going to
fly.
Mama, Bar-Donna Bush-Corleone is the culprit who locked in
Harriet. Bar-Donna pushed Harriet Miers’ nomination on her son,
George. It was Bar-Donna, she, who orchestrated Harriet Miers for a
lifetime seat on our Highest Bench, her idea, to have Harriet on the
ultimate Court where all the cases of most high import are brought.
Set aside the righteous Poet Prophet. Imagine, down the road a
history teacher runs for President and stumps across the country that
upon election his first order of business will be unlocking Bush the
Elder’s presidential papers, in clue ding all of George the Elder’s smelly
Executive Hors D’oeuvres.
Bush the Elder would refuse that unlocking, because Bush has
something to hide, and the case would be delayed forever, until finally,
after Bush was near comatose, the matter would reach our Highest Court
for the Supreme Coats to rule, executive privilege and all of that. Sew, in
that case, how might Harriet Miers have voted?
Earlaps! Now you know why Bar-Donna wanted her own Harriet
on the Supreme Court. For Bar-Donna, it’s a family affair, the lid on hers
and George’s nasty garbage, under her personal care.
The Executive Order Bush signed is fascist in nature and
tramples to this day the Poet Prophet’s rights. Golly, upon the release of
Bush’s Executive Order ‘signed by me’, the ex-chief wimp and his
Barbie doll might judge it best they pack up their Kennebunkport
compound and relocate in Riyadh, to spend their declining daze in
Dubai, cutting up a prayer rug with Tommy Dorsey an’ the Emirates.
In 1995, the Poet Prophet was on the New Hampshire ballot. He
had an honorable mention in Time Magazine, just a one liner, but they
spelled his name right. Every night the poet was at his residential
campaign headquarters, in Buffalo, N.Y., in December, in the dark,
183
shortly after 6:00 P.M., a couple police cars would pull onto the Stop &
Go directly across the street and park, separate from each other, each on
its own side of the building, blocking the doors into the store, instead of
side by side in front, facing up and down the busy thoroughfare, gabbing
together while monitoring traffic.
The police sat for hours each night, facing west, blocking the
way into the store, their high beams on, angled up, toward the poet’s
windows, yet catching the eyes of all the people in autos streaming by,
up and down Delaware Avenue, two sets of police car high beam head
lights, disconcerting to thousands of drivers.
Every morning, the candidate would come down stairs, cross
Amherst Street and drop by the Mobile station, diagonally across from
the Stop and Go hosting the cop cars every night. He noted a plainclothes team in a grey Chevrolet, parked on the Mobile station, facing the
courtyard doors of his apartment building. He asked the manager, “Who
are those guys? What are they here for?”
The manager lady explained, “Oh they are undercover cops, and
before they go to work they stop here for a coffee, to kill time, hanging
out.” They were there to intimidate the Poet Prophet.
The Church Committee Reports detailed a slew of covert
domestic counter intelligence abuses. It was published in 1976. We
believed then, exposure of FBI’s covert domestic intelligence operations,
in televised congressional hearings meant an end to their Klan styled
unconstitutionality. We were, as a nation, misled.
FBI “investigates” anyone who stands for public office, for their
own purposes unknown, or in response to the incumbent’s request for a
“name check.” Our patriot volunteers, in harm’s way, dying every day
thousands of miles away, are knot protecting freedom here. Once upon a
time our country, America was the world’s freedom beacon, our land,
home of the free and the brave.
King Solomon muses:
Peer-ships! Morph thy selves into bubbly cubby reporters:
Two years later, the Precinct 16 police, generally three or four
cars at once, would converge at the Mobile station every night, shortly
after 8 P.M. The Mobile also housed a donut shop, and the police on duty
had a deal with the Mobile station manager: all the donuts left from the
day were free to them, with fresh brewed coffee included. 8 P.M. was
break time for the neighborhood precinct 16.
Jacklegs appeared at the Mobile station, with his Television
Scripture, and approached the lieutenant. “A couple years ago you guys
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were parked across the street every night, on either side of the Stop &
Go, with your high beams on, facing Delaware. Why?”
The lieutenant shot back, “That wasn’t us.”
Jacklegs said, “What do you mean that wasn’t you. This
neighborhood is Precinct 16.” The lieutenant smiled, “That’s right. But
everyone stationed in Precinct 16 at the time you are talking about was
transferred out. Everyone was given a transfer to whichever precinct they
wanted. They all left. Now we are precinct 16, but we were knot
connected to the Precinct at that time.”
Hark! Cubby Bubbies! Your Pulitzer awaits! Police keep
records. They keep files of officer transfers. The police were told knot to
ask why, but to do what they were told and the pay off would be a
transfer to the station of their choice, regardless of seniority, to the
Precinct two blocks from their house, wherever, to a downtown desk.
Someone at that station besides an officer at headquarters had to know
what the deal was about. Your cub reporter assignment: Dig out who
fostered the order to harass and intimidate the Poet Prophet.
The longest deepest files ever created and kept on any citizen
before, during, or after the Church Committee hearings, are those files
actively being kept up to date on the life and times of Michael Stephen
Levinson, our ancient ‘campus prophet,’ Jacklegs, jumping up. These
domestic files include the thesis, written years ago by John Greenwood,
the CIA psychologist, on ‘group controls,” the subject of which was
Jacklegs. That was a pre-paid thesis on how to control the prophet? What
do these fascists fear?
“Wun day God’s sun
Was stan ina roun
Got puncht ina
Side cried wa
Turnd round she sed
Hya my name is Ka
Thay wut is yers
He sa*id Adman
She sed Even.
God sed “Adman
Ka’s cut frum yerib
She’s yer mate to kid
But stay offer he*d”
Adman obeyd cause
God was is Dad.”
C. 1971
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King Solomon muses:
Do they fear Poet Prophet’s DNA tale that shows how God, the
LAN’ Lord uh pin Heaven, created man in His own image? How is it the
man is 40 days and 40 nights in the wilderness, Divinely inspired with a
prophetic work of art, to perform world wide for all the world’s peoples
at once, and where ever the Poet goes to recite from His masterpiece, for
near 40 years, FBI always has someone, in place, on the set, before he
arrives, to eliminate his performance.
It could be a violation of law to out laud John Greenwood, the
CIA cash in advance, group control psychologist who wrote his thesis on
controlling the Poet Prophet in group situations, as the PhD and his wife,
as noted, were reportedly attaché operatives, stationed at an embassy.
Chances are, after all these years of service, he and his wife are
living it up with Washington, D.C. desk jobs, but publishing their names
could compromise, and upon that, gasp, exposure of another Valid re
Plame, Jacklegs might be, by FB Eye, whisked awry, in a blind, folded
away for an extended stay at Guantánamo, by the Bay.
King Solomon muses:
Who is going to feed the cats? Lets let it all hang out, this
minute, out of Edgarina’s closet. J. Edgarina, the fag long dead they
adored is outed. His legacy, too, should be stamped out! We could be
getting set for world peace but we aren’t. Would that be super, oar knot?
We could be getting all our televisions set for world vid peace.
Getting set for Cosmic Wrapper, our Walking Talker, the man
with words for all mankind, to tell his cosmic vision that beyond today’s
events foretold, describes Mother Earth in details strong, more than
185,000 years long, his vision clearly, that far down road.
His Big Spout. The mull tie ling well prophetic Television Script.
Sure, a Scripture, His twelve ‘our’ video trans crypt, for all of us, world
vid, all together at once. And this dus cun till dawn dude, this man of
words is alive and well, walking on your planet, in spite of J. Edgar’s
fash cut outs, hiding be Heinie Bar-Donna.
Dear peers, on good ship mother urf, world peace begins when
all the worlds’ peoples are home, families peacefully together alone,
watching television. With this coming, side splitting world wide peace
event in mind, a free video could be instantly created, at a live press
meet, your human story, spontaneously given again, sew every wun on
the planet can be getting set for down the short road, the Poet Prophet
telling his vision, in full living color, dusk until dawn, running and
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punning through every spoken tongue, with lots of laughs whirled wide
for everyone.
Whatever deck you live on, the cards are dealt out evenly. How
about a piddle test-drive, to sea for yourselves how well the poet’s
inspired prophetic ‘Vehicle for World Peace,’ your high bred ride for
whirled-wide pizza (peace) runs the mull tie ling well puns?
But J. Edgarina’s closeted clan, The Enema Within, is committed
to whatever measures they feel obligated to take, to stop the Poet Prophet
dead in his World Peace tracks. According to J. Edgarina’s Classified
policy files, your unknown Poet Prophet is an Enemy of the State, very
special, who must, whatever their cost, your tax dollar at work, be shut
down; and, when push comes to shovel, before his arrival in the public
domain, put down as Danny Casalaro and Chandra Levy were both put
down, with fascist bureaucracies’ Extreme Prejudice, their fash plan, for
more than “For Keeps and a Single Day;” with less than, “a painted
paradise at the end of it.”
The poet brings more to the table than any person walking on the
planet but you are not going to stop the FBI critters; which is why your
world cannot have World Peace, absent this exposure!
For that is FBI’s unconstitutional Hoover Bureaucracy Ink nonstop intent: most extreme politically incorrect prejudice v. the living Poet
Prophet. World Peace is knot an element in FBI’s agenda. They don’t
believe in, care about, subscribe to, or want World Peace.
FBI believes in the Bush Rove Cheney world, a dangerous place.
They have tried to make their scary world your world, where they reside
above the rest of us, their fascist patriot active shtup our law. Except the
people keep voting FB Eye’s way forward out!
Hark! Is Libby knot indicted? Rove, by Allah’s grace, could have
followed, and Bush along, too, his slimy ways unscented, into history’s
fash dustbin, a Bush ream, down the same knot sea drain.
C’mon dummies, you can’t blame these old fash bureaucrats for
their shrill kill attitudes. Upon the oath of office, one of the Poet
Prophet’s first Executive Orders will be the issuance of letters to every
American citizen who was ever put under Federal surveillance, before,
and or, after the Church committee hearings, requesting the citizen
recipients’ signatures, absolving our government of liabilities resulting
from the government’s domestic ‘surveillances,’ fascistic activities that
may have adversely affected these people’s lives, their careers, what they
ended up doing for a living, the primo job they inadvertently didn’t get,
because their college records were wrecked behind their backs!
