The Hunt for Kony

"There were people with their tongues hanging out of their mouths."-- a child narrator in a Richard Gere film

Scowling. The viewers who reported me due to the immersion of my sympathy with Christopher Dorner had it right in the first place, and correctly divined my genocidal impetus. I would dare to sit in judgment, and like the Chinese authorities in the Peoples’ Republic, I’d gleefully waste thousands here and thousands there in hyperbolic exaggeration, and deep down inside, there are many human power mongers like me, not to add a few Egyptian generals to the list, or the entire governing body of North Korea. The only reason I do not really let loose, I mean really let it out in a verbal ingenuity of hell fiend on wheels in a scathing vat of boiling gold to the tenth Klevin, is only partially due to an over developed paranoia. I care too much about the project I’ve developed on my two blogging accounts, akin to my fervor to annihilate public housing.

The fossil fuel residue that ignites my violet Roman temper upset mio padre. I telephoned him to discuss estate planning in my avarice. He then telephoned his demented sister of whom, it may be said, is wearing me out in her shrewd and shrill inconsistencies. This, from a spastic running her native tongue into the searing Fahrenheit. Marie, my Uncle Joseph, Louise mio padre’s wife, with her RA, would save us a great deal of trouble with a lungful or two of carbon monoxide, regardless of my cousins’ umbrage. Richie and I do not get along, and he’d whale me for the blunt force of my unhappiness his mother has absorbed since 2006. Billy would be softer.

Should I apologize to the writers like Robert and academics like Carrol Cox or Sheldon Novick, when I letter write failure miseries in my box set? I did the same thing to Professor Jerry McGuire, now in emeritus status, deploy rhetorical strategies to make the more deftly able feel badly for me. I would apologize to Robert for my last plaint, but he is too well mannered to tell me he is weary of my electric chatter in his head, and I am uncouth enough to go into minute speculative detail signifying nothing, except for one small item. Robert is my exception to the rule about online interactions. He is my friend, mainly because we’re both poets. All I was going to convey is that I do not want to sleep with him, and then apologize to his wife for that, but you see how the worms wriggle in the tin if I keep up this reflective introspection, especially as one Watson like sidekick is better than none at all. You have no idea how much I’d like to say “fuck housekeeping” and bring back an official caste system. I have to lie down, as I’m interviewing a second candidate later this afternoon, even when I utilize a post as letter writing to no one. I would have liked Reiner's film somewhat better if it was as nuanced as Lost in Translation. I may pick this up again. Buttock has made a request, in the interim, not to suicide by pressure sore. One of my former aides just pinged me on Linked In. That she will probably regret in relatively short order, ha.