So, according to the readers of the tea leaves—who, it must be said, are wrong, more often than they are right—today there shall occur these two Events: (1) The Cranky Brooklyn Deli Man, he will meet The Mad Bomber, upon a stage, in a high school gymnasium, in New Hampshire, and there he shall endorse her, to be the president; (2) The Hairball, in Indiana, he will publicly get jiggy, with that state's governor, Dick "Six" Pence, whom he shall then name as his vice-presidential running mate, thereby trumpeting, to all the world, the immortal ticket, of Baboon & Buffoon.

These sorts of politics people, they are, in the main, stupid and boring. And they, for sure, do not advance the planet.

However, I feel duty-bound to, at least here, Grump Along With Mitch, about them. At least. For a while.

But, then, we can get down, to what is really wrong. And: more importantly: to what is really right. Like, to some humans, who are advancing, the planet.

With, meanwhile, as filigree, some pleasant, or not so, diversions: Queen Elizabeth, transforming into a lizard person, right there on the television; Anton LaVey, fingered as Mitch Miller; farmering while invisible; and how, if you stop yelling, you can see better.

Sing Along With Mitch, this was a time warp, that was on the television, from 1961 to 1964.

This show, it was the anguished love-child of Mitch Miller. Who was once a classical oboist; he also played the bitchin' horn part in Dvorak's New World Symphony (still then considered something of a rad piece), on the 1947 Leopold Stokowski recording.

But then, Miller, his brain somehow ossified, and he conceived a Hate for any music that he had not heard when still in his crib. Miller particularly loathed rocknroll. Which caused him, while a producer with Columbia Records, to pass on signing Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, and the Beatles.

In a desperate attempt to Save Music, Miller badgered NBC to put his Sing Along thing on the air. The show, it limped along for four years. Until the network pulled the plug. Because the viewers it attracted, they were almost exclusively sick, old, brain-rattled, dying. You know: the Fox News audience.

This is what was actually going on in music, at that time:

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Z3ITXYVPI0]

And this is what going on, there on Mitch:

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9dY9gtYeHhk]

Some people, they claim that the Mitch Miller, of the Sing Along, he was not really Mitch Miller. But was, instead, that noted Satanist, Anton LeVey. With a hairpiece. (You know: like The Hairball.) Just having some fun, was LaVey, maintain they. With Sing Along With Mitch. With the squares.

A photo of LaVey, Hairball-hairpieceless, it may be viewed, there, to the right.

I just report. You decide.

Fair. And balanced.

Anyway. Today, on the television, there would not be a singalong show. Because the American humans, they don't sing much any more. Instead, they grump. And so, there would be a gumpalong show. Mitch—or Anton; whoever—he would bring out his chorus of men, and they would proceed to grump, and grouse, and moan and bitch and groan, about this, that, and the other. Their grumpy emissions, they would be subtitled, there on the screen, just like the Mitch song-lyrics once were. So that the people at home, they could grump along, with the Mitch grumpers. Everyone would be Happy. In their Sad. You know: like Eeyore.

At this hour—which is late, but also early: quantum—the Mad Bomber people, and the Deli Man people, they both have confirmed, that the two will meet, today, upon a stage, in a high school gym, in New Hampshire.

However, the notion that there the Deli Man will endorse the Bomber, this seems to be but an emission traceable to something called WMUR9ABC.

I don't know what that is—"WMUR9ABC." It sounds like maybe the call letters for some glum and alone and mutantly glowing short-wave-radio transmitter, in a grumpbo nuclear-apocalypse tome like Alas, Babylon.

I had never once heard of this WMUR9ABC thing, until it suddenly raced around all over the tubes, claiming there will be a Deli Man endorsement of The Bomber.

Who knows, if this WMUR9ABC creature, it is even Real?

I don't even know if "New Hampshire," is Real. For, I have never been there. What if, "New Hampshire," it is just shit made up?

They fuckin' made up Santa Claus. And told us all he was Real. So why wouldn't they make up a bunch of these "states"? No state that is actually Real, would call itself, as this "New Hampshire" allegedly does, "the granite state." No peoples, that I've ever encountered, would, willingly, portray themselves, as a bunch of rockheads.

