i'm late! i'm late!
for a very important date!

Today and tomorrow, the Democrats, they will be making the president, and in four states: Nebraska, Louisiana, Maine, and Kansas.

The Mad Bomber, she will be the president in Louisiana. Because that is a state on her shameless, shuffling, Black Like Me tour. And also because Democratic officeholders in that state traditionally end their careers in either the jail (Edwin Edwards, Ray Nagin) or the asylum (Earl Long). So it's a natural, for her.

Because the Bomber, she is already batshit insane. As anyone who takes the time, and trouble, to really look into her eyes, can attest.

Unfortunately, whenever an independent medical professional nears the Bomber, her husband, The Clenis, he dispatches his minions, and they drag that medico off, and feed him (or her) into the woodchipper. And so not enough of the people, do they really Know.

As for the jail, there are several that would accommodate her. But it is doubtful that she will go there. For many reasons. One such was this week expressed thusly:

Current and former officials said the conviction of retired four-star general and CIA director David H. Petraeus for mishandling classified information is casting a shadow over the email investigation.

The officials said they think that Petraeus's actions were more egregious than those of Clinton and her aides because he lied to the FBI, and classified information he shared with his biographer contained top secret code words, identities of covert officers, war strategy and intelligence capabilities. Prosecutors initially threatened to charge him with three felonies, including conspiracy, violating the Espionage Act and lying to the FBI. But after negotiations, Petraeus pleaded guilty to a misdemeanor charge of mishandling classified information.

He was fined $100,000 and sentenced to two years of probation. FBI officials were angered by the deal and predicted it would affect the outcome of other cases involving classified information.

Petraeus "was handled so lightly for his offense there isn't a whole lot you can do," said a former U.S. law enforcement official who oversaw counterintelligence investigations and described the email controversy as "a lesser set of circumstances."

Petraeus is a serial killer whose penis compelled his hands to shovel secrets to a woman whom the penis wished to enter. He was a dickhead, who behaved like a boob, so a woman would receive his reproductive organ. And now children laugh at him, when he walks down the street.

But not The Mad Bomber. She is grateful to the Petraeus peter. Because the light slap it received, that may help keep her own posterior, out of the pokey.

Unless Brian Pagliano, the server boy who has received immunity from the Justice Department to talk about the emails, happens to also mention the babies. The dead ones, drained of blood, that were stashed in the closet, next to the server, after their precious bodily fluids had been extracted, for The Mad Bomber's rejuvenating evening cocktail.

You never know. He might. Mention them.

The Cranky Brooklyn Deli Man, he will meanwhile today and tomorrow be the president in Maine, Kansas, and Nebraska. This means that, over the next two days, the Deli Man may very well receive more delegates than shall the Bomber.

Notwithstanding this fact, "Little Markos" (to borrow a Hairballism), the proprietor of the hive-tube Daily Kos, yesterday announced that if by March 15, the Deli Man, he has not gathered to his bosom almost all of the delegates, then he, Li'l Markos, will declare the Democratic presidenting Over, with The Mad Bomber deemed the Winner. Everyone in his hive-tube, they will then be required to board The Mad Bomber's crazy train, or else go to the boneyard.

Li'l Markos, he has long wanted the Democratic presidenting to be over. He has always regarded the Deli Man as an irritant, like something you can't get out of your eye. On March 15, Li'l Markos is going to take a firehose, and blast it at the offending orb, and even if this blows the eyeball right out of his head, he will at last be rid of The Cranky Brooklyn Deli Man. And, after, he can always wear a patch. Like Meteor Blades.

After March 15, in Li'l Markos' tube, you will not be able to refer to the crazy woman by her true name: The Mad Bomber. You will not be able to talk about The Clenis, and how he puts doctors in the woodchipper. You will not be able to observe that the Bomber belongs in an asylum, or a jail. You will not be able to mention the babies in the closet. But so what? You cannot say those things there now.

It is perhaps well to remember that it has been Proved, many times, and in many Studies, conducted by many esteemed Science Men, that in many, if not most, universes, there does not even exist a Daily Kos. And it might be useful—even wise—to behave as if this is one such universe. After all, let's face it, the place, it is pretty Dumb. This is too often Disguised by the fact that it is also Busy: all day, and all of the night, there are people there one may agree with, because they confirm a bias, or disagree with, because they deconfirm a bias. But that, you know, that's about it.

