This disease will be the end of many of us, but not nearly all. And the dead will be commemorated, and we'll struggle on with the living, and we are not going away. We won't die secret deaths anymore. The world only spins forward. We will be citizens. The time has come.

The Mad Bomber, she wants it to be, always and only, she, who Bombs. Thus, this week, she pitched a fit, because Iran test-fired two ballistic missiles. Glowering darkly, the Bomber demanded that, and at once, there be Sanctions.

But the people of The Kenyan, they said the test-firing did not violate any international agreements. And so The Bomber, she should just bugger off, and go back to Losing to The Cranky Brooklyn Deli Man.

Then a Bad Quote got loose in the tubes, wherein the vice president, Uncle Joe, was quoted as saying The Mad Bomber, she has less foreign-policy sense than even Yosemite Sam, and "just wants to be Golda Meir."

Ballistic missiles, they are deeply stupid, and should all be ground into Murano glass. But the Bomber hardly possesses moral authority to screech and rend her garments about Iran firing a couple, when serial killers in her own nation are shooting the things off all day and all of the night from sites like the Vandenberg Lunatic Emporium. Not to mention all the missiles, bombs, guns, mines, grenades, and mortars daily fired, by the serial killers of her nation, at living human beings.

It was not a good week for The Mad Bomber's mouth. It was like she was the Tin Man, rusted in a forest in Oz somewhere, and then when Huma showed up with the oil can, The Bomber's mouth joints, they were somehow only half-lubricated, so that everything that came out of them, came out Garbled, Stupid, Wrong.

For instance, during the Wednesday debate with The Cranky Brooklyn Deli Man, she decided to go all Roy Cohn, and try to send the Deli Man to the electric chair, on the grounds he was Che Guevera's chief lieutenant at La Cabana, and commanded a brigade against the Miskito Indians for the Sandinistas.

But she forgot that eight years of unsane ululating from the wingers about The Kenyan being a "socialist," this has drained the word of all menace. The Americans, they may not like The Kenyan. But they learned, through personal experience, that, under the governance of such a "socialist," they need not wear paper shoes, slurp only watery turnip soup, hang pictures of tractors on the wall, or spend half of each year in a gulag. So, they are not Scared, of "the S word," any longer.

So imagine The Bomber's surprise, when, in the hours and days following, rather than the Deli Man frog-marched into Sing Sing, no one simply gave two shits, about he and his socialist compadres.

Then, yesterday, shamelessly horning in on the funeral services for Mommie Poo Pants, The Mad Bomber went on the television to emote that Poo Pants and her hubby, they had bravely roared out of the White House to conquer AIDS, just like their pal John Wayne had bashed all the Japanese off Iwo Jima.

Almost before her creaky, half-oiled mouth had closed, howls of outrage, from both the living and the dead, sounded deafeningly forth, thundering even into the outer ozone. Furious, The Bomber savagely kicked a minion, and then took to her twit machine, there to "clarify": "While the Reagans were strong advocates for stem cell research and finding a cure for Alzheimer's disease, I misspoke about their record on HIV and AIDS. For that, I'm sorry."

Right. Because everyone confuses AIDS and Alzheimer's. All these goddam diseases: they're all the same. Lupus, diabetes, diverticulitis, herpes, rabies, albinism, arthritis, asthma, wrestler's ear, flatulence, bunions, boils, brain tumors—what-ever. What she meant to say, there on the television, was: "It may be hard for your viewers to remember how difficult it was for people to talk about bleeding string warts back in the 1980s. And because of both President and Mrs. Reagan, in particular Mrs. Reagan, we started a national conversation, when before nobody would talk about it. Nobody wanted to do anything about it."

To the best of my knowledge, The Mad Bomber, she was not in a coma during the Reagan administration. She was therefore surely aware that tens of thousands of people had died before Mr. Poo Pants could bestir himself to even pronounce the word "AIDS." And that another two years passed before he addressed it directly—and then only because his friend Elizabeth Taylor threatened that he would no longer be allowed to play with Michael Jackson and the monkey, if he did not.

Even Patti Davis, daughter of Poo Pants and the sperm donor, reiterated just last month that Daddy, he screwed a twelve-pack of pooch, there on AIDS:

I'm not gonna make excuses for the failure of his administration to address the AIDS crisis when it was going on. It was a failure. And it hurts my heart that that happened on so many levels. One of my father’s flaws was that he delegated authority to other people and relied on them to give him the appropriate information on things. Presidents get briefings every morning. So they do rely on people to bring them information on what's going on and there were people around him who did not want him dealing with the AIDS crisis. I'm not making excuses for him. I'm saying that's a flaw of his, and in this case it turned out to be a really tragic flaw. He didn't really know the extent of what was going on until Rock Hudson died.

