Okay I need to say a few words of Augustus my twin he is sweet and kind and lovely and i adore him and he is very intelligent and it is sometimes the way that people see the film A Fish Called Wanda of Otto....! Kevin Kline! he is a great funny person and always around and here is a little something from the famous Otto Gross and how he wrote some of his greates works under the influence and about drugs!!!!  I doubt that Augustus will never be arrested he is too cool and sweet but his ideas very radical!


At the beginning of the 20th century, the psychoanalyst Otto Gross was a notorious

figure in the anarchistic, bohemian milieu of Germany and his native Austria. His radical

approach to both psychoanalytic therapy, which he took way further than Sigmund

Freud himself, and the liberating use of drugs, brought him, together with his utopian

ideas of radical ‘de-patriarcalization’ of society, in touch if not on collision course with

many of the great personalities of that time – Freud, Carl Jung, Max Weber, Franz Kafka

to name but some. His arrest and subsequent commitment to a mental hospital in

1913 led to a scandal in the press, due to the widespread but dubious notion that it

happened as a result of a conspiracy, instigated by his detested father, the well-known

professor of law, Hans Gross. The pseudo-genius Otto Gross was in a great many things

a forerunner of the anti-authoritarian youth rebel of later times, and in a brief phase

before World War I he obtained symbolic status in the ongoing culture war between

fathers and sons, a war, which not least was nourished by the advent of that new liberation-

ideology, psychoanalysis.

Psykoanalytikeren Otto Gross var i begyndelsen af det 20. århundrede en herostratisk figur

i det anarkistiske bohememiljø i Østrig og Tyskland. Hans radikale tilgang til såvel den

psykoanalytiske terapi og som den frigørende brug af stoffer, samt hans utopiske forestillinger

om en radikal ’af-patriarkalisering’ af samfundet, bragte ham i tvivlsom berøring med

mange af tidens personligheder – Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung, Max Weber, Franz Kafka

o.a. Hans arrestation og følgende tvangsindlæggelse på et sindssygehospital i 1913 førte

til en medieskandale, baseret på den udbredte, men tvivlsomme forestilling, at det fandt

sted som følge af et komplot, der var iværksat af hans forhadte fader, juraprofessoren Hans

Gross. Otto Gross var i mangt og meget en tidlig udgave af senere tiders antiautoritære

ungdomsoprører, og fik en kort fase før første verdenskrig symbolstatus i en kulturkamp

mellem fædre og sønner, der ikke mindst havde fået næring fra den nye frigørelsesideologi,

psykoanalysen.The famous Vignali relative that comes from Modena 1565! How charming!(not really!) Books

In 1525, Antonio Vignali, a young Sienese nobleman, founded a lofty-minded humanist society that he called, with boyish irreverence, the Academy of the Stunned (Accademia degli Intronati). The commandments of its motto—“Pray, Study, Rejoice, Harm No One, Believe No One”—were honored selectively. The Intronati were an élite cenacle of scholars who shared a devotion to vernacular literature; passionate republicanism tempered by contempt for the common man; flamboyant misogyny qualified by awe for women’s supposedly insatiable sexual appetites; hatred of clerical hypocrisy; youthful Weltschmerz; and a fervor for sodomy that, at least in Vignali’s case, bordered on the evangelical. The academy convened on Sundays, behind closed doors, to discuss philosophy, music, law, poetry, and language, and to critique its members’ work. It appears that quite a bit of member exercise took place also, as is the case at all frat parties, however exalted. The Intronati made a specialty of scandalous theatrical productions (one of their several affinities with the fin-de-siècle Decadents who orbited Oscar Wilde and the coteries that formed around d’Annunzio, Artaud, and Cocteau). Nevertheless, or perhaps therefore, they acquired an illustrious reputation that they still enjoy. Their most famous collaborative effort was “Gl’Ingannati” (“The Deceived”), a comedy with a cross-dressing heroine that influenced Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night.”