187
Upon the citizen’s signature absolving his / your government of
liabilities, the citizen surveillanced can purr chase their complete counter
intelligence file for 9 cents purr unexpurgated sheet, without any lines
blacked out, sew every thing is there to see, the first ten pages free,
compliments of the government, the cost of your personal history,
regardless of length, knot to exceed $49 delivered.
High up, the government’s domestic intelligence aristocrats
know this is Poet Prophet’s plan, upon election, an immediate end to all
their unconstitutional scams. And what about the futures of all those
domestic counter intelligence profilers, all of whom bore false witness in
order to garnish their sinecures?
They are winners! Winners! White House protection is
guaranteed, in the President’s False Witness Protection, with enough
ducats garnisheed, to relocate far away from all the people whose lives
were besmirched by their steady false witness trash, strewn and sewn to
enhance their own secret stipends, a sweet deal protection program
indeed for FB Eye’s collaborators.
When the Berlin Wall came down and the two Germanys were
united, the Stasi, East Germany’s domestic secret police was an issue for
the East German people. The Stasi files filled 125 miles of shelf, each
mile holding approximately 17 million sheets of paper, weighing close to
50 tons. There were 18 million East Germans, with 6 million of them
steadily employed as full or part time informants.
Finally the government decided to open the Stasi doors and let
the people come in to see what their own file contained. Everyone was
entitled to his or her own papers. They didn’t stampede, but many people
did show up, and there were recriminations. An activist wife found her
husband was an informant. Intimate details about their life were in the
files. She divorced him.
People found the collaborator list ran deep indeed, a third of the
country was on the take: the butcher, the baker, the tram ticket taker,
amongst sew many more. Any innocent comment was grist for secret
police reportage. Poets and painters discovered people they trusted were
informants, a part of it. Exposures were published, and life went on.
The New York Slimes had a Sunday Magazine piece about the
Stasi that hit the streets April 12, 1992.
Compare that piece about the East German Stasi to Senator
Church’s Committee Books II and III, about J. Edgar’s Counter
intelligence programs in USA. You will read the same techniques! This
is an eerie experience. The Church Committee’s Books II, and III are
interchangeable with the East German Stasi!
188
King Solomon sings a laud:
“Anything you can do we can do better.”
When FBI, functioning as a federal domestic police, stamps an
investigation of your kid’s life ‘Classified,’ that is Secret Police.
In Germany, in some cases Stasi operatives tried to destroy the
files. Some agents fled the country. The German people lived and mostly
let live. But in U.S.A., careers of 4th Estate distorters, and more than one
Jay Rosen, frozen on the take are at stake! Will those people in charge
kill an American citizen, in America, to keep their on going domestic
intelligence operation quiet? Of course. They are committed to murder,
at the least for a last resort! Chandra Levy was murdered as was
freelance journalist Danny Casalaro before her!
From FBI’s Fascist Bureaucracy Ink approach, and CIA’s Cash
In Advance perch, our Poet Prophet, simply stated, knows too much
about their panoply of unconstitutional trollops. Therefore, they feel the
righteous Poet Prophet must be put down. That is FB-Eyes attitude, what
these fash government groups want to happen, what they are planning
on, upon this publication.
But is that what you want to see happen, the most uncivil
ultimate no coming back violation of the poet prophet’s civil rights?
From FBI’s J. Edgarina fascist point of view, only they and their
long gone homosexual cross dressing queer pro dirt bag queen know
what is best for you. Skip World Peace. First decide whether you are
letting the Poet Prophet in your door. You won’t have World Peace
before. But in Hoover’s J. Edgarina light, isn’t it finally time we very
publicly un-black-list the Poet Prophet. Might we at least do that, free up
our poet? Or is your preference, J. Edgarina’s reality theater? His
committed players, seething, are out there.
In 1969 our Poet Prophet, the “Jacklegs” was on a merchant ship
40 days and 40 nights. The LAN’ Lord uh pin Heaven, God, the Creator
who rules our universe, revealed His word into the Cosmic Poet
Prophet’s mind. Might that be your First Amendment 4th Estate media’s
job, searching the logs of all the ships at Africa’s southern tip, on that
first night when God revealed His Verse for all mankind, His mull tie
ling well word unto His Poet Prophet’s mind?
God also played His Heavens full from horizon to horizon, to
further reveal His majesties, and to make clear, upon examination,
something happened there. The poet’s brain, post 40 days and 40 nights,
walking and talking with God, is not your ordinary beanbag.
Is there any one on our good ship mother earth with 112 hand
lettered mull tie ling well double column pages they can recite, like old
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blind Homer, from cover to cover? The issue: is the Poet Prophet fun
listening to. In the event knot, you won’t. That simple.
The crews and captains of many ships that night saw giant
configurations across the Heaven’s reach. Is that your 4th Estate’s job, to
interview the crew who were aboard that ship with the poet, too, as
witness? They also saw the Heavens’ blaze across the full horizon, and
God’s light spilling from the poet’s eyes.
Might all the world’s peoples, including bin Laden and his, have
an interest in this mystical occurrence? Except you need to get
permission first, from J. Edgar Hoover’s leftovers, to even ask.
Of course the whole world is interested, once it’s bell clear the
Poet Prophet’s mull tie ling well sense of words, world orders, and word
hors d´oeuvres is beyond the intelligent scope of every buddy else’s
imaginative sense– that he is truly a Prophet from God who brings
viable, nuts and bolts solutions to our prob limbs. Then what? Due, we
let ‘The Vehicle for World Peace’ fuel up and run?
But according to that nasty Executive Order signed by George
the Elder, instigated by his wife Bar- Donna, and sealed from Public
View, upon his election, by loyal son, George W., you and the rest of
your world are knot entitled to this cosmic information. What Bar-Donna
Bush Corleone, through her George the Elder wrought, was re-sealed by
son, George W., shortly after his election.
The people prepared to exercise this most extreme prejudice wait
for their orders from someone, but we don’t know who that someone is.
Bar-Donna Bush Corleone put into motion bureaucratic wheels insuring
the Poet Prophet would be ground out in his lifetime, that you would knot
hear or sea one word of His inspired blessing live, while he is alive.
Their order was before the World Wide Web.
Bush the Elder will huff the Poet Prophet is making stuff up.
Bush will deny any executive blacklisting order, refuse questions, and
ignore the living prophet, in spite of world wide interest from the
international in de pen dent press.
When the time comes for the big time, for world wide peace
beginning with a peaceful night, people will hang on every word from
the Poet Prophet that Bush and his intelligence aristocrats saw fit to try
black listing from your world.
Something physical happened inside the mind of our Poet
Prophet during his 40 days and 40 nights on an ocean going ship, and
190
wouldn’t you, dear peer-ships, like to know it and sea it live from the
prophet’s own words, to judge for yourselves? Isn’t every buddy entitled
to their own cosmic magic sample, in advance, to personally judge who
in the world is who and what is what, oar knot?
Might we be waiting in our bones to hear the words, world
orders and word hor´s d´oeuvres, a new word order God has in store, His
plan for all to see and hear. Might we know wit when it happens?
Onlion S. Shem interjects: It’s mass miraculous. Together we get
it together world vid from the kid, all of us at once, en masse, from the
Poet Prophet, Torah and Quran, together re-given living.
The world, in a trance, will celebrate a Poet Prophet’s sword, his
words. The ignorant will clutch their ignorance. The Holy Torah of
Moses the Teacher, and Quran of the Prophet Mohammed together regiven! This time around, your sides Heaven split, whirled wide, sew
much sew your toes go rah rah rah! World Pizza!
King Solomon muses:
When is the word? Who’s afraid of the speech master besides
that old, semi-retired despiser, our first smugletarian switch; our soon-tobe ex-resident President, Bush’s mom, Bar-Donna Bush Corleone? Is
there anything wrong with a poet whose every line is a spontaneous
delicate multi-lingual rhyme?
When was the last time you heard someone on this planet talk
mull tie ling u all, his lyrics unstilted, natch a rill? When was the first
time? Bar-Donna Bush Corleone is opposed to the Poet Prophet. What
about you? Are you against an inspired man, with words for all mankind,
spouting a portion of his word hors d’oeuvres? Why? The prophet
Mohammed impressed. He was a prophet. He recited verses that came
from God, His verses world renowned as the Quran. Might today’s living
Poet Prophet show you the way, sew the Quran and Torah, together, can
be re-given live, according to God’s plan, for all the world’s peoples, on
world wide television? When?
King Solomon muses:
The government has been reading and watching the Poet Prophet
for years. Were these fascists knot committed to locking out the Poet
Prophet, his inspired prophetic ‘Vehicle for World Peace’ would have
been made a part of the public domain centuries ago. It was clearly
written in the Television Scripture the Cosmic Wrapper would run for
President.
Onlion S. Shem interjects: Peer-ships! Judge how the fash FBI
watches, and reads what they snatch. Here is the Poet Prophet’s own
recollection, actually online at a super top seek writ web site:
191
“Jimmy Carter came to the old Haas Lounge, in the long since
gutted Norton Hall, which was the “stew dent” union on the old south
campus of the State University of New York at Buffalo. I stood at the
doorway, while Carter made his pitch, and I realized it was just too soon
for me to run for President.”
“A few hours later, in the Rathskeller where I actually wrote
major portions of The Book ov Lev (sub titled) It A Kiss, the inspired
prophetic multi lingual pun running tap-a-stream of the imagination that I
wrote to perform on world wide television, a youngish slightly built guy,
with a cute babe at his side, sat down at my table.”
“He was wearing a fatigue jacket, which back then was a
domestic intelligence give-away. They always showed up in fatigue
jackets, as though they were Vietnam vets against the war which was
already years over. I never saw the guy before, or since.”
“I was a legendary person on that campus at that time. The
student press originally referred to me as a “campus prophet.” Every
person on that campus knew who I was, as I’d also been the subject of a
twelve page edition of then campus editor Howard Kurtz’s The
Spectrum, where the whole paper, cover-to-cover was in play to slander
me, their page three campus article, unsigned reportage and, by order of
the editor-in-chief, what turned out to be a supremely memorable fine
pen drawing by then undergraduate art director, Tom Toles, covering the
whole front page,” (reprinted here, on page iv).
