Terrorist Plot Review Column, The New York Times Building

Just on a lark, and brought to the premises by some Broadway bus I boarded on the Upper East Side, I thought I'd approach the business to remind them I'm still receiving my paper with a white label on it, detailing my name and my account number for the world to see and I thought I could venture in the offices to address the issue without bothering with another phone call omnipresent Ashley for now slumming at The New York Times, in the future the world will be hers.

As soon as I access the bulding, past 9AM, a Jefferson Davis Ginevra De' Benci Camelot type from the Confederacy as pressed wool Binky approaches security and mentions my commoner nature, as "comunista" to the security duo, solidly lodged at the bench closest to the north. I look at the landscaping and remember that documentary film awarded something in Portugal, triumphing the murder of fish, dead algae, women as fishermen? documented to the T and fishing and Portuguese of the Indigenous arm slashing variety, here to detail to illegal fascist files any university student who 1) takes a real interest in his her major; 2) the major is art; 3) can be lured to admit he recognizes Corda's photo of Che Guevara as Che Guevara 4) and 5) can be classified as being pertinent to the Hispanic or Indigenous worlds here in the US by people like artChair Gonzales at Queens College, CUNY who stresses his tenure on the label detailing his work at the exhibit of soon to be finger deprived factory worker Klimtian  Naiads trapped in a nightmare of love nightmare in its  Basic Hapsburg edition as false Irish for the British Admiralty in ports such as Napoli, Italy, or, the Godwin-Ternbach Museum at Queens, the faculty show. I also see another version of Gonzales, now a race, strut his stuff in the lobby, as a segue, in less than about five minutes of me in the building lobby at that.

Thinking the rivalry with the KGB has reached the level of asshair counting, I approach the bench and present my case to security. They tell me to digit 1561 or, Oswald Ramsammy, who records my message only until I say remove the fucking label off my newspaper, this after the duo conspiratorially identify me to each other, by first and last name, no ID necessary.

A Padilla, of the 9/11 Padilla, trots by. I see another in a doorway, upchucking at the idea of me as a sight.

At the NRQ 42 street subway, a boldly gone as court officers where court officers have gone before, in four digit badges, but with NYPD on their collars, a collection of about four individuals as males accumulates by the descent into the platform. I shoot them with a how's court? as I walk by. On the platform, there's another with canopy joined precinct collar insignia, connected, in a studied sloppy way, on top. And here I thought I was catholic.

Rating: 4) I escaped with my life

1) The novelty of betrayal;
2) Tickled into pink bunny suicide by the product;
3) Nowhere is safe and everybody's innocent except me;
4) I escaped with my life and still don't regret it;
5) Bored