Have you ever noticed that economic charts and graphs resemble webs spun by spiders who are drug victims?

Something else one cannot help but notice: men do not know how to dress themselves.

This is because the male human brain contains but two folds: the porn fold, and the sports fold. And dressing so that, when one hits the streets, people are not compelled to shriek and poke their eyes out, this is not information naturally contained or imparted by either fold.

Women have many folds in their brains, and some of these are apparel-related. This is why when a man dresses in a way so that people do not clamor that he should be locked up, generally there is a woman involved. This is simply a Fact, proven by Science, in many Studies.

Take a look at this horror:

This is a football man. He has won many Victories, made many Monies. Yet he dresses from a wino bin. Actually, many winos, they would reject such a shirt. Others would prove capable of buttoning it. But no. Not this man.

There are many CTs swirling round the tubes at present that the football playoffs this year were "rigged." Said playoffs were, in truth, rigged, but not for any of the reasons mentioned in the CT tubes. They were rigged because the football rulers instructed the referees to not permit this man's team, under any circumstances, to win the Super Bowl. Because they did not want him to, after, appear on the television, as The Winner, in one of these outfits that would cause viewers to blind themselves. The football rulers, to make the monies, they need the viewers, and people cannot view, if they have removed their eyes.

There is a lesson here. If this man had paid less attention to the football, and more to the women, at least to the extent of allowing one to select for him a shirt, and then button it, he would today be The Winner.

It is true that sometimes women will appear in public in clothing that should be burnt. But this is almost always because they have been compelled to do so by some male "designer." Exhibit A: Mrs. Kenyan.

And people wonder why spiders eat drugs.

Males are also incapable of properly packing grocery bags. If you are in a grocery store, and the clerk is scanning your purchases, and some male appears and attempts to bag your groceries, do not allow this to occur. Demand that he remove himself at once, and a female be summoned. Otherwise, the male attempted-bagger will put the eggs on the bottom of the bag, and then heave on top of them a watermelon. He will consign to another bag the arugula and the green onions, and then he will take the stew beef, pierce the plastic with his unsane fumbling clumsy male fingers, and then place it, upside down, atop the vegetables, so they will be coated with beef blood. He will then smoosh it all into a perfectly indistinguishable mess, by slamming home the jug of laundry detergent. If you buy chips, he will pummel them into powder by hurling your cantaloupes into the bag. In the end, none of these bags will make it from the store to your car, because they will all burst in the parking lot, as male baggers have no sense of weight, and insist on cramming more into the bags than the bags can bear.

I am noticing an increasing number of tubes that are offering to buy groceries and then deliver them to your home. I know why this is. It is because shopping in the grocery stores is no longer safe and sane. There are the psychotic criminal baggers, the piped-in soul-killing music I recently mentioned, and also there are the fat-carts. These are the lumbering motorized vehicles orginally intended for people with some grave disability, but that are now used almost exclusively by people who are too obese to even be in a grocery store. They should be off somewhere fasting, for, like, thirteen or fourteen years. It is increasingly difficult to navigate around the grocery stores, because the aisles are clogged with behemoth Americans asprawl in fat-carts. Yesterday I attempted to venture down an aisle to pluck from the shelf some ghost-pepper salsa, but I never made it, because the aisle was jammed with phalanxes of fat-carts. The fat-carts had become ensnarled, and could not be separated. The store people attempted to dislodge them with those little in-store forklifts they have, but to no avail. When I left, they were busily removing a section of the roof, so they could reach down into the store with big cranes, to pry apart and remove the fat-carted Americans.

Is this what the country has come to? Is this why John Henry wintered at Valley Forge? Big Bill Broonzy and his blue ox Babe lumberjacked to matchsticks all the jungles of the Amazon? Why Custer crossed the Rubicon? And Little Lulu baked humble pie on Easter Sunday? Why Roy Cohn ate Carl Furillo and Ethel Roosevelt for breakfast? Captain Kidd sailed opium into Pearl Harbor? Why Don Ho tiny-bubbled in a stagecoach across all of Utah to found Neil Diamond? And Jim Dandy bollixed Uncle Sam? Why Horatio Alger whipped the women, just around midnight?

The drug-victim spider Jim Morrison, he foresaw all this, in his timeless ode, "Fat-Carts On The Storm":

there's a fat-cart on the road
the wheels wobble, will not hold
if you give this man a ride
your car will surely die
fat-cart on the road
yeah
[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DED812HKWyM]
The Statue of Liberty, her guitar gently weeps, there in Boston Harbor.

Speaking of Boston Harbor, Michael Dukakis, former governor of Massachusetts, once upon a time, he was going to be the president.