Freddie, the plague took him, before any Reagan ever breathed its name. His oak sideboard is in my kitchen. Because every "inanimate" object retains traces of those who have cared for it, I went in there to talk to him about this. He told me to go listen to Harper. And so I did. Reminded, then, there, that, in some universes, it was Ronald Reagan, rather than Tony Kushner, who had the dream about a former lover, a dancer, a man who was carried away early in the plague, but who in the dream was alive again, and was lying in bed, in his pajamas, when a great angel, she came crashing through the ceiling. And, in waking world, he then went on to write, Angels in America.

Yes. Dreaming ahead.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Og70dU7TP-Y]

I would get on an airplane, with that woman. Because, there's just something about her: you know, she'll be Safe. Also, she packs a lot of Medicine.

Otherwise: I don't know. Because airplanes, they remain, really, pretty much Danger Birds.

Recently we have reviewed, here, the Reality that, if you get on an airplane, the mammoth French thespian Gerard Depardieu, he may elect to urinate on you. While other flights, they can feature shouting masturbators, people who smear feces on the food trays, a flight attendant who sets fire to the bathroom, a morose man who detonates a bomb that blows him out the side of the plane, and/or rampaging packs of dogs, dashing hither and yon, up and down the aisles, looking for loose arms, into which they can commence the Biting.

Now, this week, come the boom-box women. Seems two women decided to enjoy their music, there in the airplane, at top volume; three other women objected; all five then engaged in what authorities later described as a "mutual combat situation."

The truly chilling lines from this story, they are these:

"It isn't uncommon," Pedregon said of the fight. "People lose their tempers and just refuse to get along."

This means, it is "common," to get on the airplane, and there be subjected to women commencing a physical battle-royal, over a boom-box.

No. I don't think. That, without Harper, and massive doses of her Medicine, I will be getting on an airplane. Any time. Soon.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f7CjwtoO5xI]

We have also, here, Understood, that many airplane events—like the "mystery illness," of unknown origin, that ODed a bunch of people over Iceland; the complete disappearance of MH370; the mysterious downing of MH17—are actually Fringe events, caused by Bad and Wrong seepage of another universe, into this one.

Fringe events, they are as common on airplanes, as women grappling over boom-boxes. But they also occur terrestrially.

This week, for instance, we learned of the "mystery illness" that has felled 15 people in Wisconsin, for No Known Reason.

A dozen people got sick, and then another dozen. More than four months later, the number has grown to 48. So far, 15 patients have died, though it remains unclear whether the infection was to blame. Federal and state authorities are still trying to figure out where the infections are coming from, and investigators remain baffled.

This is quite obviously a Fringe event, caused by the Bad universe-bleeding. Walter—the esteemed, and insane, Science Man known as Walter Bishop, in this case, rather than the KushReagan-inscribed American angel Prior Walter—he has gone into the Lilly tank, with a head full of LSD, and we are, even now, awaiting his Emergence, so that, hopefully, we might, then, Know.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6-GZoNef8_c]

Meanwhile, some Science Men, of more Normality than the various Walters, they this week did something kind of charming. They named a spider "Brian."

Usually, the Science Men, they will discover some new creature, and name it something like xythiguidsgjhkh fhgyrhisiaijh, which, in an actual human language, means something like "ant that is green."

But, this time, when the Science Men stumbled upon an Australian spider, that has been here on the planet for, oh, about eleventy-billion years, but which the Science Men are just now Seeing, and so it is classified as "new," they decided to just call it "the Brian spider."

My parents, before I was born, they were going to name me Brian. But then, when they got a look at me, they decided I wasn't a Brian. And so they named me: hecate. Because that is who I am.

Captain Underpants, if he had been named Brian, then, by the Law of Names, he would have led a much happier life. He would be jolly and red and ruddy and weigh 275 pounds, he would live in Provo, he would sell cars, and he would heave out each Sabbath great bundles of food, to the poorer Mormons, to see them through their days.

But no. Instead, he was named Willard. Which is a name for a boy with a strange and unusual attraction to rats. With a middle name of Mitt. Which denotes a squat and ugly leathery object, repeatedly punished, by balls, thrown very hard, and very fast.

As a result of the Wrong Naming, Captain Underpants, he is now Doomed. To igniting himself, like some sort of crazed Mormon monk, in what is intended as a desperate and last-ditch backfire, that will consume The Hairball.

