Day One of the Republican National Convention, it has now passed into history. Which has firmly rejected it. However, as no Mexicans or Muslims were actually killed on stage, this must be accounted a Victory, and one for all Mankind.

But killing Mexicans and Muslims, that was certainly the theme of the evening. The speaking schedule was clogged, like a larded-up artery, with: (1) Muslim-murdering serial killers, primarily of the waterhead variety, associated with the Navy Seepholes; and (2) various people claiming their relatives had been foully murdered by "illegal immigrants," deaths which must be avenged by either deporting all the Mexicans, or burning them in big bonfires out on the open plain.

It is true that one on-stage death was only narrowly averted. That was when the Cleveland fire marshal intervened to prevent Willie Robertson, The Hairball's fellow television-salesman, from, as part of his prayerful presentation, preparing for those assembled one of his family's favorite recipes: Barbecued Negro, Stuffed With Waterfowl.

The fire marshal next ixnayed a proposed last-minute addition to the program, insisted upon by The Hairball himself: an on-stage cross-burning. This was intended both to honor The Hairball's father, Fred, the noted Klansman, and also as a defiant response to Republican strategist Rick Wilson's characterization of the convention: "On Earth 2, you'd be showing the Republican Party isn't this stupid white boys' club. But The Hairball has rejected everybody who's not in the stupid white boys' club. At this point, we might as well have a giant cross burning out front."

The fire marshal's dousing of both the Negro-barbecue, and the cross-burning, this sent The Hairball into one of his patented frenzies. He was espied raging around backstage, fulminating about "needless regulations" and "political correctness," then getting on the phone with someone back in New York, a certain "Fat Tony," instructing this Tony personage to seize the fire marshal off the street, take him to some place quiet, and there "pound him into porcelain."

"I want you to make him into a toilet!" The Hairball heaved. "So I can shit in his mouth!"

The Cleveland fire marshal is not the only human who shall lose his life, for scorning The Hairball.

On Monday, Lolita Hairball, the daughter and lover of The Hairball, when asked about the various Republican potentates who have declined to attend the convention, said, on Good Morning America: "that's their choice, if they don't want to be part of the narrative, if they don't want to be part of the future."

Asked by the GMA hostess, if her remark that these people didn't "want to be part of the future," meant that, in fact "they have no future," Lolita Hairball stated that was correct. She promised that, after her father and lover becomes the president, all such people shall be killed. Though the manner of their death has yet to be decided upon, she said, they will "for sure" first be placed in tiger cages, and run through the streets of Washington DC, so the people of The Hairball can laugh and jeer and throw garbage at them.

She said that, at her personal request, the life of her rabbi, Haskel Lookstein, shall be spared—even though Lookstein backed out of his appearance at the convention, where he was to give the convocation.

Some say Lookstein withdrew when Yahweh rode up to him astride a big motherfucking cloud, hurling lightning bolts, and thundering dire warnings into both his earholes.

Lolita Hairball said it would be enough, for her, that The Hairball has promised that Lookstein "will lose his cardinal's hat."

Lolita Hairball refused to confirm or deny published reports that she and The Hairball shall be married on inauguration day. She did affirm that, on that day, The Hairball shall at last realize his fervent desire to execute Edward Snowden.

The Hairball has long claimed that Russia would return Snowden to the US, if he were to become the president. And, now, apparently, this is to be so.

The plan is, Lolita Hairball explained, for Snowden to be flown in from Russia, and delivered to Reagan National Airport, on inauguration day; out there at the airport, one of The Hairball's numberless neocons, most likely the serial killer Michael Flynn, shall saw off Snowden's head. Which will then be delivered to The Hairball, on a silver platter, just as he recites the oath of office.

"He has a stupid little geek head," Lolita Hairball said. "It needs to be cut off."

Lolita Hairball also admitted that Flynn, the man who shall saw off Snowden's head, was favored by her father to be his running mate, until he went on the television "and said women should decide about their bodies, instead of Daddy."

"That was wrong," Lolita Hairball frowned. "All the women's bodies, belong to Daddy."

She said The Hairball then settled on the severely Jesus-disabled moron, Sixpence, as his vice president, after she herself had vetoed Eye Of Newt, and her husband, Mr. Lolita Hairball, had vetoed Captain Lapband.

She described Eye Of Newt as "gross and icky and big and fat and sweaty. And he thinks he's smarter than Daddy—and he's not, no one is smarter than Daddy—and also he said mean things about Daddy, behind his back."

