I been thinkin' what to do with my future. I could be a mud doctor. Checkin' out the earth underneath.

Poor Hitler. First they determine that the Mean 1939 British propaganda song was actually True—he really did have only one testicle.

A medical document shows that Adolf Hitler only had one testicle, German media said on Saturday, suggesting there is some truth after all to a popular British song that says the dictator had "only got one ball".

There has long been speculation that Hitler was missing one testicle, with rumors circulating that he lost the other one during the Battle of the Somme in the First World War.

But a medical record from the time when Hitler was put in prison after the failed Munich beer hall putsch in 1923 shows he suffered from "right-side cryptorchidism" —a condition where a testicle fails to descend into the scrotum—media reports said.

The doctor's notes were thought to have been missing for years but reappeared at an auction in 2010, at which point they were seized by authorities.

"The experienced medical officer immediately recognized the condition!" top-selling newspaper Bild quoted historian Peter Fleischmann, who has studied the record, as saying.

The Mean song, written originally in 1939, and known as "Hitler Has Only Got One Ball" eventually mutated into several different versions, but the one below is perhaps the most common:

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vAgB_a9tefE]

No doubt you recognize the tune. It's "Colonel Bogey's March," which appeared prominently in The Bridge On The River Kwai. There, the British soldiers whistled it. Rather than sang it. Because it was determined the words were "dirty." And, in 1957, when Kwai was filmed, dirtiness was still verboten, on celluloid.

Then, next, came news that, to accompany the one ball, Hitler was saddled with a micropenis.

[A] book claims the leader of the Third Reich had a micropenis.

Hitler suffered from a condition called hypospadias which left him with an abnormally small manhood, according to historians Jonathan Mayo and Emma Craigie.

In their book Hitler's Last Day: Minute by Minute, they say they have uncovered medical records which confirm the Fuhrer's embarrassing deformity.

The condition is so severe that sufferers have to urinate from a hole at the base of the shaft, instead of the tip.

Shall there ever come a time when living humans will stop raking over the dead? Apparently not. Every day comes a tube wherein some long-dead person is unearthed to be avidly pawed over by some variant of Science Man. Recently a heavily-tattooed guy with a hole in his head who died 4200 years ago in the Oztal Alps had his picture smeared all over the tubes together with excited gibberings about his "gut bacteria." No one can be sure they will rest in peace, not when today's humans will haul you out of the ground 4200 years after you went under—yea, verily, even some 2.8 million years, after you retired to push up dailies, Science Men might dig you up and then start publicly fondling your jawbone. As Hitler demonstrates, not even getting yourself cremated will stop the abuse—70 years on, people may still be sweeping the spotlight over the cinders of your genitalia.

Through the ages, living humans have oft whined about being "haunted by the dead." But what about this unearthly inability of the living to leave the dead alone? These dead people, it is clear they rest uneasy, ever in peril, as they are, of being hoed up, heaved in a wheelbarrow, and hastened off to some Lab. Who can blame them, if they won't let the living be? The living certainly don't let them be.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NgztL7iV1Fg]

What does the one-ball micropenis Hitler news tell us? Nothing. The linked piece above ebulliently ejaculates that the micropenis, that is what made Hitler, Hitler. But of course that is horseshit. Ron Rosenbaum spent decades diving into all things Hitler, in an attempt to divine what made Hitler, Hitler. Among the many ways and means he examined, was the mutant genitalia theory. Rosenbaum concluded his research, and his book, Explaining Hitler, wisely: that no one single theory, or even a multitude of theories, could "explain" Hitler. Because Hitler is unknowable. Just as is every other living being. Unknowable. As the true-life documentary film Citizen Kane sets forth, everybody has their Rosebud, known to no one else, but that would in any event still not "explain" anything at all.

A life is not a fixed point. It is a process. Which is why the recent tube-fever about "would you kill baby Hitler?" was such nonsense. Baby Hitler, was not "Hitler," for jeebus' sake. All we really learned from that embarrassing burst of collective brain damage was that Heb, he—"hell yes!—would kill baby Hitler, while Uncle Ben Carson, he is "not in favor of aborting anyone." And today, just a few months later, Heb, he can no longer be the president, and is off sampling various different Medicines. While Uncle Ben, he, on the campaign trail, is these days more a ghost, than a living being.