So: I've decided. New Hampshire, it is actually not Real. And, therefore, this WMUR9ABC thing, it is just a hoax-tube. Like Anus Jones. And so, therefore, there will be no endorsement, by the Deli Man, of The Bomber, in some gym, in some high school, in New Hampshire. Because there is no New Hampshire. And, therefore, all the rest of it, it is, necessarily: Unreal.

However, in consensus Reality, at least in this universe, it is inevitable, that the Deli Man, he will at some point, offer the dreaded Endorsement, of The Mad Bomber.

Because the Deli Man, all along, has all along said, that he would support, the eventual nominee, of his adopted party. The Democrats.

But, so runs an argument, the election, from the Deli Man, it was stolen. And so, therefore, the Deli Man, he should not feel bound, by that pledge.

The problem with that argument, is that The Cranky Brooklyn Deli Man, he does not himself believe, that the election was stolen. For he, himself, has not made such an argument. And there is nothing in the Deli Man's character and history, to indicate that he would remain silent, if he believed an election, had from him been stolen. Yet: he has remained silent. Thus, he does not believe, that the election, from him was stolen.

But he cannot be real happy, the Deli Man, about the Democrats, electing to offer as their presidential nominee, The Mad Bomber.

And, actually, no one, really, is real happy, about this. It is not like there can be perceived any great wave of ecstasy, sweeping across the land, at the Reality that the Democrats, they are excreting, The Mad Bomber, as their presidential candidate.

Even many of The Mad Bomber's own long-time friends and confidantes, as Carl Bernstein has observed, they are not real happy, about The Bomber, being, now, The One.

I've talked to many prominent Democrats and a lot of people who have adored Hillary Clinton and been in her circle for years who now think that the worst thing she has done is to perhaps make it possible for Donald Trump—the first neofascist demagogue in our history likely to be nominated by a major party—to become President of the United States, through her recklessness.

Yeehaw.

A lot of the Americans, they have a real fixation, with British royals. I have never understood this. But then there is much, about the Americans, that I don't understand.

However, in the interest of giving the Americans what they want, I will note that Queen Elizabeth, she has been caught out, "shapeshifting in reptilian form."

As the television flashed images of a parade honoring the monarch:

There were multiple accounts of seeing Queen Elizabeth with 'green, scaly claws,' and one account of seeing her 'black snakelike eyes with a yellow stripe down the middle,' while others claim to have seen the monarch in her full-blown reptilian form.

We know this to be True, because it comes from a site that has lately found favor among multiple caucus99 denizens.

Everyone anyway always knew Elizabeth was a lizard person. Because it's right there in her name. ELIZAbeth.

This: is logic. Occam's razor. Cui bono.

Meanwhile, the Duchess of Whosit, Kate Somethingorother, she has been photographed (as seen above, there to the right), walking along, without her feet touching the ground.

Apparently, this is the new Thing. Among the rich and royal people. A little, wee, levitation.

Probably, the rich people, like this Duchess of Whosit, to levitate, they are using some sort of Machine.

Unlike people in, say, India, or Ireland. Who do it, through Knowing, that they Can.

she stops in a bar
apparently
she is unhurt

and with a little bit of change
—ooh feels good—
she washes her wings in the dirt

and the bar is filled with angels
'cause the world is turned upside down
all of you've been walking on your heads
since the day your feet touched the ground

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

I couldn't bring myself, to farmer here. For quite a while. Because, in front of the property, there is a road.

It's really not such a bad road. There really isn't that much traffic. Nights, weekends, especially: hours can go by, without any human passing by, at all. And, by The Law, if they are in the cars, they can't go faster, than 25 mph.

But: I don't believe in roads. And I especially don't believe in them, passing by, where I live.

I don't believe in them, because humans travel down them. And, like any animal, I do not want humans around, cutting through my life, potentially Looking—or worse—when I am about, what I am about.

I can't stand it. Humans. Looking at me. When I am out and about, my Home.

But, I also need to farmer.

So, finally, I decided, that I would need to render myself, out and about when farmering, invisible.

The real Irish, the ones who became trees, and also the Indians, the original inhabitants of the North American continent, they could get real good at that. Getting invisible. When it so suited.

Like almost everything of any real importance, this is information that cannot be found in any tube. But, it's out there. Available.

So, now, I can go out there, and farmer, and no human, can See me. They just blither, on by.

And so, since I am not there, to them, but of them, I am Aware: sometimes I am plunged, into the very rawness, of their lives.