“Fatigue Jacket in the Rathskeller engaged me in conversation,
as had happened so many times, in so many places, by so many other
likewise fatigued jacketed characters before, and his conversation soon
turned into a series of leading questions.”
“Though I’ve always held that a true question happens when you
‘quest your chin and take it all in,’ I responded according to my heritage
with all those whales who always swim right up to say hi, and I did
converse with him and his tag-along trainee girlfriend.”
“On the one hand, from his heart, off the record, fatigue-o dissed
the idea of my running for President. He kept saying, “You don't want to
do this, you don't want to do this. Forget politics.” ”
“But relative to the twelve page hand lettered statement of
candidacy, I’d written really to myself, on legal size pad paper, sitting on
the round oak table, he wanted a copy of that. Fatigue-o claimed that he
was either a string reporter, or photographer with the A.P., though his
192
camera wasn’t a professional model, and would I please please let him
have a copy of my statement to pass along to his superiors.”
“Back then the verb for photocopying began with a Z, and the
student newspaper where the Washington Toast’s esteemed Howard
Kurtz began his journalista rising was on the third floor.”
“Legal size copies were 10 cents a sheet, which, in 1976, was cheap. He
fished out a dollar bill, and begged me to go upstairs and make him a
copy. I did.”
“On the last page I’d written there was a big “diff rinse”
between this candidate and Gerry (Ford), Jimmy (Carter), Lester
(Maddox), and Gene (McCarthy). I punned the political button,
“Women hold up half the sky,” with “Women hold up half this guy,”
concluding that I was distinguished because I was bringing to the
presidency my masterpiece of “words, world orders, and world hors
d’oeuvres, a new world order. ”
“Do our bookish in tell eye gent three day Condors sift the day
through, reading deep, the documents of obscured poets?”
“When former spook, George Herbert Walker Bush came up
with his plagiarized line, “A new world order,” his White House press
corp., including The New York Slimes journalista, Schmaltzy M. Dowd,
all wanted to know which writer came up with that new, post iron curtain
policy phrase. But none of president Bush’s cue card writers could or
would take credit for it. The 4th Estate couldn’t be bothered chasing any
farther, but someone had to have been first to write down the phrase.”
“I have since changed my end line, did I have any choice, though
the doc where it first appears was only a normal spout for me, a one draft
document, as I am capable of talking triple talk, for a couple hours every
day, anyway, in a natch a rill metaphoric flow. Tell Condor I’m revising
the doc; new and improved is now updated to read instead, “Words,
World Orders, and Word Hors D’oeuvres, A New Word Order.”
“The proposed title for my collected prose works is, “New
World Hors D’oeuvres;” with a considered subtitle, The Rhymes and
Times of . . . Mendel interrupts from the kitchen to announce her
mothers-know-best cover subtitle, “The Recipe for World Peace.” ”
In 1979, Jacklegs, testing the waters, declared as a write-in
candidate for President, in New York State. He campaigned vigorously
in Western New York, producing a 90-minute campaign speech that
aired on two local cable networks, and other cablecast speeches, more.
193
FCC reluctantly ruled that Jacklegs was a bona fide write-in
candidate for President, “but,” because most of his campaign activities
took place in Western New York, he was not qualified for statewide
broadcast on the PBS network, where the airtime is free, or for that
matter, on any network, but he was nonetheless ruled a bona fide write-in
candidate for President in Western New York State.
The FCC’s ruling was erroneous on purpose. Jacklegs had
applied individually to all the PBS stations in the state with individual
letters to each. The state’s PBS stations aren’t a network. All the PBS
stations, state or nationwide, are independent, individual bodies,
unofficially networked.
As long as Jacklegs was capriciously ruled a bona fide write-in
candidate on the Niagara Frontier, then he was at least entitled to give his
campaign speech on WNED-TV, Channel 17, Western New York’s
Niagara Frontier PBS station. Grant a write-in candidate is also entitled,
under the law, to exercise his or her broadcast privilege upon his bona
fides of candidacy. Grant that much in the slippery, flawed framework of
your slip-slope Law of Political Broadcasting. Your constitution does.
The courts affirm.
The Public Interest is paramount. The electorate is entitled to
judge all of their candidates for public office; even long shot write-in
candidates. As the write-in Jacklegs unequivocally stated, “In the event
you can’t be bothered to lurn how to write in my name, then you don’t
deserve to have me.”
FCC’s ruling was rigidly erroneous, a geographic, willful
misinterpretation of our mass media access code. The Enforcement
Division attorneys re-promulgated the Commission’s original ten state
access threshold for nationwide speech into an undefined 10 county instate geographical. Television is without boundary. The broadcast signal
does not stop at the county line. But a singular person independently
campaigning can only be one place at a time.
The fash ruling precluded any individual, for example, a veteran
tethered to a wheel chair, or paraplegic, drooling in the wind near the
door into a super market store, passing out literature about his candidacy,
from access to make a televised speech about why we should vote for
him because, he can only campaign where he is.
Unless his political run is in a tiny state, like Rogue Island. Then
the righteous minded wheel chair driven write-in candidate might get
around to all of the hamlets with ramps. The commission’s arbitrary
reinterpretation of our mass media access statute can knot withstand
judicial review.
194
The intent and purpose of the law was to both protect and
promote political speech, knot preclude or eliminate political speech,
protecting anointed office holders. FCC’s speech charade was far
removed from the intent of Congress and teachings of our Highest Court,
clearly a gross violation of the Public Interest. Continuing impermissible
acts is also an excellent reason for stripping away an agency’s power, by
eliminating unconstitutional jurisdiction!
Regardless, this new and additional threshold for access to mass
media by a bona fide write-in candidate, a freshly constructed hoop
inhibiting your right to give or hear a presidential speech statewide was
customized by FCC’s Enforcement Division with the full Commission in
session, they, behind closed doors, approving.
In the heat of the candidate’s attempt to broadcast a live
televised speech, the commission’s arbitrary ruling was promulgated
with one purpose in mind: to disenfranchise the candidate’s right to make
that mass media speech, in that election for openers; but for FBI’s fascist
bureaucracy, that was merely starters.
However, FCC’s new and novel approach to our Founding
Fathers’ First Amendment Franchise was not, like other FCC rulings, to
be timely published in the Federal Record, for review and public
comment. At least, knot without some unconstitutional, very fascistic
manipulations, also in the names of the Commissioners.
King Solomon muses:
Ah, dear peers, fascist is the “F” word in our pallah tics.
Patience is a virtue. The scariest of truths are coming clear.
FCC attempted to turn an erroneous ruling, appealable to the
United States Supreme Court, into an anomaly, by altering the key
context in the ruling. After the release of the ‘Rule,’ to the candidate and
stations complained against, FCC altered the ruling! Then they published
their Bill of Rights fash-trash in the Federal Record, with none the
candidate and stations, the wiser.
More unconstitutional rulings followed, trampling yours and
Poet Prophet’s guaranteed rights as a candidate. These ‘rulings’ comprise
your public record, but FCC fudges the poet’s middle name for the
purpose of confusing a computer search, muddling their trail. FCC’s
written rules against the Poet Prophet’s candidacies, more than ten years
worth, are distinguished. Not a one can even remotely withstand judicial
review. Fascist’s solution: Violate the constitution; deny petitions for
hearing; deny or ignore all Petitions for Review.
That was then. Today, these FCC cases constitute examples of
injustice, clear enough for any pre-law class. All of the Poet Prophet’s
195
FCC cases are great grist for any pre, or law school course, with an extra
credit moot court in clue did, parents invited.
A government agency violates its own C.F.R. twisting its own
self in the wind, to convolute your First Amendment broadcast rights,
sew to unravel the candidacy of the Poet Prophet, because Hoover’s
descendents, the domestic counter intelligence bunch, way beyond
oversight, are calling the shots. They want the poet out. They seek to
eliminate the poet’s presidential candidacy. Once it is clear they cannot,
with their fear of lost careers, they will have to meet, to seek some route
to put the poet out, perhaps run down, road kill.
To insure their 1980 success, the FCC Enforcement Division
delayed their unconstitutionality until the final Friday preceding the
Tuesday election. Why? By failing to issue their ruling on the
candidate’s request for access until the last minute, the candidate was
precluded by the recalcitrant Agency from seeking redress of his
grievance in the local Federal District Court. That, in and of itself, in
light of Berger’s Supreme Court ruling, is enough to dissolve FCC, the
underlying reason for their pen ding dissolution, raised on page one,
herewith: unconstitutionality.
King Solomon muses:
Those scummy dummy dips slipped off their slippery slope.
A Show Cause Order in the Western New York Federal District
Court asking why WNED Channel 17, the Niagara Frontier PBS station,
should not make its studio and air time available for write-in candidate’s
presidential speech would have protected every buddy’s constitutional
prerogative, yours first; paramount.
Justice John Curtin would have signed that Show Cause Order in
a heartbeat! The station’s doors would have been thrown open to the poet
even before the show cause hearing! Sprechen tavarishch! Jacklegs to
give; yours to listen up to, though your rights are still denied by FCC’s
fascist caprice, in play more than 30 years.
Good news and bad news, foist the good news: Before the Poet
Prophet makes a televised live political speech in America, J. Edgarina’s
followers in place will have a meet, as noted above, about ordering a 2nd
attempt on the Poet Prophet’s life, forwarding that immediately to the
Chandra Levy group.
Duh bad news: all America is under the foot of George the
Elder’s son-sealed Executive Orders. There isn’t anyone in the 4th Estate
with enough intestinal fortitude to upright call this quest yin; knot against
this Bush’s heavy-handed fash arrogance, though at stake is the physical
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life and political freedom of an American poet, and through his inspired
writings, all of our freedoms.
But why should the 4th Estate speak out to protect the Poet
Prophet’s life, demanding the release of Bush, the Elder’s sealed
Executive Orders, those giving countenance to the government’s
continuous domestic spying and covert counter intelligence activities on
the poet’s life, when there is a strongest of likelihoods, behind closed
doors, these evildoers are heavy-handedly unveiling threats, their private
remarks adamant, this Poet Prophet can knot be an issue.
Bush signed an Executive Order authorizing a domestic counter
intelligence agency to take whatever necessary steps in their conduce of
surveillance, their buzzwords for ruination of the Poet Prophet’s
constitutional Right. Do you applaud the Bush whose father secretly used
his official executive powers to blacklist the Poet Prophet candidate for
President, for life; this illegitimate destruction based on his and his
wife’s despising the Poet Prophet?