Sometime between 1525 and 1527, Vignali wrote a radically obscene satire on politics and sex that he called “La Cazzaria.” The sixteenth century was a golden age of the outré, particularly in France and Italy, and this slight opus, the length of a novella, took the form of a mock-Platonic, mock-scholastic dialogue narrated mostly by disembodied genitals. The manuscript was intended for private circulation among like-minded freethinkers, but someone—friend or foe, it isn’t clear—pirated a copy and had it printed without the author’s consent, crippling Vignali with a notoriety that he didn’t outlive. He went into exile a few years later and published nothing else in his lifetime.

Centuries passed, and “La Cazzaria” was more or less forgotten, though a few copies were conserved in the dirty-book archives of various august institutions and in the collections of libertine bibliophiles. One was unearthed about ten years ago in a Spanish house that was being demolished. Two sixteenth-century editions found their way to the Enfer at the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris—a restricted room legendary among French schoolboys (and the object, in fantasy, of more midnight break-ins than the vault at Fort Knox). Another copy settled into the bowels of the Vatican, and a nineteenth-century French translation was bequeathed to the British Library. There, in the early nineteen-nineties, Vignali’s work was discovered by a graduate student at Columbia—Ian Frederick Moulton—who was doing research on Renaissance erotica. Even at the end of the twentieth century, credentialled readers who had wangled entrée to the “Private Case” (a collection of pornography donated by the Victorian erotomane Henry Spencer Ashbee, the author of “My Secret Life”) were, Moulton notes, obliged to consult its contents at a special desk close to the librarians, presumably with both hands in view. Moulton has translated “La Cazzaria” into English for the first time, as “The Book of the Prick” (Routledge; $18.95). His exemplary introduction is nearly as long as the text itself and twice as worthwhile. It provides the historical perspective and intellectual sobriety missing from what Moulton tactfully describes as a “learned, but childish,” fable that is, even by the most liberal modern standards, a complete gross-out—though probably not to anyone who has tuned in to Howard Stern.

Cazzo is the vulgar Italian word for the male organ, hence the title, whose “closest English rendering,” Moulton writes, “is probably ‘cockery’—but that is too close to ‘cookery.’ . . . ‘Prickery’ might work, but it lacks the specificity of the Italian word. In English, ‘prick’ is a word with many meanings; in Italian, ‘cazzo’ can mean only one thing. In the text, I have translated ‘cazzo’ as ‘cock,’ but ‘Book of the Cock’ sounds like it might have something to do with poultry, so for the working English title, I settled on ‘Book of the Prick.’ ” Anglo-Saxon sexual slang, however, has a much harsher impact on the ear than its mellifluous Romance counterpart, and equivalent terms don’t carry the same charge. The percussive monosyllables and/or double final consonants of cock, balls, shit, dick, buttocks, jerk-off, prick, cunt, and fuck have a blunt, expletive force that isn’t rendered by (and betrays the puckish delicacy of) cazzo, potta, culo, fica, scopare, merda, coglioni, and cacca. The verbs incazzare and inculare, especially used reflexively, are certainly rude, but hardly so heavy-handed as “to take it up the ass.” It’s the difference, perhaps, between Ariel’s nimble tongue and Caliban’s thick one.

It would be satisfying, if only for the worthy Moulton’s sake, to report that “La Cazzaria” is a masterpiece rescued from obscurity by a feat of heroic exegesis, but, even making allowances for the nuances inevitably lost in translation, a masterpiece is something shapelier and more solid than an extended riff, however much fun it is. Vignali’s antic prose staggers in and out of coherence like a student video ad-libbed as it is shot, and it also reminded me of the scatological graffiti, most of it in Latin, that one finds in the catacombs of Roman churches, and which seems to have been etched into the stone expressly to deflate, for future generations, the mystique of antiquity.

