Friday, November 12, 2010

It is a fish, it is a bird, it is a bad beat poet! And BAWIB too!

Am in receipt of nastigramme from black-garbed horrid people, other wise being known as Bay Area Women in Black.
No, not bunch of Sicilian grandmas, more like collective of poison spiders. Toxic dumpers.

As Steffy or Snooky so eloquently very well might put it, ick poo.

Ick poo!

To quote:
"Dear Friends of BAWiB,
We are pleased to co-sponsor what promises to be a wonderful event this weekend:
Aswat Performance this Sunday in Oakland!
Sunday, November 14, 3:00pm
Co-Sponsored by and held at the Islamic Cultural Center of Northern California
1433 Madison Street, downtown Oakland

An Afternoon with ASWAT Bay Area Music Ensemble -- an exquisite community ensemble for classical and folk Arabic music. Performance will include ASWAT Youth, Palestinian & Andalusian folk dance, Palestinian poetry, and former SF poet laureate Jack Hirshman -- a message of peace and social justice. Musical Direction by Moroccan Virtuoso, Rachid Halihal.

Cosponsored by Bay Area Women in Black."
End to quote.

Jack Hirshman? Jack Hirshman?!!?!?!

Ick poo again!
That mudderchooter they made a poet laureate? Good frikkin Ram baby! Absurd it!
Man can't write for life. Ghastly jejeune poetaster. Immoderate and boring. San Francisco her marbles well and truly lost that year. Pee, as they say, yewwww!

Plus he's one nasty pretentious laura. Silly gandoo scribbler.

Downtown Oakland (Islamic buggery culture centers), please to keep him!

Bay Area Women in Black - a fashion statement of an entire lack of style, most utterly discordant and in poorest imaginable taste oh yes!

Further to bellyhaking white middle-class frump-frauen in dull window rags (BAWIB), they also beg to inform me that they will be parading a peace turkey around Union Square day after thanksgiving, Friday the twenty sixth of November, in order to do and perform which, meeting at Powell Street BART Station at noon to put on masks and gloomy garb, possibly fashionable terrorist-supporting keffiyehs and either sexy garter or suicide belts (most picturesque, either way), whereupon and following, they will be trudging up Powell Street past baffled tourists, scaring little children and barking at dogs, to slowly circle Union Square in silence lugubrous till one o'clock.
Whereupon some of them will feast upon tofu and wheatgerm.

Most fortunate then I intend to be in Berkeley or Fremont that day, sleeping off Turkey pakoras and spicy pattice at Vinodbhai place (B-town) or some yummy Goan pork feed at dear Maria and hubby mansion (F-mont).
My destination not yet settled, it is still a choice.
So I am not there entirely.

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