King Solomon muses:
Is despising Jews what ‘Little Bush’s’ country is all about?
In 1980, the Jacklegs received a certified letter from FCC, ruling
on his request and complaint, but unapprised FCC’s letter would show up
in hard covers, a citable ruling, which it is. Jacklegs noted, the PBS
stations complained against were listed horizontally across the first page,
and at the end, the stations were repeated, vertically down the last page,
listed as also being in receipt of the fash, 11th hour Communication
Commission splat.
Jacklegs noted that WNED Channel 17, most important of all the
TV stations complained against, theirs the proposed home town
broadcast studio, was second to the last at the beginning of the ruling,
and in the vertical repeat at the close, placed dead last in the heat,
indicating the typist had misplaced the home town station and then, after
proof reading, tacked it on instead of retyping the page.
Visit Michael Stephen Levinson 87 FCC2d 433 (1980). Find
Western New York’s WNED–TV Channel 17. It is not there! The station
is absent without leave. Missing from the text! Not listed, front or rear.
The key station complained against does not appear in FCC’s hard cover
ruling! Not at the beginning, across the face, with the other stations
complained against, nor at the end, vertically down the page. The
station’s removal was knot a typo accident!
The fascist Political Branch Enforcement Division attorneys
used their erasers to disorder! We cannot say who erased from FCC’s
written record the one television station where beyond any shadow the
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candidate was legally qualified to make his speech on behalf of his
campaign, his lifelong ambition to become our President with his viable
nonpartisan ‘Vehicle for World Peace,’ that, as President of our United
States, he would be enabled to give the world’s peoples.
Who inside FCC ordered the key erasure? Aren’t FCC’s
attorneys sworn to uphold our constitution? Every newspaper in the
country could demand a hearing, to question these ‘Enforcement
Division’ attorneys on this issue, but like Bush, your President who
protects bureaucracies, these communications people sit, above you,
above your laws, and they won’t be taking any calls or granting any
conferences with the press. They are entrenched, ‘in a meeting.’
In light of the parallel Carter Mondale CBS, Inc. v. FCC case,
handled in the FCC’s General Counsel’s office a block down the street,
the Political Branch Enforcement Division’s adjudication of the Michael
Stephen Levinson case was arbitrary on its face, a violation of all our
constitutional rights, trashing the graves of all those kids who died in all
our wars, who get killed every day in Iraq.
When the war began in Iraq, the first wave of our guys, asked
why they were there, answered, “to protect your rights.” “The President
sent us to put down Saddam and protect our way of life.”
Today, our soldiers quietly pray, get this done and get us out,
because they know too late George Bush’s war was a mistake, they,
misled into believing protecting our freedom was at stake. The kid
soldier who states on TV, “I stand with Cindy Sheehan. My missing legs
helped fill a pot hole on Bush’s Freedom March,” is the kid most likely
to find, down the road, his entitled sinecure is hobbled!
Why did the Federal agency willfully publish an erroneous rule,
besmirching further their unconstitutionality with capricious changes
behind the parties’ backs? Is this the duty of an independent 4th Estate,
bottoms up, to expose the Government’s black hole evil?
The press shares the First Amendment with the rest of us, yet
under our First Amendment an individual’s rights are first! Ah, dear
peers, your federal government’s caprice, in your so-called independent
federal courts, soon-to-be uncovered here, should put our humble
prophet on all the magazine covers, and upon that, the Poet Prophet’s
life, at risk already, up-stepped to the next risk level.
The most important matter ever heard by the Supreme Coats in
the 20th century was CBS, Inc. v. FCC, 101 S. Ct. 2841 (1981), quoted in
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depth, above. The codified statute, the culmination of all our broadcast
laws, is 47 U.S.C. Section 312(a)(7), the qualified electronic extension of
The Bill of Rights, your First Amendment in the sanctity of your own
home, where you have the unabridged affirmative Right to hear a
political speech by a candidate for office.
You cannot be denied that secure Right. Nor can any ‘legally
qualified’ candidate be denied mass media to make a speech, unless you
are the Jacklegs Poet Prophet. Then your Right to give a political speech,
in your own country, is lynched.
The famous case is required reading for every undergrad law
course on media access; also part and parcel of every law school course
on telecommunications law. Since 1981 this case has been read and
written about by at least 250, 000 people. Like the Fairness Doctrine
benchmark, Dead Lion Broadcasting Co. v. FCC, for law students, the
CBS, Inc. v. FCC Supreme Court case is a best cellar.
Justice John Paul Stevens, in this ruling, gave us the most telling
dissent of his whole entire career, and, after the galleys were proofed, the
main stay, his most prophetic High Court teaching was given a chop, just
like that! After the proof, poof!
The tea ching of a Justice in your Supreme Court, one of the
Coats, was adulterated. Smoked! This purging of a Supreme Coat’s
ruling was accomplished behind the learnéd jurist’s back, altering our
jurisprudence, a J. Edgarina fascist first in our nation’s history!
FB Eye did the adulteration, and they may again should it suit
them, but knot until they take a shot at the Poet Prophet, with extreme
prejudice, for exposing their unconstitutionality, killing two birds with
one stone, the prophet’s ‘Vehicle for World Peace’ gone from the
picture, his Adman and Even in the Gar Den ov Edum, and his retelling
of all the generations of men, into FBI’s fascist dustbin, exactly FBI’s
homegrown baathist fascist plan for your Poet Prophet.
But set aside for the moment, FBI’s fascist intent, though
murderous. What good are your statutes, when an FB-Eye connected
bureaucrat can reach in, and arbitrarily alter a Supreme Court ruling,
turning the teachings of our highest court into sew much tissue, to be
flushed from the chamber with their waste water? That is decidedly knot
kosher. It is that “F” word: the fascist - what we, as a people, all of us,
beyond any quest chin, exposed to are opposed to and against.
Here follows Justice Stevens: “In my judgment, the question
whether a broadcast licensee has violated 47 U.S.C. Section 312(a)(7) by
denying a political candidate reasonable access to broadcast time must be
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answered in the context of an entire political campaign, rather than by
focusing upon the licensee’s rejection of a single request for access.”
This opening line of the learnéd jurist’s reasoning behind his
dissent is fair enough, but peers, what about repeated requests for access
during a campaign by a bona fide candidate, with each request arbitrarily
stonewalled and trashed? Would that qualify as a clear violation of
Section 312(a)(7)?
The challenged statute reads: “The Commission may revoke a
station’s license for the willful and repeated failure to allow reasonable
access to a legally qualified candidate for federal elective office . . .”
Find any statute as plainly written as Section 312(a)(7), in today’s selfperpetuating lobster for breakfast congress. The Senatorial version of the
70 billion dollar bailout went from an initial three pages to more than
400 pages. Congress isn’t doing statutes anymore. Congress’ new
specialty is anonymous unsigned earmarks.
All things being e quill, absent this access statute, Ronald
Reagan could not have canceled our government’s support for The
Fairness Doctrine. As long as bona fide candidates can exercise Freedom
of Speech on mass media, their Rights to media access, an affirmative
Right, what purpose a Fairness Doctrine in the free fall of ideas? Such
was the reasoning behind Ronald Reagan’s very public approval of: “We
will not enforce the Fairness Doctrine.”
Here is John Paul Stevens’ next sentence: “The licensee has a
duty to act impartially and to make an adequate quantity of desirable
time available.”
Stevens’ first two sentences, clearly lukewarm, affirm Chief
Justice Berger. Judicial dissent is absent here! Stevens finally departs
from his admittedly affirmative bend in his next two lines. The first, a
peon to the billion dollar networks at bar, is a feint; as Justice John Paul
Stevens is setting us up for his own Ali knock out punch to follow, nit
picking his colleague and friend, Justice Berger, to start.
But upon our parse, Stevens’ nitty picket is a masterpiece of
bridgework, the set up for Stevens’ coming knock out punch, soon to
land on the bridges of all our collected noses, the most far reaching
judgment in John Paul Stevens’ total career as Supreme Court jurist.
Yokels, the truth is fast coming next:
“The performance of that duty cannot be evaluated adequately
by focusing solely on particular requests or the particular needs of
individual candidates.”
The learnéd Stevens adroitly shifted our view from the TV
station’s impartial constitutional duty, a Public Interest obligation to
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allow reasonable access to the air for political speeches by federal
candidates, to the Federal Commission’s evaluation of the station’s
required performance of their duty under this most important access law,
the electronic extension of our First Amendment Rights, via mass media
into our living rooms.
It is we, the people, who own these airwaves, we, the people,
whose paramount right is to see and hear all the candidates who seek to
come before us and state their cases for their party’s nomination, or, as
independents, for direct election to our public offices.
We, the people, are the ‘deciders,’ who amongst us is most
qualified to serve as protector of our constitutional rights. As the
Supreme Coats ruled, years ago, “Although the broadcasting industry is
entitled under the First Amendment to exercise “the widest journalistic
freedom consistent with its public [duties], it is the right of the viewers
and listeners, not the right of the broadcasters, which is paramount.”
Or sew we, the people, choose to imagine.
At first glance it seems Stevens is taking a shot at the FCC
Commissioners for their ruling against the networks, but actually the
learned Jurist is getting us ready for the most telling sentence of all the
opinions Justice John Paul Stevens ever rendered in the whole of his
storied career:
“The approach the federal Communications Commission has
taken in this litigation, now adopted by the court, creates an
impermissible risk that the commission’s evaluation of a given refusal by
a licensee will be biased - or will appear to be biased - by the character of
the office held by the candidate making the request.”
An “impermissible risk” is just that! Impermissible. Keep this,
impermissible risk, and character of the office thought, relative to
constitutional violations, in the front of your mind. [Italics added]
Twenty-four years later, in The New York Slimes, July 4, 2004:
Cass R. Sunstein, professor of Law and Political Science at the
University of Chicago reviewed the Supreme Court year in, “The
Smallest Court in the Land,” “In the current court,” professor Sunstein
writes, “judicial minimalism and procedural fineries reign supreme.”
King Solomon muses:
Could you expect more from a court run by Justice Goldbar,
engrossed as Goldbar was with his own personal First Amendment
challenge: esophagus throat cancer.