The animator of “La Cazzaria” is a priapic scholar steeped in the classics who refers to himself by Vignali’s own nom de plume, Arsiccio Intronato. Arsiccio means “burned,” as in scorched by lust, and when the dialogue begins he is intent on seducing a younger academician named Sodo Intronato—the pseudonym of Vignali’s friend Marcantonio Piccolomini. Sodo is laughably ignorant of human anatomy and plumbing, and of nearly all sexual matters, including such basics as “why kissing feels good”; “why women have periods”; “why the crotch is hairy”; and “why jerking off was invented,” not to mention such headier questions as “why monks invented confession” (to ascertain if there were any “secrets in the art of fucking” they didn’t know) and, on a slightly more elevated note, “why no one today has profound knowledge” (people are too busy “making money, dominating others, and similar things . . . because wealth has placed its feet on virtue’s neck”). The conversation is introduced by a letter from a third member of the confraternity, Il Bizzarro, who claims to have borrowed this “naughty” text while waiting impatiently in Arsiccio’s study for a “filthy, succulent, and smutty” wench his host has promised to serve up. “Although our Arsiccio has always shown himself to be an enemy to women in all his affairs,” Il Bizzarro writes, “he is nonetheless as eager for their secrets as a monkey is for crayfish.”

The conceit of a found manuscript was a convention of the Platonic dialogue. Castiglione, for example, employs it for the “Book of the Courtier,” and it briefly occurred to me that Moulton’s account of finding a sensational text with an arcane publishing history written by a sex-crazed proto-Foucault was the conceit of a postmodern novel. In this case, it promises rather more in the way of esoteric revelation than the text delivers, partly because Sodo is such a dimwit, and partly because Vignali’s fable runs on raw nerve rather than imagination.

In a seventeenth-century history of the Intronati, Vignali was described as a “brilliant spirit” who “was accounted almost a monster because of his deformed body.” (The writer doesn’t specify the nature of the deformity.) He apparently fathered two legitimate sons, but extant documents make no mention of a wife. His work flaunts his preference for pliant youths of his own class. Homosexual camaraderie in general and man-boy love in particular flourished in Renaissance Tuscany, as it tends to in cultures that worship women’s purity by keeping them locked up. Moulton makes an interesting analogy between the “hyper-intellectual” machismo of Vignali and his circle and that of the (mostly) hyper-heterosexual Spanish artists of the nineteen-thirties, whose graphic forays into coprophilia and masturbation (Dali), priapism (Picasso), and perversity (Buñuel) were also part of a revolt against orthodox Catholicism, and an impulse to take refuge in absurdity and surrealism from an increasingly repressive and chaotic political climate. Intronato can mean “deaf” as well as “stunned” (though, with a little poetic license, one might also translate it as “stoned,” and the rambling tone of “La Cazzaria” leaves the impression that Vignali dashed it off in a state of intoxication). But the name, Moulton tells us, was an ironic reference to the spiritual battering that refined characters endure in periods of civic violence and instability. Siena’s independence was being menaced externally by the competing forces of the Hapsburg Empire and the Valois of France, and from within by the murderous intrigues among the five hereditary factions (monti) that ruled the Republic.

Despite the fact that his own noble family belonged to the preëminent Monte dei Nove, Vignali made them the villains of a parable that a less faithful translator might have been tempted to entitle “Genital Farm.” Drawing ironically upon accounts by Livy and Plutarch of a speech by the Roman senator Menenius Agrippa to a revolutionary mob (which Shakespeare, a little later, and without the irony, cribbed for a scene in Act I of “Coriolanus”), he dramatizes the internecine struggles that were wasting his city as a tale of warring body parts, though not the head, belly, and limbs of the classical version. Arsiccio describes to Sodo how the Big Cocks and their prideful consorts, the Beautiful Cunts, once formed a dominant party that tyrannized a coalition of the lesser-endowed: the Little Cocks and their allies, the Ugly Cunts and Assholes, whose plot for a democratic revolution was betrayed by the cowardly and opportunistic Balls. In the course of the fable, the victors reassert their mastery and wreak their revenge with the kind of atrocious violations that recent history has reclaimed from the realm of Sadean fantasy. But then, Arsiccio continues, at the urging of a wise if bloodthirsty seeress known as the Great Cunt of Modena, the vanquished negotiate their differences in a fraternal fashion, and strike back at their oppressors, who are, in turn, slaughtered or dispersed. “I will say this about the Big Cocks,” Modena concludes. “It is very possible they have taken refuge with some foreign power, from where, in a short time, seeing our discord, they may return to ruin and destroy each of us.” Her moral is a little vague, though it seems sound: the phallus represents power without a conscience; it cannot, therefore, be trusted; while it sometimes lies low, you can’t keep it down.

