LeVar Burton's Home Remedy For the Exsanguination of Diane Keaton

"The only thing I can say is there is a hell of a lot more Arabians than there is Jews." Billy Carter

The Family Stone might in some ways be a capitulation to Keaton's character in Looking For Mr. Goodbar, offered as a fumigating afterthought, missing the first 40 minutes or so of the classic dark side of liberal promiscuity. Thursday morning futilely challenging creditors who assuredly know, barring a miracle, the Treasury Department will soon garnish my entitlement. What would they do, my account holders, if the minority bitches get what they want and make me a new old home for cripples problem? Thus it is to be boxed in, seething with a detonator's destruction. I hate Keaton, always have, with her toothy minuets of peevish dismay, with Berenger aptly encapsulating the macho fag, since he later plays a genocidal racist against Winger in Betrayal, or whatever it was, the end of Goodbar was nonetheless a shock. Not graphic, but a shock. Feminist Liberal Self-Sacrifice in big capitals, my body is still adjusting to the Aero's demise. "Give it time," I coax myself, the correspondences are obvious. The deaf kids of Keaton's teacher, the deaf gay couple in the latter film whom Parker zings in much more polite reactive fashion than you'd get from me.

My mother passed away quite suddenly in 2005, which is when I accidentally lit my hair on fire, and my then support coordinator, Ann Piccinotti, sent me a voodoo priestess from Germantown. "I took care of a Jewish woman who said let me give you my money." This is what I had to deal with, in the middle of bankruptcy, my parent's funeral, I had to fend off an African with gaping teeth in head scarfs who thought she could siphon me. Progressive disability activists call this "mutual respect". I call it Spencer's cash register, though even if I still had some of my assets, I wouldn't fund him. not that I am above seeing that the far right generates cash flows. Most American neo-Nazis are, for evident reasons of non-adaptation, welfare recipients. My smirk is one thing. Calling for body armor then charging into battle against the infidel motherfucker is another matter.

I remembered my spin off pitch from the Cosby scandal, and need to put it in my file. Joan might be useful for this, although I wonder if we're all learning more about the strange aspects of black libido than we really wish to know. I'm still angry about the rapacious ghetto woman violating the sanctity of my grief. I got rid of her with a future truth, that Liberty Resources would no longer be my provider. Imagine how deep my impulses must run for a stocking to fill with ignots, sweet to crack a skull. I may be better tuned over the weekend, awaiting deliveries.