And it may not be there, the Li'l Markos tube, for long. Even in this universe. Because, say, some Bad person, they could get in an airplane, and fly it over Li'l Markos' buildings, with a big magnet, and erase all his tubes.

I would do that, but I do not have a big enough magnet. Also, I don't really want to be in an airplane. But that doesn't mean some braver wo/man than I, Gunga Din, might not do it.

I must apologize for posting this piece Late. It is supposed to appear by 6 a.m. EST, but that did not happen. This was because of the Crashing. Into the wee hours, out here on the El Nino coast, the requisite site rabbit holes, they were not open to me. So I went to the sleep. Then, while I was there, the holes opened. Now I am frantically trying to dive down them. The, now open, Holes. But I am Late.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wDO5ea8MwgY]

If you are a person who believes that humans are basically Bad, every day there will come a tube, where you can go, to confirm that bias. Like this one. There, a seven-year-old boy, on a "bucket list" trip with his father, said father dying of stage-four throat cancer, was heaved off an airplane, when he suffered an allergic reaction to a dog on board, his fellow passengers clapping and cheering, as the tot was booted off onto the tarmac.

"I am sad that this had to be a memory with my dad," [the boy] told the news station. "People who don't have sadness, they don't understand."

In a Facebook post, [his mother] branded the behavior of the passengers "disgusting."

She said: "We are not angry that we were deplaned. In fact, my husband and I appreciate that our son is safe."

She added: "What crushed us was that our seven-year-old boy looked at us with tear-filled eyes and said, 'I'm sorry that I put you through this. This is all my fault.'

"Then he proceeded to say 'I can't believe people clapped. They shouldn't do that because they never know who already has sadness in their hearts.'"

All this was bad enough. But then I was stricken, with pure horror, when I read:

Giovanni's mother also blasted a flight attendant who "hastily smirked" and informed her that there are dogs on every flight.

Now wait just a dern minute. What does she mean: "there are dogs on every flight"? When did this happen? I always thought there was some special hold, away from the people, where are put the dogs. Does this mean that on every flight in the airplane there are now dogs roaming around with the passengers? Who allows this? And why?

I mean, I am ready to accept that, on the airplanes, sometimes there are passengers who need to get up and wildly spray urine on people, or shout loudly and then proceed to masturbate. That others will smear fecal matter on the food trays, while a flight attendant skulks into the lavatory and there sets it on fire. I realize that, sometimes, the person next to you, he may set off a bomb, and blow himself out the side of the plane. I get it: these things happen. On the airplanes.

But I draw the line at dogs. I cannot have any dogs, on the airplanes. This is because I am a cat, and the dogs know this. And so, on my body, there are many Wounds, from when the dogs perceived my catness, and thus Attacked, and started the Biting.

If you are on the ground, you can try to run away from the dogs. But in the airplanes, there is no running away. There is nowhere to go. If the dogs, they start the Biting, there is no escape. Unless you open the door, and step out onto the clouds. But I do not want to step out onto any clouds.

What kind of country has this become? Where you cannot smoke on the airplanes, but dogs can roam the aisles, pausing every now and then to bite big holes in people's bodies?

Resolved: I am not going: on any airplanes.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SOg2HfXvBnw]

Actually it is not really safe, for anyone to be on the airplanes. Not any more. Now that it has been established that we have entered Fringe Reality. Because Fringe events, they quite commonly manifest, on the airplanes. Take this "mystery illness," of unknown origin, that ODed a bunch of people over Iceland. That was quite clearly a Fringe event. In Fringe Reality, people are constantly coming down with dread diseases, on the airplanes. That Malaysian plane, the one that completely disappeared, MH370, it went astray because everyone aboard was suddenly afflicted with a Fringe malady that quickly killed them all. And the plane alone, flew stolidly on.

