SLUSH.
By: Turnus Jones
Tags: Humor, Satire, Short Story, TV Series, Politics

As, to me, it seems a bit much that, since Bush and his retarded boys club, you have taken down a generation of men — again howling seems everywhere with this many Bryn Mawr graduates in the vista all at once, like with Italians lesbians too feel the brunt of Semitic distaste at body hair, (which is strange for people who aren’t exactly Teutonic). But they think they are “in like Flynn” now that have married this many barmaids who all love Thor Movies.

And those men, an inferno full now, have been shoveled to a perpetual front, thanks to the Beehives pater and Filias, unendingly so, callusesly so. And now I am to cry and wince for lesbian bravos who dreamed of being Buddy Sorrel and instead had to be mussed up by Louis wingman, Otter himself, Colbert.

Men have been sent to a eternal gash in the earth, an never-ending fiasco. (We lost the Italian word when a “high yellow goon named Barry” showed up to make sure that any hags crying for men, caught up in the friendly confines of Bagram Air Force base, were drowned out by the perpetual clapping for the eventual voting for a black man. A man who had to have a hag on his ass all the way to flag day, a hag whose credo was never say die, when not saying instead, what time is it kids, and letting that freckled perpetual wooden boy that dances on strings next to Buffalo Bobbie steal the show.)

Or all those who went up in pyrotechnics cause they were in a cancer ward that got in the way of perfectly named Hellfire drone, despite that big blood colored crescent painted up there like Altman’s MASH (as somehow, again, we are off — if not to find the holy grail, the arc of the covenant, which the Romans did quite well and awful without single shelling of it, as they were more men than angels.)

I, Machiavellian I am, do smell a double agent. But then, like some, I’ve read more Sallust than you have.

Sadly, today I heard that Gore was right, and we are an empire now, without a even twelve year old Juvenal on the crew. We are sadly a multinational corporation that still is bitch slapped into anger when it sees their woman’s movies clunk at the Box Office. This is as Mad Magazine is to be shuttered in ways no one can do to gangster movies.

This is all unbelievably sad to me, as one would think that, with big bad Trump as the bogeyman, you’d still be suing every quiver in your bow to defeat, like Virgil’s backwardly brilliant shot and hit, Amechi scores.

But, alas, even scurrilous cartoons are used against thieves, and the very same bourgeois and the vulgar platitudes and rhymes of the street people used against Augustus would be used.

But, you seem to be closing down everything, as again, it seems I was wrong, as instead of the Oviddian line it seems every night in the Clinton marriage is indeed closing night, and closing time.

Bill perhaps knew that ridicule is the price one pays for that purple sash as opposed to the Gene Rayborns and IN-law Jewish machers of now. This is because no woman screeching about cultural appropriation notices who took over Columbo when Ben Gazerra wanted no part of it. They think the purple sash is some sort of guard against all such things, as you hob nob at funerals all by now for the same person, yourselves.

So in a week that wrote the spec script for THE GOOD WIFE, or whatever it is called now (editor’s note: The Good Fight), as I did see parts of it, and sadly can report there is no Julianna in it, but worse yet, no Goofballs from Sports Night as an everyman hero, and worse yet, no Calinda with Roman girl haughtiness that makes one watch her massive eyes and aquiline face.

So, this script, with its allusions to Paladin, are wasted here, as it seems to now be a bunch of black girls with a Polish chick as the brains of the operation, much like the democrats have been since Dukakis sadly lost.

In fact, only a Jewish girl remnant did I write some nice lines for, and some wistfulness from Christine Baransksy did I write, when she intrigued by Jesuit Virgil. She admits, when his friend in this teleplay, and fellow Georgetown alum, Wil, asked her if she thought there was still torture going on — she admitted, not only to that, but that Barry the God did use one of those stingers and daisy cutters unmentioned.

This was as the Romans, men with sharp sticks, are maligned, did blot out an American citizen, whose only crime was saying things, as an Islamic that Barry couldn’t initial, as close enough for gummit work.

So, now, (between the funerals for dying old coots showing that, in fact, Julius Caesar was again the oak he was when, called that dead and decrepit, once vaunted Roman senate was less an assembly of kings, as it once was to being a mausoleum)…so now, men now are sent to tribunals for killing an enemy you had Charlie’s War make out of whole cloth…?

Italian Jazz…Now like the cops you’ve made prance in military drag, wake me up at 9, I wanna watch SWAT, now the poor suckers who you’ve made into pawns in a perpetual war, for perpetual written off losses — lest one scared out of his mind guy blows away some Arabs — they might be placed on war crimes trials by the Gucci shoes wearing, climate controlled perpetual Nuremberg, that only a country willing to utilize a bombs can star chamber up…?

No, this is against Roman laws of romance farce, as again the shuttering of Mad Magazine shows that the satire that you censor is the satire you can’t sell any mezzanine tickets to. And sadly, and without an ear for the crowd, the circus owners think they are running a church, and the homilies are cast out in stereo, into a Tyber shore that always liked dancing girls more than the spell caster school marms ever did like.

No matter what, when the ground stopped smouldering, the Romans, beloved by me and Bill and Gore and the Jesuits and my father, and (hated so by the Jewish in-laws and Miss Grundy’s of the world who hated if not more than anything their love of life as much as their acceptance of death) every Roman sortie is, in definition, a suicide mission if need be — as Uncle Julius said — would send in Questers and arbiters, to count up every fallen man every enemy, every broken bone, broken sword or broken helmet.

AS YOUR AFTERMATH OWNS INKS OF BUSH BOYS WHO FLEW TOO CLOSE TO A SUN THEY ‘ERE NOTHING MUCH LIKE Idiots who see us all as Monicas and suckers in the North tower, and though huff and puff about Trump can’t get too uppity with their red-necks women’s and naggers as, after all, Bill Clinton built that Roman road to hell and you, without a Virgil, the name I gave my Jesuit lawyer hero, on the crew.

It’s one thing to have an aftermath, just don’t be an accountant about it.

So, I finished the play at about 67 pages, should I send it in…?

My brother tells me, don’t bother, it’s over their heads. Oh, I say, no this is good television, I think it’s still done by The English man who made Gladiator and ,..and…and…maybe he's right.

But at least I finished it, as I did a play called Pygmalia back when my father died as a nice, remember, acne amid the barbarians, to who fire is just another weapon.