But then stepped into the road Lee Atwater, Prince of Darkness. Atwater makes scumbucket political operatives like David Brock and James Carville look like Sleeping Beauty; even Karl Rove, Voldemort, and Sauron, they would bow down before him. Atwater was working for George I, the Republican trying to be the president, and he let everyone know that Dukakis was Greek, which was just another form of Negro, and scoffed that Dukakis was such a principled girly-man he would oppose the death penalty even if his own wife were raped and murdered. Atwater put on the television doom-laden ads that showed Dukakis releasing through the revolving doors of a prison many menacing big buck Negroes, disappearing into the night, bent on murder and rapine. Atwater goosed George I into thrice-daily damning Dukakis as "a card-carrying member of the ACLU," thundering that Dukakis allowed schoolchildren in Massachusetts who did not want to recite the pledge of allegiance, to not do so—which had only been the law throughout the nation since the 1943 West Virginia v. Barnette Supreme Court decision. He degenerated the George I campaign into tours of American flag factories, with the candidate reciting the pledge of allegiance from the stage, at every campaign event. It was a terrible time, and caused many spiders, to eat many drugs. There, yes, was also the grievous Dukakis self-inflicted wound, of The Tank Photo.

And so, in the end, George I became the president. And Michael Dukakis went back to Massachusetts, to serve out the final two years of his term as governor. And then, he more or less disappeared.

Shortly thereafter, tumors moved into Lee Atwater's brain, and he died before George I completed his term. Before he went, he said he was Sorry.

I hadn't thought of Dukakis, in any meaningful way, in years, until this week I see this article in Slate, where it is clear the man is no longer drinking the jamba juice they provide to all the ex-politicos, so that, publicly, their mouths won't misbehave. In this piece, Dukakis is sounding more like Noam Chomsky, than someone who once ran for president at the head of one of the two major political parties. Now that the article has been published, I hope he's okay. (In the excerpts below, the italicized lines are from the interviewer, some embarrassing beanbag monikered Isaac Chotiner.)

At a time when the country ought to be feeling better about itself, we have this situation in the Middle East, and we all know where that came from, right?

[Pauses]

Well—

It started with the invasion of Iraq, but to be perfectly bipartisan, can you tell me what the hell we are doing in Syria?

We being the United States?

Yeah, what the hell are we doing in Syria?

In Syria? I don’t think we’re doing all that much.

Now, four years ago, in case you've forgotten, the secretary general asked Kofi Annan to come out of retirement and become a special mediator to try to deal with the situation. The man worked his head off for 11 months, and finally put together an international conference with 16 countries, including Assad, the Russians, ourselves, and Iran, without whom you cannot solve the problem in Syria. Can we agree on that?

They are sort of running the war, so yes we can’t stop the war without them.

The man works hard to put this together, and we say, "if Iran is there we are not going." And it broke up the conference. And there was general agreement at the time, Isaac, that this conference was meant to put Syria on a path to democracy, and Assad had agreed to that.

Count me as skeptical that Assad would have followed through on that.

Unless you try it you'll never know.

Sometimes you know.

So what happens? We broke up the conference and have hundreds of thousands of dead people and 12 million displaced people. A humanitarian catastrophe that is now threatening the EU. Why do we do these things? I don't understand it. The president—who I like—said Assad has got to go. I said, "Oh my God." I mean, if there is one place where we should not be intervening, it's Syria, right?

OK—

And what about Libya? I mean, another fiasco!

But on foreign policy, [George I] and Gorbachev negotiated effectively and well, and ended the Cold War. And the only thing Gorbachev asked him during those negotiations was that we not expand NATO. And Bush said, "don't worry, that's a commitment." So how are we doing on that one? We are doing everything we can to shove NATO right up to those borders.

If Russia would stop invading countries in that region they'd have a stronger case to make about NATO encroachment.

Who's been invaded?

Ukraine.

Yeah, after we participated in a coup, right? That’s what it was you know.

That's not precisely my sense—

Oh yeah, oh yeah. The guy was supposed to serve out his term. He was a lousy guy. Nothing new.

I am not sure that means annexing Crimea was okay.

I am not excusing it, but Crimea is Russian. Always has been.

Well—

Khrushchev just sort of stuck it onto Ukraine.

You are well aware that states and their borders exist for all sorts of ridiculous reasons, but that doesn't mean—

I am not defending the action, but I am saying it is more complicated than that. I don't understand why we are expanding NATO, do you? What the hell is this? NATO was designed to stop Russia or the Soviet Union from invading Western Europe. That is not going to happen for the next 300 years.

I hope not.

It won't, believe me. I am a fan of this administration. I think they have done one hell of a job under very difficult circumstances, but, in case you missed it, incidentally, we are now putting a major U.S. base in Southern Spain. Are you aware of that?

I was not.

3,000 Marines are going to be there. You know why?

Catalan separatists?

No, so we can intervene in Africa.

I was kidding.

I mean, where is this going, Isaac? It is going to be a never-ending thing here.

The Hairball, he is also a never-ending thing here, and today he will be winning the Republican caucuses in Nevada. He will then take to his twit machine, to there beat his chest, like King Kong, that he is The Winner, and everyone else is a Loser, who should Die.