Sunstein, in closing his critical piece, looks to the eloquent
Justice Stevens. “Of the many thousands of sentences in the Supreme
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Court’s decisions this term, the most telling came from Justice John Paul
Stevens:
“Even more important than the method of selecting the people’s
rulers and their successors is the character of the constraints imposed on
the executive by the rule of law.” ”
Bush the Younger sees himself a folksy His Majesty, above all
of our laws. Bush, the Elder also violated the constitution upon his very
reading of Jacklegs’ unpublished request for access which was also
Jacklegs’ political campaign strategy.
According to our rule of law, Bush the Elder went beyond the
pale when he signed an Executive Order authorizing surveillance and
covert domestic Nixon style acts vs. the Poet Prophet candidate.
Bush signed the order, which his son ordered sealed, with all of his
father’s other papers, for cover. George, the Elder sits high up the
slippery slope, covered every step of the fash, counter intelligence way,
except for his loose-lipped, Halcyon-dipped, tongue.
Hoover, in 1970, had the cosmic Poet Prophet on tape, smoking
pot with some anti-war grad stew dent teachers, J. Edgar’s surveillance
meat. On tape, our Poet Prophet described to the grads his worldwide
peace poem, to be performed live on all our TV channels, for all the
world’s peoples at once, and then, at midnight, after getting the old
U.S.S.R. to agree on ending their end of the Cold War, the unstoppable
Poet Prophet was planning a one-on-one with old Pope Paul, the world’s
tall thin gay Pope of three Popes ago.
With all the world’s people for witness, on live television, our
Cosmic Wrapper, the Poet Prophet, planned on giving the tall gay Pope
the kiss off, in no uncertain terms, a worldwide telling, and then, upon
the poet’s bald kiss off, telling that Pope to “suck the wind,” cutting the
broadcast in Rome off, upon that, letting every one else in the world
know that all the television sets in Italy were blackened out; as they say,
‘on the blink.’
In a blink, before turning Deuteronomy back on Vatican live, our
Cosmic Wrapper planned on repeating that circa 1968 Italian joke
popularized in all the Italian universities, thus “outing” the gay Pope
Paul, worldwide. Hoover had this Poet Prophet’s performance, “outing”
the fragile gay Pope, live, in the grad stew dent’s kitchen, on tape. J.
Edgar Hoover, that super secretive cross dressing pervert of dirt, was
outraged, fit to be bra strapped and tied.
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Institutions, starved for fresh blood, feed on themselves from
within, until they crumple. The poet’s kiss off cracked the Vatican’s
balustrades. His colorful punch line that followed, inside the minds of the
grad stew dents in the kitchen that night, cull-lapsed the whole Catholic
Church. That is what happened to the grad students; inside their minds,
the Catholic Church would be collapsed live on TV.
The House of God is in your chest. One of the grads was an FBI
stooge, taping. J. Edgar Hoover had haphazardly arranged to bug most of
the rooms throughout that whole stew dent building! The Chenango
Ghetto was a hot bed of the revolution, and one night FBI even came out,
knocking on doors, to squawk at the kids.
In 1968 all Italy knew the slender Pope, the Paul three Popes
ago, was gay. In 1968, the Pope Paul joke in Italy’s Universities was
“Pope Paul’s a faggot – he blew his way to the top.” Sew whose fault,
Slurp? The Church’s worldwide pederast prob limb is that gay Pope’s
legacy. A generation of child abusing Catholics decided to join the
Catholic Church and become priests because they all could see the tall
Pope Paul was gay: “One of our boys made it.”
Caught in the clutch, his mouth full up with Clyde Tolson’s
underpants, Hoover hit the ceiling. The pervert J. Edgarina was
infuriated, listening to our Poet Prophet performing his plan to “out” the
gay Pope Paul during his worldwide television show, smoking pot with
some revolutionary Marxist grad stew dents at a party.
The Poet Prophet, in 1970, high up on J. Edgar Hoover’s
personal list of “revolutionaries to be watched,” from political poems and
readings with Alan Ginsberg, Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin, was put
into FBI’s domestic top den, he, considered the exception to all of their
bureaucratic rules, with that whole panoply of W. Mark Felt’s bag of
Edgarina’s, deep and dirty tricks imposed.
Upon hearing the poet’s peace poem plan on locking down every
spare doubloon in the Vatican, on television, every unchecked act FBI
could commit against the poet, they committed. Hoover’s domestic
gangsters never quit. What was true then is true today; even more so,
more than thirty-seven years later.
King Solomon muses:
The Jacklegs shared the Pope Paul scene from Deuteronomy, his
Television Scripture, The Book ov Lev It A Kiss out loud for all peoples
and all nations together, to be a part of from dusk until dawn, because he
was getting ready to letter that page, but knot telling all. Poet Prophet
named the 34 day Pope, John Paul while hinting he was going to jam on
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world wide television with the old gay Paul, then, 13 pages later he
cryptically describes that 34 day John Paul I, dying.
Books of living prophesy are like bottles of wine. They have to
lay around for awhile, mellow and tell.
Of all our Supremes, the Coats who benched with Goldbar,
Justice Stevens is our finest, of highest character. His Constitutional
mind set, more than 25 years strong, is beyond challenge. Sew peerships, in the wake of Finnegan, we return again to Stevens’ dissent in
CBS, Inc. v. FCC, and Jacklegs’ hot copy.
“The approach the Federal Communications Commission has
taken in this litigation, now adopted by the court, creates an
impermissible risk that the commission’s evaluation of a given refusal by
a licensee will be biased - or will appear to be biased - by the character of
the office held by the candidate making the request.” [italics added]
In that one “impermissible risk” sentence quoted once again,
above, Stevens is challenging FCC’s jurisdiction to interpret, enforce, or
deny the First Amendment Right of any legally qualified candidate for
federal office to broadcast a political speech on television. That First
Amendment jurisdiction, the purview to protect speech, belongs to the
Federal District Courts, not to a government bureau run by political
appointees.
Simple as that, an, ‘impermissible risk’ violates our constitution.
We cannot risk ceding our constitutional entitlement to any government
commission. The Founding Fathers understood the dangers of
bureaucracy. According to our Bill of Rights, Freedom of Speech cannot
be abridged! That is impermissible.
How many kids gave their lives on foreign soil in defense of
Jacklegs’ constitutional right to give a live televised political speech?
How many died last week? But only a few Americans died yesterday and
only three, legs blown off the day before? Victory is right around the
corner? Tell that to the Spaniards of 3/11, the Londoners of 7/7, and our
own loved ones of 9-11, and while you are at it, the families of the first
100 Iraqis slaughtered every day in Baghdad.
Ok, all you Sunday morning lox and bagel legal beagles, it’s
time for the melt down, time for you to dump a bucketful of icy water on
all those fascist wicked witches of the north. Don't scroll your eyeballs
one line farther. Roll back instead to that crucial telling ‘impermissible’
sentence in Justice Stevens’ brief dissent.
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Dummies! Way cup! Where is Justice Stevens’ citation? A
citation was required! Supreme Court Justice John Paul Stevens could
not have tendered his reasoned “impermissible risk” line of thought in a
million years, one step away from declaring the whole statute, and or the
Federal Communications Commission itself, unconstitutional, absent a
citation from FCC’s own rulings, a cite on point, in support of his very
explicit constitutional complaint!
Section 312 (a)(7) isn’t an esoteric law; rather 312 (a)(7) is your
First Amendment Freedom of Speech, mass media into your living room,
where, on your own, it’s up to you whether you bother tuning in.
There is an asterisk at the last phrase, “making the request,” not
shown here but in 101 S. Ct., perhaps fascist icing on the cake, referring
back to the network’s “petitions for reconsideration,” a pro forma
challenge filed far below, at the ad min level on M Street, objecting to
FCC’s original ruling that favored the Carter-Mondale Committee’s
complaint over the networks denial refusal of access.
In that rule, the FCC commissioners obviously split their opines
along party lines. The asterisk leads to a footnote pointing to 74 FCC 2d
631, 652, 653, 654, (1979). An asterisk is not a citation, and the footnote
it leads to is well, off Stevens’ point! Off point nit, merits an “F” in law
school.
The aster-risky case in 74 FCC2d refers to the political make up
of the FCC itself, citing that original administrative ruling favoring
Carter-Mondale, with four demos over ruling three repubs, the demos in
favor of Carter’s proposed speech, the repubs in favor of the networks
who were refusing to grant access to Carter. That is, yokels, far and
away, far way off the mark of what Justice Stevens carefully judged, an
“impermissible risk.”
The Supreme Coats are not affirmative action amateur legal
dilettantes. Words mean something. They relate. Justice Stevens is a
conservatively minded jurist. The unconstitutional bias of the FCC,
rather the impermissible risk of that FBI inspired potential for bias on
FCC’s part, explicitly refers to the character of the office held by the
complainant, (Jacklegs was the only other complainant around,) knot to
which political party the commissioners are members of!
Stevens very possibly wasn’t the person responsible for the
asterisk. An FBI lawyer likely slipped that in after they gorged Stevens’
cite, after the galleys were proofed. The linguistic structure of Stevens’
fourth sentence in his dissent is telling: “has taken” . . . “now adopted” . .
.Then, shifting gears to a verb transitive perfect form, “creates an
impermissible risk.” Justice Stevens’ dissent points out that our whole
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constitution is at risk by this very unnatural FCC, a government bureau
with its own, codified bureaucrat structure, created by the government,
capable of deciding who gets to speak on television, by winnowing out
and riding rough shod over an outsider individual’s affirmative rights.
Stevens is not complaining about the political makeup of the
commission, or some potential “will be” future case as a proof of his
“impermissible risk,” line of thought, rather an FCC ruling that was
already past tense!
Berger’s teaching in the famous case made it abundantly bell
clear, the broadcasters were clearly prohibited from speculating on
potential requests for access, and then applying their speculation as a
valid reason for denying political candidates their entitlement, which is
an affirmative right to mass media access for speech!
Stevens, the supremely learned jurist is not speculating here:
“The approach the Commission has taken in this litigation
creates an impermissible risk.”
The risk, impermissible, for our brilliant Stevens, is that, “the
character of the office held by the candidate making the request” will
color FCC’s evaluation of a refusal by the licensee.