And so, yesterday evening, I was out there, farmering, just twenty or so feet from the road, and invisible, asking the fussy French lavender if it liked, enough, the little mound I made for it; and reassuring the new cape honeysuckle, that it could get just as big and bold and brassy, as the braggy cape honeysuckle I planted over yonder two years ago; when this car, slowly, drives by, the occupants completely oblivious to me, who am invisible, and the man at the wheel, in a stupid (such things are always stupid) domestic dispute, with the woman in the passenger seat, he is shouting at her: "'Stop yelling, so I can see better'? That doesn't make any fuckin' sense!"

Oh. But it does.

"Stop yelling, so I can see better." That is really High. Wisdom.

Without yelling, there would be no Hairball. Yelling: that is what he is about.

The Hairball, he is all about yelling, and kicking his little feet, and throwing his rattle, from his high-chair.

Baby. Huey.

Boring. Exhausting. Stupid.

This operative supposed Reality, in which Dick "Six" Pence, he shall today join The Hairball, upon the disgusting and degraded and demented ticket of burning upon a bonfire a million Mexicans, it seems to have originated with the avid scrabbling among Indiana GOoPer officeholders, who, supposedly, received Heavy and Meaningful political Signals, that Sixpence, he shall, their state, abruptly be Leaving, and so, they can, all, now, mebbe, move up a notch.

Indiana, it is a deeply stupid state, and Sixpence, he is a deeply stupid person.

Dan Quayle, Jimmy Hoffa, Michael Jackson, Jim Jones—all of them born in Indiana. Put them together, and what do you get? An illiterate thug who sleeps with a monkey and poisons people with Kool-Aid. That: Indiana.

The Ku Klux Klan, it has never been more popular, anywhere, than it was in Indiana in the 1920s. When, more than one-third of the state's white males, they were publicly enrolled, in the Klan. This state, then, like the Real and the True, homecoming Homeland, for The Hairball. Whose daddy, he was a Klansman.

Sixpence, he is a human of such scarifying stupidity, that he terrifies his own hair. Which has turned corpse-white. From fear and loathing, of being connected to him.

Sixpence, he was one of 656,789 scrapings from the bottom of the gene pool, that once thought about striving to become the 2016 Republican nominee for President of the United States. The Sixpence particular Path to Victory, that would involve positioning himself, as more of a numbnuts cornhole yeehaw, than any of his many competitors.

But then—thinking it was Smart—Sixpence, he signed into law, a bill that permitted retrovert Indianians, to decline to bake pizzas, to be served at gay weddings.

The bill that Pence signed, it was known as the Religious Freedom Restoration Act. But what it was really about, was Hating homos. It permits business-owners to decline to offer services to patrons if to do so would offend said owners' "religious beliefs."

Of the same sort of legislation that some states and localities passed to combat the various civil-rights laws and court decisions of the 1950s and '60s, which at last legally codified the basic notion that black people are human beings.

Such legislation, constituted the last throes, of racist dead-enders, and it died like dogs, once submitted before courts staffed by Sane People.

Sixpence, he wanting—so badly—to be a knuckledragger, who would ensure that the Americans would have to go through the same thing, again—eternal recurrence, march yea verily on—this time with the last throes of dead-enders, whose brains explode, at the mere notion, that gay people, they are human beings.

So he hugged to his bosoms, did Sixpence, this nimrod Indianan, named after methamphetamine, Crystal O’Connor, of Memories Pizza, in Walkerton, Indiana, who intoned to all and sundry:

"If a gay couple came in and wanted us to provide pizzas for their wedding, we would have to say no.

"We are a Christian establishment," says O'Connor.

"We're not discriminating against anyone, that's just our belief and anyone has the right to believe in anything," says O'Connor. "I do not think it's targeting gays. I don't think it’s discrimination. It's supposed to help people that have a religious belief."

It is believed that Walkerton, the Indiana burg where Ms. Meth O'Connor lives and works, is so named, because the people, who reside there, are too knee-crawlingly stupid, to drive, or even pilot a bicycle, and thus, are allowed only to walk.

This homo-hating bill, signed by Sixpence, it subsequently cost his state millions of dollars, as Sane and Decent people everywhere proceeded to refuse to journey to Indiana. And, even among Republicans, it was regarded as such a Boner, that people with Money, they informed Sixpence, that he could not expect, anyone, not already sunk deep into dementia, to shell out any shekels, for any Sixpence, presidential campaign.