The Hairball, he has a micropenis. We know this from his fingers. There is a Science Man theory, one that is Absolutely True, that holds that the length of a man's fingers are indicative of the length of his penis. And since the Hairball's fingers are so short and stubby they are nearly invisible without an electron microscope, this means his penis is micro. Probably he, too, like Hitler, must urinate out a hole, like a dove, rather than a regular human.

"Micropenis" is actually The Hairball's Real, secret name. And if one of those other goofballs who are trying to be the Republican variant of the president would just turn to him there on the debate stage, and address him directly as "Micropenis," The Hairball, he would fall down. And that would be that.

We know this from the Celts of days of yore. When two Celtic clans would get into a quarrel over something or other, they would meet on a field. And before any stupid sword-slinging, each clan would send out its bard. The bard would brag about how bitchin' was his clan, verbally brutalize the other clan, and then, if s/he possessed it, pronounce the Real, secret name of the other clan's bard. Who would then promptly fall down. The clan with the bard still standing, it would be declared The Winner. And everyone would then go home.

Humans these days do not often appreciate the power of names. For instance, if your name is Duane, at some point in your life, you will face confinement in a penal institution. It is just built into the name. Similarly, if you are named Bertha, you will weigh 300 pounds. There is no escaping it. I went to school with a group of children whose last name was Gotobed. Everything was fine until the years dawning puberty, when kids began vaguely apprehending the "dirty" meaning of "going to bed." Then, the teasing began. And then it became non-stop. Eventually, all the Gotobed children dropped out of school, one by one. And retreated into their home. Then, there, they never came out. I used to bike by the place, on my way to visit my friend, and I would look at their house, quiet, silent, wondering, what in there the Gotobed children were doing and thinking. It was like a house of Boo Radleys.

Speaking of Boo Radley, Harper Lee hasn't even been dead a week, and yet today a tube assaulted me with a piece called "Queering Harper Lee: The Question That Remains About the Author's Life." Because I guess it is now necessary for people to rub their grubby hands all over her slowly decomposing genitalia. They are, for instance, having a Poll: and "88 percent of the respondents thought Harper Lee was a lesbian, while the remainder thought she was bisexual. None of the respondents believed she was heterosexual."

In life, Lee was not interested in publicly parading her genitals; why do people now get to roll them into a P.T. Barnum cage and take them out on the road? What difference does it make, whether she was "gender-nonconforming," or no? Hell, maybe she had a micropenis—or even 32 balls. Who cares? Hitler's penis could have been the size of a two-by-four, and it would still no more explain Auschwitz than that penis only perceptible in the fourth dimension that he apparently did possess. What's important about Harper Lee is that Bob Ewell fell on his knife. Not whether, in her private life, she was sexually drawn to men, women, or eggplant.

What is important about the Study of naming is that it reveals that The Siren Of Titans is a true-life non-fiction book, and that the true and Real and only purpose of all life on earth, really is to manufacture a replacement part for a Tralfamadorian spaceship, and then to get that part to the Saturnian moon Titan, so the marooned Tralfamadorian there can put it in his ship, thereby fixing it, and then fly off, so he can deliver, to somewhere, far, far, away, a message reading only: "Greetings."

We know this because in the reign of the US president George II there were two bad bogeymen who haunted the Americans: Saddam Hussein, and Osama bin Laden. And then the Americans replaced George II with a president named Barack Hussein Obama. What are the odds that the Americans would elect a man who in his name contained the names of both these bogeymen? No odds at all; because there are no coincidences. That's just the Tralfamadorians having a laugh on the humans, while they wait patiently for the part.

It is becoming increasingly difficult to satirize The Hairball. Previously, I myself have, here, for instance, portrayed him as strapping a 1984 rat-cage to the face of Zed Crud, cajoling a child to publicly electrocute Topo Gigio, and celebrating his win in the Nevada caucus with a bonfire of a million Mexicans.