If you are on an airplane, and you overhear a sweaty, nervous man, with the beginning of a nosebleed, say to a flight attendant: "I'm in trouble. There's something happening to me that I don't have the time or the permission to explain to you. You need to listen to me, very carefully. I need you to go to the passengers, I need you to collect as many sedatives or tranquilizers as you can. I need you to get those drugs for me." You will know you are in real Danger. Because that is a Fringe person. And unless he receives the requisite drugs, post-haste, and in mass quantities, he will go into the lavatory, and there transform into a huge spiny minotaur, and then he will crash the plane.

This is what happened to MH17, the plane that went down over Ukraine. Everybody initially blamed everybody else for shooting it down . . . but now, you'll notice, everybody has pretty much gone silent. This is because all Investigations have Determined that the plane was crashed by a Fringe person who onboard transformed into a huge spiny minotaur. And they don't really know how to tell the people that.

The Republicans, they are also having the presidenting today, in Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, and Puerto Rico. I am not even going to venture a guess as to what will happen there. Not when those people are now actually whipping out and measuring their penises on the debate stage. They are no longer a life-form I in any way can comprehend.

In an essay titled "Wells, Hitler and the World State," George Orwell wrote of H.G. Wells:

But because he belonged to the nineteenth century and to a non-military nation and class, he could not grasp the tremendous strength of the old world which was symbolised in his mind by fox-hunting Tories. He was, and still is, quite incapable of understanding that nationalism, religious bigotry and feudal loyalty are far more powerful forces than what he himself would describe as sanity. Creatures out of the Dark Ages have come marching into the present, and if they are ghosts they are at any rate ghosts which need a strong magic to lay them. Wells is too sane to understand the modern world.

Wells, he did not like this essay. He wrote a letter to Orwell, which began with the salutation: "You Shit." There was then something of a violent row in the halls of the BBC. It is said the two eventually grudgingly reconciled, but Thursday I thought I would attempt to effect a further reconciliation, by inviting both men over here to experience the Republican debate, featuring the four surviving 2016 presidential GOoPer stooges: The Hairball, Zed Crud, Mondo Boobio, and Death Of A Salesman.

Things, at first, went well, I thought. But later I realized this was because Wells would not stop talking, and so was not really taking in what was coming from the stooges. For when he did—pay attention—things went very badly indeed. Wells' face, it began cycling through all the hues on the color wheel; until, about 10 minutes in, at that point when The Hairball loudly assured everyone that he has a huge, truly Hagrid-size penis, Wells suffered a humungous brain aneurysm. Orwell and I tried desperately to bring him back, but it was no good. The man was gone.

Rattled, and with the stooges still yammering on, The Hairball commencing his St. Vitus dance about executing Edward Snowden, Orwell determined that, to continue, he required an ale IV. I rigged that up for him, but then found my own self in need of great aid—scrabbling through all the drawers and cabinets, in search of every conceivable Medicine—when Death Of A Salesman, who is supposed to be the "adult," "sane," "reasonable" stooge, blithely announced that, when he is the president, he will dispatch hundreds of thousands of American troops to Iraq, and Syria, and Libya.

The fact of the matter is, we absolutely have to be—and not just with special forces. I mean, that's not going to work. Come on. You've got to go back to the invasion when we pushed Saddam Hussein out of Kuwait. We have to be there on the ground in significant numbers. We do have to include our Muslim Arab friends to work with us on that. And we have to be in the air.

And we—it should be a broad coalition, made up of the kinds of people that were involved when we defeated Saddam. Now, you've got to be on the ground and in the air both in Syria and Iraq. And at some point, we will have to deal with Libya. The fact is cool, calm, deliberate, effective, take care of the job, and then come home. That's what we need to do with our military foreign policy.

Lost in my own, wilderness of pain, I failed to notice, until after the debate had concluded, that, despite the ale IV, Orwell had become insensate. I assumed he had put himself into a medical coma, in order to protect his brain. I wrestled him over to the couch, and laid him out, assuming he'd be fine in the morning. But then, Friday a.m., when I checked, he was immobile; and, with a light shined in his eyes, the pupils showed no response. A mirror placed beneath his mouth and nostrils, detected no fogging of breath.

I'm not really sure, what I should do, with these fellows. I guess maybe I should rent a backhoe.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f0egpAbsqbg]