The scenario that’s been floated in recent days by GOP insiders I've spoken to is that Romney could enter the Republican primary race late in California and New York to deny Trump the delegates necessary to clinch the nomination. Then, at a brokered convention, Romney would emerge as the party’s choice on a second ballot. There's no real hope that Romney would be able to beat [The Cranky Brooklyn Deli Man]—it would essentially be a suicide mission—but losing in 2016, while being able to cast the Trump phenomenon as a fringe aberration, would be better for the party in the long run.

Somehow, I had never pictured the Underpants, wrapping a Rising Sun cloth around his forehead, nodding stoically as he is welded inside a Zero, and then determinedly kamikazing himself into some wallowing whaler like the USS Trump Tub. But, you know. Stranger things. They have certainly happened.

I mentioned here on Tuesday that The Hairball, he wants to hurt people, to kill people, that he states this quite explicitly, and that this is the core of his appeal: the people of The Hairball, they want to hurt people, to kill people, too. And that is why, they cleave, to The Hairball.

The next day, on Wednesday, this was made manifest.

As a young black man was being escorted, by hang-dog law-jockeys, out of a North Carolina Hairball rally—for, correctly, protesting that The Hairball is absolute anathema, against all of evolution—a 78-year-old yeehaw crackerjack forearmed the young black man to the face. And then ululated to Inside Edition words, scripted word-for-word, that he had absorbed, from The Hairball:

You bet I liked it. Knocking the hell out of that big mouth. Number one, we don't know if he's ISIS. We don't know who he is, but we know he's not acting like an American. He deserved it. The next time we see him, we might have to kill him. We don't know who he is. He might be with a terrorist organization.

The Hairball, having these past months opened the whole of his acrid arsehole, to blat forth great blasts of the foulest, rank diarrhea, across all of the land, about the malodorous Mexicans, and the murderous Muslims, all a congenital and constant Threat, deserving only to be deported and debarred, and having previously said "it was a beautiful thing," when his herrenvolk punched someone in the face; having fondly recalled "the good old days," when protestors were "treated very, very rough"; fondly recalling, again, "I love the old days; you know what they used to do to guys like that in a place like this? they would be carried out in a stretcher"; shouting out to one herrenvolk fist-wielder, "try not to hurt him; if you do, I'll defend you in court"; having directly referenced one protester with "I'd like to punch him in the face"; and then, yesterday, saying it was "very, very appropriate," for the herrenvolk to hit people, that "that's what we need a little bit more of"; and then, yesterday evening, in St. Louis, bemoaning that "part of the problem and part of the reason it takes so long, is nobody wants to hurt each other anymore," that "there used to be consequences. There are none anymore."

The yeehaw crackerjack who forearmed the black man, formerly he stuck pigs and pretended he could shoot some six-guns. He named himself "Quick Draw" McGraw, after a dimwit cartoon character. He sez: "I believe in the scripture as a road map to a way of life. The Bible tells us how to live." And he cites then to Zebadiah 3:41, in which it is, Hairball, written: "forearm the darky to his goddam face; then, if he shalt offend thee again, kill the motherfucker."

But then, last night, in Chicago, where there was to be a Hairball rally, there was no Hairball rally. Because the people, they had come out in, great, numbers. And The Hairball, like all bullies, being, at root, a chickenshit, called off his speech. Because The Hairball, he cannot cluck-cluck his chickenshit cluck. When, where, there, are, en masse, Real, people.

These people, of Chicago, they are Brave, and they are Good. For they recognize, that The Hairball, he is of a unique sort of deliquescing menace. And they want no part of him. They do not want him, in their world. This world. Our world.

People in New York, they may like big-mouthed New York bullies. But the plain fact is: no one else does.

The Hairball, he has always been Over. But now, it is time, to truly make it so. He is a genuinely disgusting human being, without a single redeeming, public, quality.

I am erasing him from this universe.

My friend Freddie, he was black, and he was gay, and he was a musician.

Keyboards. From church, to proto-rave.

In Freddie's life, some black people didn't want him, because he was gay; some gay people didn't want him, because he was black. But he surmounted all that. Because he was of music. And so he had been to the monolith, and he had seen over.

Mommie Poo Pants, she didn't go to Freddie's funeral. Neither did her husband. Neither did The Mad Bomber.

But we went. And, there, we sang this. Because Freddie wanted it. Because he knew it. And he wanted us. To know it, too.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k6YCxXQ6Scw]