The Herrenvolk of The Hairball, they will laugh and dance and sing, making merry well into the night, by the light of a huge bonfire, that shall mark the burning of a million Mexicans.

"We know that Herr Hairball shall become the president," senior Hairball aide Horst Wessel explains of the Mexican-burning, "and so we all figured: why wait? Herr Hairball, he determined it would just be too much trouble, to deport the Mexicans. And so we are burning them. We are roasting marshmallows! Come down and have some!"

When it was pointed out to Wessel that The Hairball does not yet possess full legal authority to set fire to a million Mexicans, Wessel scoffed. "Who's going to stop him? The Supreme Court? With Scalia dead, they're so deadlocked they can't agree to tie their own shoes. And besides, as Herr Hairball likes to say, quoting his senior policy advisor Herr Kurtz, 'I am beyond their timid, lying morality. And so I am beyond caring.'

"'Burn, baby, burn.' Isn't that what the Negroes used to say? Well, now the Herrenvolk are saying it. We will march on a road of bones!"

The Democrats, they are not having any caucuses or primaries to make the president until Saturday, when voters in South Carolina will choose between The Cranky Brooklyn Deli Man, a Jewish man, and The Mad Bomber, a black woman.

No one ever has been, or ever will be, blacker, than The Mad Bomber, in the days ahead. Informed sources indicate that on Friday night she plans to emotionally announce that she intended to name her first and only child George Washington Carver. But her husband, The Clenis, beat her to the birth certificate, and dubbed the child Chelsea. The Clenis, it seems, was jealous that the child's true father was not him, but rather Martin Luther King. "The Deli Man may have marched with Martin Luther King," The Mad Bomber shall shriek, "but I bore his child!"

Remember when playing the Beatles songs backwards revealed that Paul was dead? And playing "Stairway To Heaven" backwards revealed it to be a hymn to Satan? Now, today, if you play The Mad Bomber backwards, you can detect that her Power Pack is failing.
[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NNl7VrYoygo]
The Tralfamadorians, they are trying to block delivery of a new Power Pack. If they succeed, then, one day, on stage, The Mad Bomber will just . . . run down. Like HAL.

my mind is going
i can feel it
i can feel it

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UgkyrW2NiwM]

Remember John Ashcroft? The man who lost an election to a dead man, rubbed himself up with Crisco before taking the oath of office, abjures calico cats as agents of The Evil One, and threw a shroud over a statue of the Spirit of Justice, lest her bare stone breasts wreak havoc across the land?

He's another guy who, like Led Zeppelin, when you play him backwards, reveals himself to be an imp of Satan. Oh yes. For his alleged patriotic barn-burner, "Let The Eagle Soar," is, as can be heard and seen below, in truth a Luciferian paean called "Oh Sweet Evil." In fact, it is a little-known Fact, that John A. and Jimmy Page, they used to shoot up together, and then get naked in Black Mass. With drug-addled spiders. Spinning some wild Charts.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5sMDG_bpBAk]

Belching. That is something that, in contrast to bagging groceries and dressing decently, males can do. It comes from the sports fold of the male brain. Therein, lies the Will and Desire, to engage in violently loud public belching.

Down a ways from here is a lube shop. Those who work there are generally pleasant people. However, they are males. And one of these males, he is possessed by the Need to recurrently burp as loud as humanly possible. Which is pretty damn loud. And because this is a lube shop, the big metallic door to the thing is left open at all times. Presumably so that passing motorists will, from this open door, suddenly experience a brainshower that they could use some auto-juice, and so pull into the place. However, this open door also means that whenever Belch Boy is possessed by his deliberate ructus disability, I get to hear it.

First thing this morning, this guy was over there vibrating his esophagus at decibel levels that caused blood to spout from all nearby ears. And, it then occurred to me, that no human female, in the entire history of the species, has ever somehow thought it "cool" or "funny" or "impressive," or whatever burbling it is that passes through the sports fold, to burp so loud that birds fall from the sky.

As such, one would think that deliberately belching louder than ten trains would have long ago been bred out of the species. But no. The impulse must be truly strong, and deeply embedded, somewhere there in the y-chrome. Where it needs to be Removed.

My brother was not only a loud public belcher, who could out-sound twenty bombs, but was also one of those males who could, and would, emit words, and even entire sentences, during the course of a belch. This so mortified his partner, that she was compelled to invent new narcotics, in order to remain Calm.

But that was not the worst of his behaviors. He would also, in the grocery stores, pick up The Weekly World News, and leaf through it, and sometimes add it to his goods, and buy it. His partner was so embarrassed to be seen with him thus, that she purchased for him a subscription, so the paper could be delivered to his home, and, thereby, no one, but the postman, would ever See, or Know.

My brother used The Weekly World News to keep up with who would be the president. Because the publication always featured stories wherein The Alien would be pictured giving The Nod to the next to be anointed.

The Weekly World News no longer publishes. And therefore no one any longer can really be certain, who will be the president.

Except the spiders.
[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S3HXVjwE9rQ]