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The Three Victims of Karl Marx (History's Greatest Monster)

Preface: Did you know, there are supposed to be more hookers, then married women, but you switched places? And gigalos, are just supposed to talk to you, but now they marry the new hooker instead, and just talk to you, anyways? Karl Marx was against this, so he invented some way, for photographic memory, to ruin all time, called ‘citations’, in the police system, of university textbooks for books.  He researched university fraud, the basis of his work, Das Kapital, in a library, with a little shrimp container in a metal tin with ice, from his children’s diapers, after Jack Chartley (Norton, Massachusetts allstar) got him married to be a “real British spy” (a death in the gutter after a life writing like a maniac). Now, we have the OWL/MLA format, so when a photographic memory, takes a quiz in class, and a hooker (the old one) sits next to them, a Jewish professor thinks you were cheating off another student, and she marries your arch-foe, as if you were meant to be together, and he ste
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Karl Panzram

 Karl Panzram, wasn't a man at all.  He was a melted piece of clay, a wax figurine.  A product of theater, a natural character actor by means of rough housing childhood and personal achievement.  However, a victim of a failure, a theater major, a lead actor to be.  Whatever Karl had, before his myth became fictional and conjecture, was stolen by a counter-intelligence aspirational actor, whomever they were.  Karl Panzram was melted, something that normally destroys you when your very soul, your identity, is robbed by a future lead actor, but he himself was an actor, his interesting story attracting a fraud.  A man with a little small town joke, a laoist, a cryer priest paper tiger (prounounced, 'louse', the term meaning the same in Asia), had claimed Karl Panzram's very soul. It was a cruel joke, on wherever Karl Panzram really fit in, from a man that had replaced his life with a little story book or news paper article or cartoon or radio program.  He thought he could h
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George W. Bush Jr.

What can love of country, compare to love for a woman? The Rabbinicals call it "license to kill", the reason for revenge given at expense of any blood. Why would you betray your country, particularly with a doting mother, the Queen of Britain, Her Majesty Herself? George W. Bush could tell you why.  For revenge.  To kill heroin dealers. Bush wasn't always a young man, and the Presidency took him to childhood, where war was a toy, watching those oil wells alight upon his father's face, and seeing the end of the world come below the horizon as his mother, a York in service of MI-6, watching the depravity of an Injun husband and child, of the rarest of tribes, Chippawa, thought wiped out after Adolf Hitler's confirmation of bloodline and downfall. Bush was born to be old.  George, Junior, W, they never existed.  He stole every legacy related to that word, even the Mount Sinai peaks itself.  George W. Bush was a God, the type that Jewish gangsters talk about, smiling
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Al Sharpton

Sometimes, being a cop is hard. What’s harder, is being a teacher. If you have a student with a disability that’s sensitive, i.e., the conjoined and congenital combination of error of child and discipline of parent to induce condition, you may not know what to do. That’s why America, has the National Democratic Committee, the donkeys. Al Sharpton had a father, with incontinent bowels, from celiac disease. Naturally, Al Sharpton inherited this. He was driven to obesity, bulemia, and speech mitochondriosis, the energy of his carbohydrates matching his inexplicable loss of words and grammar, only found through music. They decided to make Al Sharpton a cop, on the force, for the rest of his life, since he was in a mill town. Sadly, Al Sharpton had a tribal gene, making him a red blooded American serial killer, not some poor black cop on the beat for the rest of his life working American slave labor cases for various Scouts pursuits. Al Sharpton, was a US President. A psychopathic madman, b
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