Recently, I caught up with old friends; a bunch of Leos all, we decided to get together and share our birthdays which all six fall within an eight-day period. I still have yet to actually meet someone born on August second, my actual birthday.
In any event, there just had to be that dinner guest that made a point of being a dumb-as-fuck catty fag who spent most of the dinner trying to throw shade my way. Bitch please, I long ago turned in my Gay card – why be a card-carrying member in a society which is marked with intense racial animus towards Blacks?
I simply do not play. Go be Gay and all that that stands for. I don’t lisp and I especially do not suffer anyone who does.
Naturally, there was overlong discussion of that silly White male dickless wonder-looking attention whore whose appearance on the cover of Vanity Fair was the final straw for me. Dominick Dunne is gone as is Christopher Hitchens – what soft hands he had and such sad lonely eyes.
In any event, the cumfarting twit was fast taken to task when deliberately regurgitating the usual media hate-fest now at fever pitch about Bill Cosby. Well, of course, he is guilty – he is a man and a successful man.
Which successful man doesn’t have access to readily available sex? What the fool guest did not get was what was really at play in all this, namely why is that fugly – tell me, her retroussé-ugly face does not resemble a bat’s in extreme close-up – lawyer’s obsession with Black men?
First it was Michael Jackson, then on to Tiger Woods and now Bill Cosby. Better watch out Will Smith, hell Sidney Poitier is still alive… no successful Black male in America beloved and respected by the media is safe.
Look at what a laughing stock Tiger Woods has become. All three men, as most people and that idiotic dinner guest – about whom I coolly hissed whilst looking unflinchingly at the roast on my plate, “What is this doing out of the oven?” – fail to realise, had a legacy which was beyond the norm.
Clearly, it isn’t about merely being Black; it is always about having ventured into uncharted territory. Who can deny Michael Jackson’s stellar genius? Who could have imagined anyone achieving, let alone conquering Tiger Woods’ spectacular accomplishments? Then there was Bill Cosby, after Norman Lear had given the noctambulant masses the image of what Blacks ought to damn well be, presenting perfectly normal middle class Blacks without rage, baggage and drug issues.
In short order this klanswoman replete with invisible hood has devoted her professional life to latter day lynching of Black men with legacies which are too unpalatable for the likes of her ilk to suffer. As it is, I was in no mood to suffer some lunatic Jewish queen and his need to raise his rear right leg and piss all over Blacks with smug conceit known only to the equally smug few.
Clearly, there were no Black men in Heidi Fleiss’ little black book or by now our honorary Klanswoman would have trotted them all out by noose to that most effective of poplar trees, the television medium and then onwards to court to effectively circumcise their legacy.
The day prior as I rode from job three en route home to take a nap using my snazzy new CPAP machine and attend one of three parties over two days, I had quite the little adventure. Riding alongside me as I rode in the street – I never ride my bike on sidewalks, a white BMW edged next to me.
Inside, there were Whites in back and front seats. With windows rolled down, they cruised along to keep pace with me as I leisurely rode and enjoyed the feel of blazing sunlight on my skin. As is customary, I wore my shades.
“Oh look it’s Ray Charles. No wait, I think it’s Stevie Wonder,” said the dumb-as-fuck-looking blonde in the backseat smugly looking out and grinning her more-gums-than-teeth, saurian-lipped-hideous and blissfully ignorant face at the sight of me.
Their laughter was that hideous semi-feral clipped affair known only to the White tribe when it is enjoying being racially predatory and making sport of Black lives. The big White male next to her who likely preferred fucking her in the arse than not, called out, “Hey bud, guess what? No more Jell-O pudding for you!” to which there was even more wicked gales of laughter known only to Blacks when being racially preyed on by Whites who will ever swear up and down that there is no such thing as racism. Hell, the term racial predator does not exist.
So nice to know that by millennium’s end, this murderous Saurian predator masquerading as human will be yet hunted by an even more menacing terror – those who think nothing of cutting empty brain-dead skulls from bodies and placing them in the small of the back. Yes dumbasses, you too like Rome will fall and you too will yet be the hunted.
Next, the male driver who howled with wicked delight then did something that never before had I experienced, for the next block and a half – he rode alongside, matching my speed, never allowing me to drop behind or overtake his car – he turned on the windshield wiper which naturally saw wiper fluid jet beyond the car’s roof and left me good and drenched.
I got home a sticky, stinging ashy-white mess as anti-freeze fluids and sweat took their toll in the glaring heat for several kilometres. Long had it been since I had been reduced to tears at having been racially attacked.
So as this arse-eating venal swine sat across from me going on ad nauseam about Bill Cosby, I quietly excused myself and took to the host’s bathroom where I feverishly texted my delightful Panamanian-born Montréal friend, Raoul de Castro and told him where to come find me and spirit me away from this gold-and-diamond-thieving arse-eating fool.
Returned to dinner, whilst I patiently awaited Raoul’s arrival, I began speaking of the audacity of New Jersey paying out one million dollars to Holocaust survivors in the state who numbered more than 40k. How many were there in Florida, Illinois, Arizona, New Mexico to say nothing of California and New York? Were they being paid for Holocaust PTSD too?
Why pray tell were American taxpayers making any such payments when the Third Reich had not occupied America nor for that matter had the Holocaust occurred on American soil? Funny how quickly some can go from being smug to being downright accusatory.