She said it didn't help that Eye Of Newt kept shoving his long-time benefector, Sheldon Anuson, at her father, Anuson promising to shower the campaign with unlimited funds, if only The Hairball would select as his vice-president Eye Of Newt. And, "Daddy didn’t like Anuson's insinuation that he has more money than Daddy does. That is simply wrong. No one has more money than Daddy."

Finally, Lolita Hairball feared that Eye Of Newt, he was so ambitious, "that he might try to poison Daddy, to take his job. That is simply wrong. No one is going to be doing any poisoning, except our family."

She said she would have been perfectly fine with Captain Lapband, a long-time family friend, but her husband, Mr. Lolita Hairball, "has kind of a problem with him, because Lapband put his father in the prison."

Yes, when Captain Lapband was the US Attorney for the District of New Jersey, he went after Mr. Lolita Hairball's father, on multiple counts of illegal campaign contributions, tax evasion, and witness tampering—the latter involving attempting to silence his sister and brother-in-law by creating a sex tape of his brother-in-law with a prostitute. Lapband negotiated a plea deal that saw Mr. Lolita's Hairball's father go off to the federal prison for two years.

Though he is not of pure Hairball blood, Mr. Lolita Hairball has of late thoroughly endeared himself to The Hairball, through his "loyalty": first, by transforming his New York Observer, a once fine paper that Mr. Lolita Hairball purchased in 2006, and quickly ruined, into an absolute laughingstock, akin to the equally Hairball-whoring National Enquirer, in ceaselessly fellating The Hairball, and flaying The Mad Bomber; then, most recently, when The Hairball encountered some trouble, after he posted his daily retwit from some white-supremacists vomiting somewhere on the tubes, by shamelessly plucking his own Mr. Lolita Hairball forebears out of the fires of the Holocaust, to serve as fair witness that The Hairball, he for sure loves him some Jews.

This last caused multiple members of Mr. Lolita Hairball's family to commence firing:

When an out of touch with reality nominee hires an out of touch with reality campaign manager, who is also a son­-in-­law, you get the BS Mr. Lolita Hairball wrote. I don't think The Hairball is an anti­Semite; I think he's a lying idiot (among other things) with little to no experiences outside his teetering fiefdom of failed development projects, divorces, bankrupted sports leagues, fraudulent 'Universities' and golf courses (and the list keeps going). The very first thing a responsible campaign manager should do, I'd think, and I mean the very first thing, would be to take away his father-­in­-law's Twitter account. Even Mr. Lolita Hairball would've had the street smarts to figure that one out while living on boiled potatoes in the forest.

That my grandparents have been dragged into this is a shame. Thank you Mr. Lolita Hairball for using something sacred and special to the descendants of Joe and Rae Kushner to validate the sloppy manner in which you've handled this campaign. Kudos to you for having gone this far; no one expected this. But for the sake of the family name, which may have no meaning to you but still has meaning to others, please don't invoke our grandparents in vain just so you can sleep better at night. It is self serving and disgusting.

So. When Mr. Lolita Hairball, he said, please, no Captain Lapband. The Hairball said: okay.

And: thus: Sixpence.

sing a song of sixpence
a pocket full of rye
four and twenty black men
baked in a pie

Though he did not get to be the vice-president, serial-killer Flynn was permitted to address the convention Monday night. Wherein he accused the Kenyan of being in the pay, and under the influence, of Iran and ISIL; described his big dream of bomb-and-shoot-and-strafe-and-slit neoconning all over this and every other planet; and channeled another numbnuts racist mad-as-shit serial-killer, Douglas MacArthur, who famously said "old soldiers never die, they just fade away": Flynn, he said the United States "must never fade."

The Ferret, he got up and there, and, standing on the bones of the dead of 9/11, repeated the word "fear" so many times, he ruptured his prostate.

Rick Perry, the Farm Animal, demonstrated that the stage was exactly level, as, during his address to the convention, drool flowed evenly, from both sides of his mouth.

It was something of a gamble, letting him up there, as it is known that the Farm Animal has a supermassive black hole in his "brain." The smallest black hole previously was believed to operate in the constellation Scorpius; however, when Science Men directed the Rossi X-Ray Timing Explorer at the Farm Animal's cabeza, they detected a signature "heartbeat" confirming that an even tinier black hole dwells within the "man's" cranium. And there, it renders him incapable of rational thought. For, whenever the Farm Animal forms a thought, it is immediately sucked into the black hole, where it disappears, never to return. Since not even light can escape a black hole, there is no hope at all, for any nascent notion sparked in the sparse brain folds of this failed Dr. Moreau experiment.