And so, Sixpence, he had to go weep in the corner. Playing, over and over again, while drinking, heavily, alone, there in the dark, Mitch Miller's "I've Got Sixpence." Which, Sixpence, he had once hoped, to spray, all across the nation, as his uber-alles, theme, and then Victory, song.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sHoRn_h8w3w]

But now! Sixpence! Born again! Because The Hairball! That avatar of hate! He has not, as yet, sufficiently, expressed, his Hate! For the homos! And so! What better way! To prove, to the debased GOoPer faithfull! That he! The Hairball! Hates homos! Every bit as much! As he hates Mexicans and Muslims and black people and disabled people and women and oh and so and all the many very rest! Then, by joining to his hip, the renowned pizza homo-hater, Dick Sixpence!

And! Oh! For Sixpence! Oh! Happy Day! Now! He! By the Power! And the Grace! Of The Hairball! He! Be! Born! Again!

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hzj3pOdCOqU]

Even at this late hour, I find it hard to believe that The Hairball, being Thanatos quintessenced, will be able to restrain himself from selecting, as his running mate, a stone serial killer, a general—just as did his similarly ugly-souled, batshit forebears: Ross Perot (who selected James Stockdale, a man who had his brain entirely removed from his head before he joined the Perot ticket), and George Wallace (who selected Curtis LeMay, the original for Jack "Precious Bodily Fluids" Ripper, in Stanley Kubrick's true-life documentary film Dr. Strangelove).

At the very least, The Hairball's very public flirtation, with elevating, from his foreign-policy brain-damage trust, the recently-retired serial killer Michael Flynn, to his butt-boy as vice-president, this will require all those who have labored, under the titanic delusion, that The Hairball, he is some sort of three-fisted quixotic crusader against "the neocons," to now stick hatpins, all the way through their frontal lobes, in order to retain any hope, of maintaining such a hallucination.

For Flynn, he has never met a Muslim, he believed should not be killed. Flynn, he foams that Islam, it is "a political ideology based on a religion." He bites the bedsheets in fear that jihadists are "infiltrating inside of our country, coming through our borders." He demands that United States serial killers place their boots on the ground in Iraq and Syria, and "for years." And he, on this very day, is publishing a book, The Field Of Flight, co-authored with his best buddy bosom pal, Michael Ladeen—neocon extraordinaire, PNAC signatory, Iran-Contra snake, yellowcake forgerer, rabid attack dog demanding for the past three decades the immediate and total obliteration of Iran, and who is the immortal utterer of the notion that "every ten years or so, the United States needs to pick up some small crappy little country and throw it against the wall, just to show the world we mean business."

Yeehaw.

Wait a minute. Wait a minute. So sorry. But flying cowboys. They must, here, now, pass through.

down there by the river is man whose horn is twisted into shapes
unknown to the wicked and the wise
he bears the look of an animal
who has seen things no animal should have ever seen
he has been driven beyond all towns and all systems
until just now but it is long past too far
and he keeps going

because it's a desert

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-hwI_7ra484]

Flying. Even if you're a cowboy. You can do that, too. If you, bad enough, want it. Native Hawaiians: good people to go to, for that.

Also, native Hawaiians, they do not need flashlights. Because they have kahuna eyes. With which they can see through any dark.

We know this to be true. Because it was vouchsafed to us. In an episode. Of the true-life documentary series. Magnum P.I.

Newt Gingrich, he has publicly and pathetically pimped himself out as The Hairball's running mate, for months, now. But he, apparently, will be The Loser. Because he is disfavored by Lolita Hairball. The real power. Behind The Hairball's, would-be throne.

As Nomi Prins has astutely observed, "Lolita, not wife Melania, is Trump's 'first lady' (in waiting)."

There will be many turns in the screw, when The Hairball, he becomes the president.

There is, for instance, a tradition, that the day after inauguration day, the president, he journey, to the National Cathedral, there to appropriately Worship.

The Hairball, when he becomes the president, he shall make that journey. But there, in the Cathedral, he shall do something Different. For there, he shall marry, Lolita Hairball. His daughter.

The Hairball, he shall previously have tossed off whatever Eastern European wife he is married to currently—I can't remember exactly who she is; there are so many; they are but a blur—and will instead yoke his micropenis to his daughter, Lolita, for whom, he has, and for so long, and so often, expressed, unbridled lust.