Vignali lived at a moment not without a certain cautionary relevance to the present, in which the avidity of a privileged generation shaking itself free from fundamentalism coexists with profound anxiety at the prospect of losing that insouciance to a dictatorship of the right-thinking. Rabelais and Aretino are probably the best known of the many pungent writers working in the same mode. They, as Moulton puts it, “revel in bodily functions, both sexual and digestive.” He also cites the poet Lorenzo Venier, the author of “La Puttana errante” (“The Wandering Whore”), and Niccolò Franco, whose political diatribes in verse employed “shocking, sexualized invective to attack their enemies.” “La Cazzaria,” he continues, “never mentions Machiavelli directly, but it is not hard to sense his influence” in the conception of the state both as a much violated woman and a “female body” of “abiding and unfathomable strength . . . which no man can completely control.”

Though Vignali is more extreme than the least inhibited of his contemporaries, and less artful and lucid than the greatest of them, he shares their rebellious impulse to subvert the sanctimony of pedants, the cruelty of the potent, the authority of patriarchs, and the prestige of virtue; to challenge the medieval dualism of mind and body; and to dose his readers with a bitter aphrodisiac grown in that fertile mire of carnal knowledge which, he believes, nourishes the blood of a secular body politic. “No matter how ugly and vulgar a thing is,” Arsiccio argues, “it is more ugly and vulgar” not to understand it. Almost three hundred years before Sade, Vignali conflates enlightenment with corruption, and, in one of the earliest and, it has to be said, most repellent test cases for free speech, he asserts a quintessential civil liberty, one that becomes more precious as it grows more fragile: the freedom to offend. ♦

    Jackson MACDougal the 3rd at the age of 1-1/2 

    I boarded a train one night late on my way to Paris for the 3rd time I had gotten my passport stolen and for 5 days yes count em and I still dont know  how I did it but for 5 days I rode the trains from Italy to Paris all day and all night without a ticket...as they say George just lucky I guess however one  night on the way to Paris for final attempt to be given a passport I got approached by the ticket agent at Marseille at 1:30 am and she stuck me in a sleeper car...I put  the blanket over my head and hid in the sleeper a man dressed up as a woman in a conductor's suit knocked on the door and handed a bowl of candy to my sheepishly and I had the wild blonde hair all messed up and pretended I was Donty do and I grabbed a handful of candy and hid back under the blanket...pretty soon the train stopped in the country side and a 4 some of about 65 years old all hiked their way into the cabin and had all these very cool backpacks etc. I continued to hide under the top blankets and when I would peek out from under the blankets one of the older guys would smile up and me and wink....hm....then the conductor comes back as we travel on down the train and he says something to the effect of hey down down down and he leaves the room and the guy is doing a little jig in the middle of the bunk beds and the others are in their beds and i am assuming he is assuming i am supposed to be "hey" ing him but i continued to hide under the covers and about 1/2 hour late the door opens on the way to Paris and their all in their beds fast asleep and when the doors open I bolt out of the bed and zoom out of the cars and tear down the runways and to this day I still think that they thought I was a boy!!!!!!! 

         Although I am not sure of the reception that that older guy would of got doing his jig if it would of been Donty do

    Here is a great song from the Canadians all that comes from Canada is great...I met a lady at Paris who owned a huge travel agency and she let me stay at her gorgeous apartment for 10 days and most of the time about 8 days she left me, The lady went to visit her husband in the country they were of the  famous "de Thes" of Paris they owned just about all of Paris and i got to stay at the apartment all the time especially at Easter time i felt holidayish!