King Solomon muses:
In 1992, FCC attorney Robert Baker stated, on the telephone to
Jacklegs, “Someone in the Commission doesn’t like you.” “A
Commissioner?” Oh! Our constitutional protection is based on likes?
Peer-ships, the case Justice Stevens cited, the only case
supporting Stevens’ ‘goose for the gander’ dissent; actually the only
other 312(a)(7) access case around at that time, was the parallel case that
followed Carter-Mondale, in 74 FCC2d (1979), that being Michael
Stephen Levinson 87 FCC2d 433 (1980).
The FCC’s adjudication of the Carter-Mondale committee’s
complaint was adopted by FCC November 20, 1979, released the next
day. Relative to Michael Stephen Levinson’s complaint, more than the
dates were fudged. We aren’t shown when Poet Prophet’s constitutional
complaints began, in the summer, and the commission’s adoption date is
also absent, leaving only the release date, October 31, 1980, the Friday
before the election.
It only appears a year between the two complaints. They were
months closer. Regardless, FCC produced thirteen (13) volumes in hard
covers between them, not accidental. Forces way up high were doing all
they could to eliminate the possibility that Jacklegs’ case would come
into play in the coming Supreme Court case.
206
In the 87 FCC2d matter, FCC lists, in Appendix A (3) the
candidate, “Mr. Levinson sent a “press box” to CBS News on September
25, 1980, containing campaign materials, video tapes of campaign
speeches, and copies of his September 5, 1980 312 access request of the
stations.”
Jacklegs access requests, and complaints to the commission
began in the summer. Mentioning “video tapes of campaign speeches”
was willful deception. The ‘video tape’ was of a ‘speech’ that aired live,
on two separate cable systems in Western New York State, one live, the
next night, live on tape, under the 312(a)(7) statute, establishing the
candidate was a bona fide write-in candidate.
FCC enforcement division attorneys saw the speech.
The Poet Prophet was a living legend at the University, and well
known through out western New York. Grant, had he made that
broadcast speech on WNED-TV the station where he was, beyond any
shadow, legally qualified to give his speech, there is a likelihood
thousands of voters in Erie County might have cast their ‘write-in’ ballot
for the poet, and written in Muhammad Ali, for vice President.
New York State could have teetered to Carter. Between Carter
and Reagan in New York, the diff rinse was 165,459 votes, with 467,801
votes going to spoiler, John Anderson. Even limiting the poet’s political
speech to Western New York State would certainly have brought
national attention to the poet candidate, with his prophetic ‘Vehicle for
World Peace’ becoming a bona fide, on the table, part of our intellectual
marketplace, in the Public Domain.
In the 2004 election, 8,000 votes separated Bush and Kerry in
Pennsylvania. In 1980, Ronald Reagan was going to win the election in
the state of New York regardless what was going on with Michael
Stephen Levinson in Erie County.
Reagan respected performing artists. Reagan knew that he was
not a great actor, but had talent, skills that flowered in front of a
television camera. He surely would have invited Erie County’s favorite
republican son to visit the White House, and endorsed the poet’s dusk
until dawn spoken poem concept, too.
We would have been richer for the experience, living in the
world with the potential for world peace and food chain harmony on the
table. Our sons and daughters would not be getting maimed, or dying like
summer flies, every other day in Iraq.
It took but a few years, after Justice Berger retired, for the
commission to remove the 312(a)(7) obligations from cable casters and
cable programs, bottle necking your rights to political speech onto
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expensive, broadcast networks, sew the Jacklegs sprechen, on television
in 1980, for $1100 1980 dollars, cannot be repeated. A request to
purchase time on a cable station, for a political speech can be arbitrarily,
summarily dismissed by the station’s management without legal
consequence at the admin level.
But, as noted above, the manipulators left in place Section 315 e
quill time provisions, their Fairness purpose, to discourage cable
programmers from inviting minor candidates into their studios for any
interviews, because then the cable caster would be obligated to e quill
time requests from other candidates.
In today’s world, the cable casters are not obligated to sell time
to candidates for federal elective office. Only over the air broadcasters
are obligated to give or sell airtime to candidates. The costs, excluding
the non-commercial PBS, prohibit all but the rich and party anointed
from running for any public office.
This is so much more intriguing than W. Mark Felt, Nixon’s
Deep Throat lip unmasked, because Justice John Paul Stevens is alive
and well, on the bench, whereas Felt, dementia ridden, is on the way out,
his ticket pre-stamped.
Stevens cited Michael Stephen Levinson, 87 FCC2d 433 (1980),
but Justice Stevens’ key citation was whittled out behind his back, after
his galleys were proofed, just as WNED-TV was, not coincidentally,
whittled out of 87 FCC2d 433 (1980), after the ruling was posted to
complainant and the PBS stations complained against.
King Solomon muses:
Neither of these adulterous events were unrelated incidents.
Your domestic intelligence aristo-bureaucrats, J. Edgarina’s people,
Hoover’s legacy band, The Enema Within, those who let slide 9-11, are
up there, those ultra select Counter Intelligence pros, hanging out at the
doors to the Judges’ chambers, keyed for sweeping the floors. Let the 4th
Estate, or a Committee of Congress investigate FBI’s corruption of our
Highest Court!
Ask the learned Justice John Paul Stevens. He recalls Carter
Mondale v. CBS. Might Justice Stevens rifle his collection of courtroom
galleys to ratify the Jacklegs? Ask him about 87 FCC2d.
It’s too late to ask Justice Goldbar for his galleys but the truth is
apparent, and Goldbar knew it! Such judicial stain is knot a shame.
Rehnquist did knot, in his total career, muster one memorable sentence;
knot one sharp phrase in any Rehnquist decisions!
FBI black bagged a citation from the Supreme Court, sew to
eliminate the Poet Prophet from the Court’s written record. The culprit
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could have been one judge’s clerk. Track the clerks; see who went over
to the Pentagon after their clerkship was completed.
FBI planned to cancel more than the Poet Prophet’s political
future. Some of Hoover’s people, back in the day, went beyond mere
discussions on permanently eliminating the Poet Prophet! In FBI’s
classified files, find an attempt to create an automotive catastrophe.
In 1980, the write-in candidate planned to challenge Muhammad
Ali, to instead of fighting Holmes, accompany the Poet Prophet to
Teheran, as bodyguard, to meet the Ayatollah and bring the hostages
home. Poet Prophet was going to tell the Ayatollah Khomeini that after
he and Muhammad Ali were elected President and vice-President, the
nod from America for bringing home their hostages, then, two years after
their election, Allah, moving through His Poet Prophet President, would
deliver His world to peace.
After World Peace comes, God, Allah, was going to make the
resurrection. After God makes the resurrection, all the children of the
Iranian people who were murdered by Savak, the Shah’s secret police,
would be returned to their families here on the earth, from God, and the
Shah would be returned to the Iranian people. (So the bitter Ayatollah
could string him up and see the Shah stoned to death as he, Ayatollah
Khomeini sat watching).
The above, Poet Prophet had an Iranian student translate for him
into impeccable Farsi.
The night before Jacklegs trip to Ali’s training camp, two covert
operatives sabotaged the poet’s car, a Chevrolet convertible. One
evildoer sliced the main O-ring holding up the muffler and pipes, that
nearly all the way through, sew as soon as the car rolled over the first
bump, the O-ring would tear. The muffler, dropped down, was
guaranteed to scrape the asphalt, the sparks helter skelter.
The other evildoer punched a hole in the gas tank, a little more
than halfway up, along the seam, sew the gas tank skin would be soaked.
Freak accident. Ka-boom, an underside gas fume bomb!
Every news division of every television network, in concert with
every newspaper in the nation can knot obtain that sheet of mostly
blacked out sentences, a counter intelligence memo, on the two evildoers
making the poet’s car “inoperable.”
In 1980, when the 87 FCC2d Michael Stephen Levinson ruling
appeared in the Federal Register, absent the one key station where
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Jacklegs was qualified to speak, public interest attorneys inquired at FCC
about the case. They were discouraged from getting in touch with the
poet. The FCC staff attorney who guided the poet’s complaint, Richard
Kalb, discouraged Jacklegs from filing an Application for Review. After
the election was over, Chief Milton O. Gross pushed staff attorney
Richard Kalb out of the Political Branch Enforcement Division. Kalb
was banished to FCC’s cable division where he holds onto a desk, to this
very day.
Poet Prophet got on with his life; unaware his letter from FCC
was to soon become a citable ruling in their Law Books.
Years ago an uncovering such as this one, involving FBI’s
willful adulteration of First Amendment cases, the one, in FCC’s
administrative law, the other in your highest court’s written record,
would be a show stopper, bringing headlines everywhere! Senator
Church would have scheduled a fresh batch of hearings.
But in today’s world, the press, adulterated slowly over years
with a stream of Jay Rosen recommended grad school “journalists”
whose family connect is the Pentagon, or someone in the domestic
intelligence aristocracy, this is just one big ‘eh so what’ who cares some
domestic intelligence jocks from years ago went and chopped a Supreme
Court ruling behind the Court’s back. Sew what the heck; it was only a
citation in a minority dissent, about a Jew no less.
The fascists habitually confuse reality, as the ‘Jew no less’ is the
inspired author of prophetic works who has written a Television
Scripture, to perform on whirled wide television for all mankind.
When Justice Stevens read Michael Stephen Levinson, 87
FCC2d (1980), as did your whole Supreme Court at that time, 1981,
Stevens was curious because the FCC’s admin ruling didn't add up;
didn’t make sense, and on its face contradicted the FCC’s CarterMondale case. Stevens asked his clerk to contact the FCC’s Enforcement
Division Branch, protocols of office and all the wrest.
Enforcement Division Chief, Milton O. Gross, the fascist who
rests at peace, close to his idol John Wilkes Booth, told Stevens’ clerk
that FCC didn’t know what to do with Levinson’s complaint because
Levinson’s candidacy was a fake! Gross claimed Levinson was not a
bona fide candidate for President, even though he, Gross, representing
FCC, ruled Levinson was bona fide, but ‘Lev’ was, rather, according to
FBI, a fake publicity seeker, only pretending to be a candidate for
President to get free time on TV for its own sake.
King Solomon muses:
For its own sake? For its own sake of what?