Once challenged with fact, the fool began accusing me of being anti-Semitic. Some things truly are as predictable as flies on shit as Frederick ‘Mr. Hat’ Jones would ever impart.
Our idiotic otiose dinner guest soon demanded of our host why he was allowing our dinner party to be ruined by all this slanderous anti-Semitic talk. Grabbing my Samsung Note, I gladly shared the news article on the Jerusalem Post’s website which heaped praise on the New Jersey governor for being a good little porcine Goy and paying out needless, to say nothing of dubious, guilt money.
All talk of Bill Cosby ceased as the subject was changed to the Andy Warhol show here in town – which I have yet to see but soon shall. Soon enough, and well before dessert, Raoul crashed the dinner party and rescued me.
As we left, in a manner that was crass and as can be expected of a sage soul born in the year of the Monkey, Raoul called across the room to the South African-born boorish Semite and waved at him in a gesture that was decidedly born of the Reich, “Farewell to all that!”
Naturally, Raoul was in town because at the weekend it would be the annual Caribana or whatever it is now called. I never attend, too much Sun and crowds – two things which cause my vampiric soul to cringe – you’d be amazed what working night shift for more than two decades will do to your reaction to sunlight.
Raoul was in town because like me, also leonine, it was the annual fest of big Black American cock. Can’t never have too much of a good thing indeed!
Alas, drink of my spirit and savour this truly beautiful dream where I dined on the astral plane with my task companion and then astral plane habitué, Merlin. Now there was a true Semite; above all else, he was a remarkable human being.
As Raoul and I rode by cab from the horrid dinner party in the Beaches, I remarked how rare a light Merlin was to him. During those seven years that I knew him, Merlin never once referred to himself as a Jew.
He was not ghettoised, he had nothing to prove. What was even more remarkable in those seven years, Merlin always referred to everyone whom I had yet met as ‘my friend…’ So it was that on Halloween 1982, we went to ‘my friend Joe’s’ pumpkin kill party and pleasantly surprised was I when we got to the 12th or was it 14th storey apartment in the upper west 90s and his friend Joe turned out to be Black – of course, that friend Joe is the actor, Joe Morton.
This was the most remarkable thing about Merlin, meeting all his friends over the years, was like being at a reincarnational ball, you were ever surprised when the door opened and you finally met ‘my friend’ so-and-so only to discover that they were Japanese, Chinese, Jewish, Black, Armenian… whatever. No wonder I have never had patience for ghettoised fools like the boor at the abandonned dinner party in the Beaches.
The dream was lived in telepathic lucidity befitting not merely entity mates but task companions no less. At the time, Luna did as is her wont, she grooved through Leo and thus my third house like Sarah Vaughan some lazy, syrupy scat.
That Wednesday, I was coming near the end of my stay in Vancouver as it was April 16, 1997. Too, the dream was audiocassette-recorded on tape two hundred and twenty-nine and is yet to be found in volume XXIII of the twenty-five volume dream opus.
Say what you want but intellect is the most beautiful flower on this world or, for that matter, any other across this vast universe. Befitting a late mature artisan of pronounced scepticism, aren’t you glad that that I can readily see through any shabbily concocted fraud?
Yes, indeed, Vanity Fair has no time to report on Ferguson or the #BlackLivesMatter issue, any more than it cowardly avoids reporting on taxpayers’ money being brazenly scammed in New Jersey – about which you can damn well bet Vanity Fair and its editorial staffers are cognisant.
On one thing I am uncompromising: If you don’t like Black people… Fuck you!
Life is but a dream and sweet it is when you fear nothing and no one. Sweet dreams, you are more magical and beautiful than you know. For being focussed herein, I am both grateful and honoured by your patronage.
A rustic restaurant at nighttime, which was wide-open with lots of exposed wooden beams, proved the setting for this dream. Seated with my left side to the aisle, where the waiter came and went, I was at a table for four.
There were persons, across the aisle from us, to whom I really did not pay much attention. Who should though be on my right but Merlin!
Whilst interminably waiting to be served, we silently sat there. Before being taken, our order took almost forever.
Leaning forwards from behind us, a waiter finally did appear. Smiling, he asked us to come with him as he now had a table for us.
So, we got up and began walking back with the waiter. We were as though going to the back of the restaurant.
We moved through a beautiful interior which was nicely, dimly lit. The flames here were live flames in glass beaker-like vases.
Too, there were the most spectacular antlers and horns displayed high up on the walls. Some of the horns were on the ceilings about the light fixtures.
All in all, it was a beautiful ambiance here. Too, there were rustic paintings on the walls that I paid little attention to.
The seats in this section allowed you to face out into the aisle with your back against the wall. I had been concerned about our not having been served for so long.
Though we were not saying anything to one another, I was not concerned about that. There were no doubts that Merlin wanted to be there with me.
We passed much of our time together, lost in a silence which was born of our being communicatively engaged, on alternate levels of reality which precluded speech. We were being exclusively telepathic.
We sat side by side, facing out to the dining room, which gave us a commanding view of the persons on display. The atmosphere here was very nice.
I quite enjoyed being with Merlin. There was nothing more sublime than our silently sitting there, whilst together taking a meal, by candlelight and some mellow Jazz instrumentals perfuming and further intoxicating our very souls.
*Christopher Hitchens’ Michael Overleaves now to be found in Michael Overleaves Appendix.
Photo: White truffle chocolate strawberry cheesecake from Daniel et Daniel
Antler/horn lighting fixture.
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