And why not? The Romans, the Borgias—they commonly fucked, sometimes married, their daughters.

And that, among other things, is what The Hairball is. A Roman. A Borgia.

He also, The Hairball, has something special, planned, for the inauguration ceremony itself.

Long has The Hairball, stated that he wishes, to execute Edward Snowden. And, The Hairball, he has opined, that his great good friend, Vladimir Putin, he would return Snowden, to the US, if The Hairball were, but to, officially, ask Putin to do so.

Snowden, like a Real human being, he is, at this moment, making a mess, there in Russia—a place he did not desire to be, but where he is instead marooned, because the US stripped him of his passport, as he attempted to journey to South America.

Snowden, marooned, there in Russia, last week, he took to his twit machine, there to condemn the latest machinations of the Russian government to place the boot upon the necks of its people.

Putin has signed a repressive new law that violates not only human rights, but common sense. Dark day for Russia.

Snowden wrote.

Signing the Big Brother law must be condemned. Beyond political and constitution consequences, it is also a $33b+ tax on Russia's internet.

Snowden wrote. Again.

The Hairball, he has a solution, to this Snowden problem. One that will benefit Putin, too.

On the day he is inaugurated, The Hairball, he will have the Russians, ship Snowden, back to the United States.

It will be like when the Iranian hostages were released. On that day, when Ronald Reagan, he took over the presidency, from Jimmy Carter.

Except, here, The Hairball, he will dispatch ol' general Flynn, out there to the airport. And Flynn, he will there sever Snowden's head. From his neck. Saw it off. With his big bitchin' American serial-killer knife.

Then, as The Hairball, he completes the swearing-in, Lolita Hairball, she will present to him—The Hairball—Snowden's severed, bloodied head. On a platter.

This: it will be Right. It will be Biblical. It will be Justified.

And the Americans. They will Ooh. And they will Ahh.

And it will be. A New Dawn.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ps_YWN1mrAg]

Wait.

Hold up.

For the Real. Revolution.

Which is the Evolution. Of the Mind.

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

The political people: at best, they are sad, and they are stumbling, and they are over.

Mad Bomber. Sixpence. Hairball. Deli Man. Gingrich Stole Christmas. Bomb Bomb Iran Michael Flynn.

Fuck 'em.

None of 'em. Done anything. Near what these three people. Be. Do.

—Caleb Harper. Grew up in a family of agriculture. Wanted nothing to do with it. Ran off, from all that his people had been, to be a computer geek. Eventually, experienced the lesson, most succinctly expressed, by Lew Welch:

Freak out.
Come back.
Bandage the wounded and feed however many you can.
Never cheat.

Has now developed a way, wherein anyone, anywhere, may be a farmer. All and all. Can feed themselves. And as many others. As so beckons. True revolution. No one dies. And all feed.

—Tim Wong. The pipevine swallowtail butterfly. Gone from San Francisco. He brought it back. A single human being. Made a place. For another species. To thrive. Where formerly. It had died. Bodhisattva. Take me by your Hand.

—Mark Bustos. Grew up in New York, returned, as a youth, to the land of his people, the Philippines—and so, pursuant to the vomitings of The Hairball, he should never have been allowed back into the US, as the Philippines, that is a land, Known, to harbor, many, Muslims—and, amid the poverty, that bled into his being, there, he Wanted, to do Something.

What Bustos, he knew how to do, was to cut hair. And so, there, he cut hair. Of people. Who could never afford a haircut.

He returned to NYC. Where he works in a salon. Where the minimum charge. Is $150. For a cut. And, every Sunday, Bustos, he goes out into the streets, and he cuts the hair of the homeless, and for free.

And he's brought in other people: from his world, into his world. High-end stylists. Also, now, cutting the hair, of the homeless. And, now, not just in NYC. But all around the world. They travel. A hair-cutting band. From New Orleans. To Rio. From Shanghai. To Shangri-La.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f4gZlEk1CKM]

See: the thing is: it doesn't matter. What you do.

Write. Sing. Draw. Grow. Paint. Play. Pound. Cut. Smooth. Fly. Swim. Shape. Sand. Dig. Dog. Wash. Pull. Push. Make it. Straight. Make it. Wild. And oh, so fine.

Just as long as you do it. And share it. With each other.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IfaaaDX_Uh0]

. . . take off your shoes . . .