    During that time i had the radio on and i heard for the first time the famous song being song below...i fell in love with that song and here it is...


    The Cat Came Back

    Version 1

    Written By: Harry S. Miller
    Copyright Unknown

    Play Song
    Old Mister Johnson had troubles of his own
    He had a yellow cat which wouldn't leave its home;
    He tried and he tried to give the cat away,
    He gave it to a man goin' far, far away.

    But the cat came back the very next day,
    The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
    But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
    Away, away, yea, yea, yea

    The man around the corner swore he'd kill the cat on sight,
    He loaded up his shotgun with nails and dynamite;
    He waited and he waited for the cat to come around,
    Ninety seven pieces of the man is all they found.

    Red back jumping spider - habitat, bite, life-cycle, pictures and ...

    Red back jumping spiders prefer to stay in their tubular silky nests ...

    But the cat came back the very next day,
    The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
    But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
    Away, away, yea, yea, yea

    He gave it to a little boy with a dollar note,
    Told him for to take it up the river in a boat;

    They tied a rope around its neck, it must have weighed a pound
    Now they drag the river for a little boy that's drowned.

    But the cats came back the very next day,
    The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
    But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
    Away, away, yea, yea, yea

    He gave it to a man going up in a balloon,
    He told him for to take it to the man in the moon;
    The balloon came down about ninety miles away,
    Where he is now, well I dare not say.


    But the cat came back the very next day,
    The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
    But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
    Away, away, yea, yea, yea

    He gave it to a man going way out West,
    Told him for to take it to the one he loved the best;
    First the train hit the curve, then it jumped the rail,
    Not a soul was left behind to tell the gruesome tale.

    But the cat came back the very next day,
    The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
    But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
    Away, away, yea, yea, yea

    The cat it had some company one night out in the yard,
    Someone threw a boot-jack, and they threw it mighty hard;
    It caught the cat behind the ear, she thought it rather slight,
    When along came a brick-bat and knocked the cat out of sight

    Finding God's Love at McDonalds |

    Mar 6, 2010 ...  I decided to drive up to a combination McDonalds and gas station ... He made some passing comment about my flat tire; I acknowledged him ...

    Omaha Steaks

    Omaha Steaks Reviews


    3.23 of 5 (by 30 reviewers)
    Rating Summary | 60% of reviewers recommend (1out of 30)
    But the cat came back the very next day,
    The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
    But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
    Away, away, yea, yea, yea

    Away across the ocean they did send the cat at last,...
    Vessel only out a day and making water fast;
    People all began to pray, Under His Wing by Jay Bryant Ward the boat began to toss,
    A great big gust of wind came by and every soul was lost.

    But the cat came back the very next day,
    The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
    But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
    Away, away, yea, yea, yea

    On a telegraph wire, sparrows sitting in a bunch,
    The cat was feeling hungry, thought she'd like 'em for a lunch;
    Climbing softly up the pole, and when she reached the top,
    Put her foot upon the electric wire, which tied her in a knot.

    But the cat came back the very next day,
    The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
    But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
    Away, away, yea, yea, yea

    The cat was a possessor of a family of its own,
    With seven little kittens till there came a cyclone;
    Blew the houses all apart and tossed the cat around,
    The air was full of kittens, and not a one was ever found.

    But the cat came back the very next day,
    The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
    But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
    Away, away, yea, yea, yea

    Images for pictures of atom bomb

     - Report images

    The atom bomb fell just the other day,                                                    click above video
    The H-Bomb fell in the very same way;
    Russia went, England went, and then the U.S.A.
    The human race was finished without a chance to pray.

    But the cat came back the very next day,
    The cat came back, we thought he was a goner
    But the cat came back; it just couldn't stay away.
    Away, away, yea, yea, yea