Some of this sort of thing, it seems extreme, even to me. But I guess it's really not—at least not to The Hairball himself. Because he was out there again this week chortling that the Herrenvolk so support him they would waver not even if he started killing people.

"Even the really dishonest press says Trump's people are the most incredible," the billionaire said[.] "Sixty-eight percent would not leave under any circumstance. I think that means murder. I think it means anything."

Well hell, Hairball, why don't you just start running a Muslim up on stage at every campaign event and shooting him in the forehead? I mean—why not?

The Hairball-driven campaign has become so preposterous that sober fact-bound paragraphs in The New York Times now read like scabrous scribblings from the pen of Terry Southern:

In the span of a few hours across Texas, Mr. Rubio suggested that Mr. Trump had urinated in his trousers and used illegal immigrants to tap out his unceasing Twitter messages. Mr. Trump countered by suggesting that Mr. Rubio's excessive perspiration had no place in the White House and brandishing a water bottle to mock the senator’s chronic thirst.

Waving the bottle across a stage at a Texas rally, pouring half its contents onto the floor and then taking giant gulps from it, Mr. Trump ridiculed his younger rival with exaggerated facial gestures. "It's Rubio!" he shouted to loud applause and cheers.

Meanwhile, in the Democratic presidential Show, today The Mad Bomber, a.k.a. Corretta Scott Clinton, the blackest woman in the history of the United States, shall receive many votes in the South Carolina primary. She will then split, like an amoeba. A black version of herself shall continue to black around the southern states where the vote-humans shall go the polls on Tuesday, March 1. Meanwhile, the other amoeba-split will swing through northern Catholic states—that version, she shall clutch to her chests the papist beads, ceaselessly mumbling the rosary, breaking off every now and again to recite harrowing, tear-stained tales of how she used to dodge sniper fire when she was a nun in El Salvador.

So my old-time companero Man Mountain Mike was telling me how he sat witness as a dearly beloved passed from out of the corporeal container.

None of the details he experienced and related need concern us here. Except the final ones. When he perceived that there had occurred from this man an exhale, that had seemingly not been followed by an inhale.

After waiting some moments, Mike withdrew from his clothing his cellphone, snapped it open, and placed it before the ceasing man's nostrils.

At first, I could not understand why this would be. Why, I wondered, would one press a cellphone upon a person, who seemed no longer to breathe?

"Well," Mike replied, "the phone has that glass face on it. I was seeing if it would fog with his breath."

Of course. The 21st Century variant on the mirror. Which physicians, in the West for many centuries, used to slip beneath the nostrils of the dearly departing. To determine if they still drew breath. And, if no fog of breath appeared: that could be regarded as definitive proof, that the sufferer should be declared unto death.

And so, the evolving.

Humans. The tool-making animal.

For the past several days I have needed to be out in the world far more than I am accustomed, in places to which I am not accustomed, around people to whom I am not accustomed. Wherever I went, in this world, people were pronouncing the word "Trump." This very quickly became deeply unsettling. It was like I had fallen into that portion of the true-life documentary film Being John Malkovich wherein John Malkovich travels down a tube into his own head, and there encounters nothing but various different-one John Malkovichs, all of them emitting but the word "Malkovich."

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lIpev8JXJHQ]

This was not precisely like that, as the people did not all look like John Malkovich, and were not all saying the word "Malkovich." But they were all saying the word "Trump."

And, also, too many of them were asking me if that person was truly going to be the president. Now, I know that he is not going to be the president, but I do not like to hear people vocalizing the idea, because talking about something can sometimes make it manifest. (This is sorta like the Law of Names.)

These people, they all needed to stop Malkoviching about The Hairball being the president. And I needed very badly to get back to my own house. Where The Hairball is nothing but a figment in a tube that I can bend to my will. When I finally rearrived here, and gazed upon my animal farm, and all my other accoutrements, I was relieved again to know that The Hairball is, truly, but a figment in a tube, who will never be the president.

Out in that other world, though, The Hairball, he is sort of like the spear-point of a serious Fringe event, one that has broken through from the other side. And so it would probably be wise for those people to get, post-haste, Dr. Walter Bishop, from out of the booby hatch, and give him a Lab.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-r679Hhs9Zs]