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According to Bureau Chief Milton O. Gross, the proof that
Levinson was a fake candidate, that his campaign was a fake, was
obvious: Levinson didn’t seek any mass media access where FCC’s
Political Branch had ruled Levinson was clearly entitled, on the western
New York PBS station, WNED-TV. FEC records filed with FCC
indicate Levinson spent $10,000 dollars, but as far as the fascist, Milton
O. Gross was concerned, this $10,000 dollars was spent only supposedly,
fake campaigning for President!
Within the bowels of FCC, Bureau Chief Milton O. Gross, was
famed for his rigid sense. Gross was a born again fascist, his favorites,
Goebbels and Himmler. But Justice Stevens would have none of Milton
O. Gross’ convoluted administrative manure.
Without knowing why WNED-TV Channel 17 was left out of
the unknown candidate’s mix, Stevens’ dissented, based on FCC’s
Jacklegs’ ruling, where Jacklegs’ complaint, as valid as Carter’s, more
valid, according to Chief Justice Berger, was given short shrift by FCC’s
Political Branch / Enforcement Division, Chief Milton O. Gross
presiding, and the 87 FCC2d Michael Stephen Levinson case was exactly
the FCC’s ad min ruling that brought Justice Stevens’ to his telling
dissent! “Take that, Warren,” during the Justices’ historic post trial
conference.
Stevens realized something was fishy with the 87 FCC2d ruling.
Stevens, a conservative jurist whose belief in our constitution and Bill of
Rights is trump, went as far as he prudently dared.
Then, after the galleys were proofed, behind his back, J.
Edgarina’s Enema Within, one of W. Mark Felt’s protégés, stripped the
87 FCC2d Michael Stephen Levinson case from appearance in our
Highest Court’s hard covers. Back in 1970, J. Edgar Hoover himself
decided Michael Stephen Levinson, the righteous man God inspired, who
held the pen, who created the mull tie ling well spoken poem for all man
kind was a very dangerous person, to be inhibited forever from any
opportunity to publicly speak anywhere, at all costs, black listed, more so
than performing artist, Eartha Kitt, who was black listed by Lady Bird
Johnson, rather the Poet Prophet was black listed with counter
intelligence covert activities attached to the poet’s black listing stitch, in
America, for life.
King Solomon muses:
When a President’s wife, Bar-Donna Bush Corleone despises
you, as don Corleone despised the other mafia families, best you keep a
sharp eye. They don’t have to get specific, as conspiracy theorists
imagine. The powerful merely make their feelings known to ‘others.’ In
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the Jacklegs’ case, Bar-Donna was, sew incensed, she insisted to George
he sign an Executive Order to corral ‘Jacklegs’.
Hoover’s Jacklegs policy, with Bar-Donna Bush Corleone’s
conspired continuance, is very active, still in effect, running today. From
FB-Eye’s J. Edgarina point of view, protecting the status quo.
Bureaucracies are distinguished from all other creature in our
universe. There are other uni verse iz. Bureaucracies are the only
creatures ever created that feed on themselves and multiply. Can you
suck on your toe and make two of you? Bureaucracies can and do.
Bureaucracies kill.
Revisit Danny Casalaro, the freelance writer who mastered the
Inslaw Software scandal. He brought a synopsis of his Inslaw
investigation to The Washington Toast. A few days afterward, on or
about 17 years ago, he was murdered in a Beltway hotel room. Dan
Casalaro was found in a bathtub with his wrists slit. The federal
authorities embalmed Casalaro before they contacted his estranged wife
and kid. The authorities claimed Danny committed suicide.
Do you believe Danny Casalaro committed suicide, on the brink
of a story that could have put him on the cover of Time Magazine
Investigative Reporter of the Year? Or was Dan Casalaro murdered, his
death warrant tendered by fash bureaucrats?
Mary McGrory wrote that something really “stunk” about the
murder of Danny Casalaro. The Village Voice had an Inslaw piece,
“Software to Die For.” Articles appeared in many papers via the wires
and that was the end of it, though today a trove of Casalaro is on the
Internet. Inslaw, back then was industrial strength search technology
software. The Department of Justice, under Ed Meece, purchased the
software and then refused to pay for it, which almost put Inslaw into
bankruptcy.
Inslaw is the software enabling the NSA to record many millions
of telephone conversations, key your name and address, and 10 seconds
later, hear every word spoken over your phone for hours, on any given
day NSA was in play, eves dropping in at your place.
Former Attorney General Elliot Richardson took the Inslaw case
and won the judgment against United States, but the government still
refused to ante up. The U.S. wanted Inslaw out of business! Danny
Casalaro, writing about Inslaw, uncovered what he called, “the octopus,”
but Dan Casalaro didn’t quite get it. Had he realized what he had he
never would have tendered his synopsis to, specifically, The Washington
Toast, because, upon that tender ring, Casalaro signed on to his own
death warrant.
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Danny Casalaro was murdered by our government to protect a
vast, on going multibillion-dollar government operation, which to this
day, across the board, clearly violates who we are and what we, as a
nation stand for. FBI/CIA have people predisposed to them in lots of
newsrooms besides the Washington Toast newsroom.
King Solomon muses:
‘Jacklegs’ is distinguished - the one person in America who
identifies the pipeline from The Washington Toast newsroom to the
intelligence aristocrats. Careers are staked here, beyond a huge
unbleached leach on the 4th Estate. Such is life in the big city isn’t it.
Jo-Ann Armao received Casalaro’s synopsis. On the way to
another editor’s office she made a copy and turned it over to husband
Larry McNeice, who immediately passed it on to his people.
The Feds were sew threatened by Casalaro’s synopsis, they
arranged to meet him in a hotel room where they murdered him. His
notebooks disappeared. The truth upsets your freedom.
Inslaw is the industrial strength software used to track the
Russian’s ‘Red October’ subs. All that was required to track the Russians
was a satellite shot showing when the subs departed, to plot exactly when
and where the Red Octobers’ would surface, touching moon light in the
open seas.
Imagine yourself holding an unpaid speeding ticket from an
Oshkosh suburb, a misdemeanor pending in Seattle, and a bench warrant
for an unleashed dog in Orlando. Inslaw is the software that could dance
through all those databases and print out your sheet in Columbus, Ohio.
Inslaw is the software the government used to track Osama bin
Laden’s money. Believe bin Laden also has a copy, customized to
disguise his money sources from western government tracking. You see
Inslaw software, pretended to, all the time, on television cop shows. A
computer geek, with only a partial print, flips thousands of prints or faces
on the screen, until the program states, “match.”
In the late 1980’s a digital scanner cost $1200.00. Optical
character recognition software, OCR, on sale, was $800.00. Today
scanner and software are packaged for less than a $100.00. In the late
80’s a one-gig hard drive cost more than $2000.00. Today, a slick 100gigabyte hand held drive sells for less than one hundred bucks.
In the late 1980’s the government printed a huge book, now out
of print, in teensy 6-point type, with the names, addresses and phone
numbers of every individual citizen getting a check from the feds. At that
time direct deposit was snail mail direct. The checks were physically
mailed from the Treasury Dept. to the banks, or physically mailed to the
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recipients’ homes. Today this is completely electronic, accomplished
with a bureaucrat’s mouse click. In the late 1980’s CD ROMs with
names and addresses from our White Pages, nationwide, were available
for sale on one CD disk.
With a scanner, and OCR software, that huge government book,
now out of print, with all those names and addresses of check recipients
could have been scanned to a workstation hard drive. The CD-ROM of
the whole country’s White pages could have been loaded onto the same
one gig hard disk.
Industrial strength Inslaw software could have married the lists
and extracted all the names from the 6-point type book whose checks
were snail mailed to the same bank branch address. Inslaw could have
run that list of names against the White pages, generating thousands of
names that simply don’t exist in telephone books because the names on
the checks were faked! They are actual people of course, with their
names slightly altered, their monthly stipend going to a bank branch in
the next county.
Recollect, in the late 80’s ATM’s did not exist! The names on
the questionable bank accounts were those slightly altered names of Stasi
styled citizens surreptitiously employed by your government, as paid
informants, to befriend, and write profiles about their fellow workers,
etc., just like old East Germany’s secret police, the Stasi.
King Solomon muses, singing again:
“Anything you can do we can do better.”
With Inslaw front-page news, computer geeks would have
figured out what Danny Casalaro was only approaching; the actual list of
all the FBI’s informants could have been extracted from public records,
as above, and published in blogs throughout cyberspace.
The FBI fascists saw the Internet potential so they snuffed Dan
Casalaro and squelched his story. It wasn’t so much the public exposure
of their thousands of paid informants at risk. Who cares who wrote the
report about you? Rather the deep doo-doo they were in, with our
constitution, the Congress, and all the American people.
U.S. government, in America, murdered one of its citizens. Since
Dan Casalaro’s murder the window that could shed light on all these
public files is airtight. Everything is electronic. That very thick book
with the names of all who get a monthly Treasury check is out of print,
existing only in Classified digital format. The full version is not available
to the general public, but accessible to Members of the House on the
Intelligence Oversight Committees.
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With Danny Casalaro, the government refused to admit he was
murdered, so investigating his death was off the table. The 4th estate was
cowered. The issue of Casalaro’s murder slid.
Chandra Levy is another matter. She was the girlfriend of former
congressman Gary Condit. The threshold, that she was a murder victim,
is crossed! Chandra Levy was murdered.
Condit told his other paramour, his airline stewardess, when
Chandra came up missing, “We will have to lay low because there is
going to be a trial.” Trial? Gary Condit knew immediately Chandra
Levy was dead. At least congressman Condit assumed it.
It was easy for him to offer a $10,000 reward for her return.
What did congressman Gary Condit know and when did he know it?
Condit sat on the House Intelligence Committee. Did Condit
have access to the domes tickle data base mentioned above, with the
names of people informing for the government who were journalists
working for newspapers, as writers, etc., in there, with Hill rat dual
workers, those always jumping from one Congress person’s office to the
next, also included, for the most part, the FBI’s whole domestic list of
part time paid informant spies a data base inside Gary Condit’s
computer.
Those in charge of this wasteful, distasteful, unseemly, fash
operation that sucks untold billions of our dollars concluded Chandra
Levy knew all about their out-of-date Stasi styled illegal operations. It
could only be imagined what Chandra was going to do after Condit
dumped her, so domestic intelligence aristocrats snuffed her, one of our
American daughters, in America.
