The attacks by Paul McCartney on an innocent person are informed by the Caligula of Rome who he has adopted as his role model. What we have seen is an inhuman monster hard at work on the body and mind of his prey, committing outrages without number, in broad daylight as though his criminality and sadism were some sort of sickening poison that serves as the broth he feeds to his pet Piter de Vries, Brian Eno, soothsayer of Palace Queerdom.
He has found nothing by his interrogation to justify one minute of his intrigue which has spanned decades, violent beyond the mafia, directed not only in a chauvinistic vendetta, but as paradise for those who authored the AIDS Onslaught. Paul McCartney is an evil little lout, leading an evil little island who were given special status as ringleaders of HitlerReagan.
He imagines himself one of nature's magical beings while employing in serial attacks on completely innocent people the most malicious of military agents, heedless and spiteful of the rights of children, willing and able to slasher the poor, hiring psychopathic fruitcakes like Amanda Harcourt, Ming Na Wen and Rosine Monteleone to lie to the face of men they betray, turning the glittering wardrobes of his ill-gotten sect into strategic hamlets for the trial of a trillion dollar experiment in decapitating the Bill of Rights.
I used to love these men. I used to love puppets. I used to write poetry dreaming of the day that there was music in my soul and rescue in my life from perverts who brutally set upon me with knives and pipes and guns as a child, which they stole from me, to prove their case about the Beatles.
These foreign murderers led by Robert Fripp have imprisoned disaster in disaster so viciously it is impossible to mistake that hate is their nature. To depict them in any way meaningful one has no cornucopia of words. One is stuck with fear, degeneracy, abomination, a handful of terms that one throws as newspaper against the cannons of the Fourth Reich. They maliciously regarded the text of Gail Burstyn as an Alchemical statement, drolled of it to their liking, when it was putrid eugenics.
Neuroplastic slavery using the sexual revolution to subvert freedom, they leer that their hostile and enemy music is a sacred panacea. Bringing into my life more villians and more hate crime is the obsession of the lunatic Yoko Ono, commissioning more violence to the mind and abrogation to the privacy than the National Security Agency could ever dream or get away with.
The crime was designed this way by the violence of the pornographic mafia. They took me prisoner as a child, held me hostage to barbarism. They wanted to crucify me with AIDS and when that didn't work out they wanted my sex life embarrassed as a political statement of authoritarian state craft and social control. Yoko Ono is obviously not an intelligent and informed social worker. She's a guttersnipe working the extremes of prison culture. Her sport is raw terror, plying that horrid, evil, sickening, hissing and slandering Midori Goto against the day that anyone ever confront the truth about how I was kidnapped and tortured, about the shocking mistreatment and brutality behind my facial nerve injury, about the letters of Gail Burstyn and how they were stolen, then misused by Rusted Root.
They've taken away all but my ability to defend myself in words from their identity crime. The Beatles are sick, unhealthy, morbid, criminal foes to all who hold history, decency, meaning and the humanities dear.
I had nothing to do with the murder of John Lennon and I will not have it held against me by the cowardly womanliness of a dung beetle like Lewis Lapham.
Mac Crary's father, Ryland Wesley Crary, was the author of the textbook: Humanizing the School