The Danger is that the black hole in his "brain," it may someday elect to start sucking in more than just the Farm Animal's thoughts.

Like, last night, it could have decided to suck in everybody in that Cleveland hall.

But, no such luck.

Meanwhile, while all this was going on, Tony Schwartz was out there writhing around in mea culpa, flagellating himself for his role in the rise of The Hairball.

Schwartz is the fellow who—for the money—wrote The Hairball's The Art Of The Deal. Among the many amusing, if exasperating, misconceptions of the people of The Hairball, is that The Hairball is some wizardly business genius, a Reality which he has expounded upon as the scribbling maestro of a dozen books. In truth, The Hairball is the Barney Fife of business deals, and he has never written a word in his life. He doesn't even read.

Schwartz recently decided to gird his loins, and unburden himself to the New Yorker, about his 18 months spent with The Hairball, while concocting The Art Of The Deal. It is said, by many, that Schwartz knows whereof he speaks. "Tony created The Hairball," says editor and publisher Edward Kosner. "He's Dr. Frankenstein."

And the Doctor, he is now in great Sorrow.

"I put lipstick on a pig," he said. "I feel a deep sense of remorse that I contributed to presenting The Hairball in a way that brought him wider attention and made him more appealing than he is." He went on, "I genuinely believe that if The Hairball wins and gets the nuclear codes there is an excellent possibility it will lead to the end of civilization."

If he were writing The Art of the Deal today, Schwartz said, it would be a very different book with a very different title. Asked what he would call it, he answered, The Sociopath.

"I was shocked," Schwartz told me. "The Hairball didn't fit any model of human being I'd ever met. He was obsessed with publicity, and he didn't care what you wrote."

"The Hairball has been written about a thousand ways from Sunday, but this fundamental aspect of who he is doesn't seem to be fully understood," Schwartz told me. "It's implicit in a lot of what people write, but it's never explicit—or, at least, I haven't seen it. And that is that it's impossible to keep him focussed on any topic, other than his own self-aggrandizement, for more than a few minutes."

This year, Schwartz has heard some argue that there must be a more thoughtful and nuanced version of The Hairball that he is keeping in reserve for after the campaign. "There isn't," Schwartz insists. "There is no private Hairball." This is not a matter of hindsight. While working on The Art of the Deal, Schwartz kept a journal in which he expressed his amazement at The Hairball's personality, writing that The Hairball seemed driven entirely by a need for public attention. "All he is is 'stomp, stomp, stomp'—recognition from outside, bigger, more, a whole series of things that go nowhere in particular," he observed, on October 21, 1986.

In his journal, Schwartz wrote, "The Hairball stands for many of the things I abhor: his willingness to run over people, the gaudy, tacky, gigantic obsessions, the absolute lack of interest in anything beyond power and money."

He saw The Hairball as driven not by a pure love of dealmaking but by an insatiable hunger for "money, praise, and celebrity." Often, after spending the day with The Hairball, and watching him pile one hugely expensive project atop the next, like a circus performer spinning plates, Schwartz would go home and tell his wife, "He's a living black hole!"

Schwartz told me that The Hairball's need for attention is "completely compulsive," and that his bid for the Presidency is part of a continuum. "He's managed to keep increasing the dose for forty years," Schwartz said. After he'd spent decades as a tabloid titan, "the only thing left was running for President. If he could run for emperor of the world, he would."

There were many people invited to speak Monday night at the convention, who declined. One who did accept, he was firmly vetoed, by RNC chair Rinse Pubis. And that was Don King. Tis a real pity. Because King, he is the quintessence of Hairballism. An empty showman, a congenital liar, a thief who has stolen from everyone he's been associated with, someone who once stomped a man to death over a debt of $600.

The Hairball himself made an appearance on the stage Monday night, to introduce one of his wives. Wading in through clouds of dry ice, to the thundering strains of Queen's "We Are The Champions."

A completely apt choice. For rock people, they have been real leery, for going on forty years now, of Queen's brain-rattling "We Will Rock You/We Are The Champions" command.

To wit, Dave Marsh, back in 1978:

Queen isn't here just to entertain. This group has come to make it clear exactly who is superior and who is inferior. Its anthem, "We Will Rock You," is a marching order: you will not rock us, we will rock you. Indeed, Queen may be the first truly fascist rock band.

Oh yeah. Good times. Good times.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LZfIJEtCO1c]