Sure as heck, someone she trusted caught her by surprise and
Chandra was murdered. Someone connected to our government who
also knew who she was either put her down, or saw to it she was
murdered. The candidate for President, who states that upon election he
will get to the bottom of this, and uncover the whole truth, is the
candidate for President who is putting his own well being at risk! She
was entitled to her life, her liberty and pursuit of her happiness.
Paula Zahn is a talented newsperson. She anchored a news
feature show on Fox TV with a growing audience. Zahn was actively
covering Chandra Levy’s story, investigating the matter of Chandra’s
death from her anchor desk. She interviewed a psychic on her show. The
psychic was apprised of Paula Zahn’s factual details.
Tracking dogs picked up Chandra’s scent at the door to her
apartment building but lost Chandra’s scent at the curb. The psychic
Paula Zahn interviewed on the air passed the data from Zahn to other
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psychics and all three of them came to the same conclusion: Chandra’s
body would be found in a roadside culvert of a two lane black top in
Pennsylvania, approximately ninety minutes drive from where Chandra
Levy disappeared in D.C.
The next day, it was reported Paula Zahn had a lunch with an
executive from CNN. Zahn was instantly fired and her Fox program
canceled that day.
King Solomon muses:
When a network has a top quality anchor under contract, and
another network is interested in hiring the anchor away, wouldn’t you sit
down with your anchor to see about keeping them in the fold, especially
someone as genuine as Paula Zahn? She’s a real reporter, good enough to
have replaced Dan Rather!
A week later, Chandra Levy’s skeletal remains turned up in
Washington, in a park that had previously been searched by dozens of
police, down to the square inch. CSI said Chandra’s body had recently
been moved. The people responsible for Chandra Levy’s murder are
high up and very powerful. They were lightening fast in getting Paula
Zahn removed, thus canceling her investigative thrust. Media should
investigate that!
September 11 pushed Chandra off the news, sew there wasn’t a
follow-up. Paula Zahn went on to anchor a show at CNN.
I hold the people who murdered Danny Casalaro murdered
Chandra Levy for the same reason. The Congress could have gone into
closed session and gotten right to the bottom of Chandra Levy’s murder.
Members of the House could have called for a closed door session and
put Mr. Condit in the well, with full immunity granted by voice vote, but
they didn’t. Instead, the pitch to inquisitive reporters ran that Condit’s
future in the people’s House was up to the people in Condit’s district,
monkey see know evil and all the wrest.
Who ever first belched that Chandra Levy, the issue, was up to
the voters in Gary Condit’s district is fascist! You won’t get World Peace
until we get out the truth in this. Knot! It’s your world. Prophets are
prophets of God, who created the universe. It’s natch a rill: Prophets are
righteous.
Hark! Dear peer-ships, cloture is coming to everything here. But
before our God inspired love Poet Prophet raises sails for red China, with
Onlion S. Shem at the helm, to build his world vid cyber stage over
there, The Poet Prophet’s worldwide World Peace cultural event, for all
the world’s peoples to appreciate; though FBI black listed in USA, where
it turns our Poet Prophet only happened to have been born, to fully
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appreciate your ex-sex-President Bill Clintstone, enjoy this brief and
tasty respite from the life of Ben Franklin, one of the lasting pillars from
our Founding Fathers’ past.
Speaking of Ben Franklin, now is as good a time as any to jolt
one of old Ben Franklin’s lightning bolts and flash one of the founding
fathers’ collective innermost, our founding fathers’ true reckoning
behind their wide angled impeachment phrase, “other high crimes and
misdemeanors.”
The unknown Poet Prophet muses:
“Many years ago, in my unbridled youth, I was an able seaman,
in the merchant marine. On my very last trip on a merchant ship, the
boatswain, Arthur Harrington, he, of Boston, told me that when he was
young and just starting out, on his very first trip on an ocean going ship,
an old man shipmate told him the following tale:
When Ben Franklin was appointed Ambassador to the Court of
Louis 14th, King of France, although a famous lithograph shows our
envoy, Ben Franklin, in a drawing room, entertaining some lady
aristocrats, there was more to it than what met the lithographer’s eye.
Ben had some beddy-bye scenes with those French lady babes in
King Louis´ Court, a pair together, according to the bots´un, and in one
of their threesome boudoir moments the amorous ladies asked our, “early
to bed / early to rise,” Ben Franklin, how was it the Yankees sailed their
clippers south out of Boston, instead of east northeast to Europe, yet the
Yankee ships always beat the French and British packets to the English
coast by at least a week?
Ben drew his ladies a map of the Atlantic, illustrating that
Yankee well tread ocean current, the Gulf Stream, which back then was
like ‘selling’ our missile tech to the wily Cheyenne-easy! Golly, old Ben
Franklin didn’t know those delightful French ladies were actually British
spies in the French Court! And that’s how the Brits first learned of the
Gulf Stream, with spies in the French Court.
Years after hearing the boatswain Arthur Harrington’s story, I
saw The New York Slimes review of, what was then, a recently
published historical work which had, nearly word for word the very same
tale about envoy Ben Franklin, getting charmingly disrobed by aristoFrench ladies who were, secretly, British spies.
A dry historian, digging around and comparing notes in the
crusty British and French archives, uncovered the treasonous details: Ben
Franklin’s French lady friends were actually a couple of well powdered,
under-the-covers, British spies!
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Spies! I’m shocked. I first heard this story on the deck of a ship
in 1969, long before it was dusted by the archivists. So to me, the
historical fruits of much deep sea did research passed via word of mouth
from ship to ship for nearly 200 years, from way back then when it
happened down to me in 1969, years before it was published!
Well, by 1787, our founding fodders had also heard the British
found out about the Gulf Stream and were sailing southeast out of Boston
for a tail wind and a running sea to England; and that it was old Ben
Franklin who had unwittingly given up Mother Nature’s Gulf Stream
secret to the British. Seaman from the ships talked about it in the taverns
close by the Boston docks.
Treason us? Benjamin Franklin? Be reasonable. In time, the
Brits would have sailed into Mother Nature’s Gulf Stream currents and
figured it out, without Ben Franklin drawing those ladies a map, letting
that running sea cat out of the bag, just as it would have been only a
matter of time before the Chinese figured out the missing links in their
missile targeting and launch technology.
Was Benjamin Franklin’s Gulf Stream indiscretion a high crime?
Did Ben get high? Ben Franklin’s crime, like Clintstones, was that corny
old mix of Lust and Trust—sounds like a bank, felt like Heaven, and
always ends in demolition—something the Founders clearly
understood—so not to mislead, it was exactly Ben Franklin’s sexual
indiscretions our founding fathers had in mind when they coined their all
encompassing phrase, “other High Crimes and Ms Demeanors,” which is
why our carefully crafted constitution’s line on impeachment runs ‘down
Derry down,’ from treason and bribery, to a plainly spoken old English
generality.
Our Founders did knot publicize Benjamin Franklin’s sexual
high jinx in, The Federalist Papers, Farrand’s Records, or anywhere
else, as contemporaneous example of, “other high crimes,” because
Ben’s indiscretion happened during the Articles of Confederation; we
were not yet a full-fledged country; and Ben was only an ambassador,
innocently duped by posing naked French lady spies.
1787 wasn’t exactly post puritanical times, and rightly, the Founders
cared knot to sully the name of a fine old guy near death that all the
Founders respected and loved.
The Founding Fathers were educated men. They knew Rome
wasn’t built in a day, and fell because Nero was sex addicted. They read
the Greek poets and philosophers. Notwithstanding that our greatest of
all the ancient poets, old blind Homer, only sniffed on an old wife’s tale,
the Founders read Homer. They knew that ‘Paris stole Helen naked,
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coming from the bed of Menelaus,’ right from under “old men a lay use
’is nose.” The Founders read that Helen launched a navy and set off the
Trojan War; that fought for a bloody decade!
When we heard the televised litany of Clintstone’s sexual
exploitations while in public office, and in the same breath, without
analysis, all those official’s medja drumming, that Clintstone’s sadly
compulsive sexual addictions did not rise to the level of an impeachment,
in historical fact, beyond any shadow, the opposite result, impeachment,
is exactly what our Founders had in mind!
Clintstone’s sexual exploits while in office did not merely rise to
the level of an impeachment. They called for Writ! Besides the historical
record of Monica on the job, there was also a recognized pre-presidential
pattern of sex-capades, including sexual assault, and rape. What did the
other countries’ leaders really think?
Clintstone’s cover-ups of his extramarital sex activities while in
office also obstructed our constitution - immmpeachy!
Nor can Billy Clintstone’s sadly addictive shtick be chanced in
any presidency, though when King Solomon and Elián Gonzalez was
first written down we were stuck with one. Our presidency was
established in a horse drawn world to function as an elected, albeit
democratically controlled monarchy. Our President sits in the most pow
wow er full office on our good ship mother urf; and it was Clintstone’s
behavior, with his aftermath of lies and quick zip cover-ups the Founders
were thinking of when they coined their wide angled phrase, “other high
crimes,” missile tech state Ms demean her secrets, “misdemeanors” and
all the wrest, nothing less.
Bespectacled Ben aside, the Founders realized we could elect a
President who might not simply have an eye for all the trim ankles
passing by, but would in fact be Frenched by every imagined unbuttoned
blouse, or upraised skirt, which cannot be tolerated in our micro spychipped YouTube world.
In the Founder’s world, with Boston to D.C. a five day trip, and
the only mass media the tree press, or Paul Revere on horseback, the
only citizens privy to any President’s excesses, or truly official unfitness,
who could possibly smell some really treasonous stuff, and also be
qualified to straighten out the mess and make things right, would be our
elected Congress, not the powerless citizenry, beyond the purple
mountains, building a country.
So in the event someone truly unfit to be our President did obtain
our highest, or 2nd highest office, our duly elected Congress, after a
constitutionally balanced, poli-faction insulated, two tier deliberation,
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could remove them. Such is the constitution’s final, built in check for
democracy’s balance.
That was then, our Framer’s view. Today is yesterday, our
Franchise, newsprint dust already. And sew dear peers, we draw to a
close this chapter, the life and times of our Cosmic Wrapper, oh happy
Lev, the Jacklegs, jumping up; our soon-to-be-assassinated Poet Prophet
patriot, Michael Stephen Levinson.
September 11, 2008
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