It's almost like she wants to lose. The Mad Bomber. I mean—Tim Kaine? Seriously? Some 300 million Americans to choose from, and this is what she comes up with?

A pale, stale slice of white bread, flaked right off a Pat Boone loaf. So somnambulant, he makes '90s-era wood-block Al Gore, look like Little Richard.

Way back in the day, when it was presumed the Republicans would nominate someone at least remotely resembling something sane, the Plan was to yoke the Bomber to a brown person. But now, the last throes of the white people having gone stone mad, selecting as their standard-bearer a genuine reptile, combining the very worst characteristics of Roy Cohn, Charles Lindbergh, Strom Thurmond, and Yosemite Sam, a lizard who cannot even shift slumbering position at night in his rockpile, without shouting out for some brown person to be bombed or burnt . . . well, the Bomber, apparently, now believes she can go with Rainbo boy, because she no longer needs to pander to any brown people.

In this, she is very wrong. In truth, the Bomber, she needs to pander, like she has never pandered before. Because 56% of the Americans, they believe she should have been criminally charged, for the server sleaze. This basically means they think she should be in the prison. This is not a real safe and secure place for a politician to be, some three months before an election: a majority of the voters thinking you should be lying atop some cold iron bed, rather than flying high up there on Air Force One.

If the Republicans had managed to nominate even a mammal, the Bomber today would be polling behind not only that semi-humanoid, but also Jill Stein and Gary Johnson, as well as Deez Nuts, Don Ho, and Dirk Diggler. Because no one really wants The Mad Bomber to be the president. She is like some politics version of Sheldon Whiteside in The Man Who Came To Dinner, who showed up one night, and now, years later, still never leaves, forcing everyone in the house to consume many Medicines. She is like a television show, from out of a time warp, that no one can understand why it hasn't been cancelled. She has been around so long that young people confuse her with historical figures like Betsy Ross, Carrie Nation, and Lizzie Borden, thinking she was the woman who sewed up the wounds in her husband with threads from an American flag, after she took an axe to him, when she caught him in a saloon spraying semen on the barmaids.

The only people who really want her to be the president, these are the fanatical PUMAs, who disappeared into the jungle back in 2008, after the Bomber was defeated by The Kenyan—refusing, like those WWII Japanese soldiers who wouldn't believe the emperor had surrendered, to face Reality. As was true with those Japanese soldiers, there are not, today, many survivors, among the PUMAS: most, in the succeeding eight years, have died, or gone into Homes. Not even the Bomber herself, these days, can she articulate why she should be the president. Other than that, many years ago, she and The Clenis, they Decided on it: "eight years of Bill, eight years of Hill."

The Bomber's selection of Kaine, this also expresses her great Hate for her erstwhile opponent, The Cranky Brooklyn Deli Man, and all of his people. Because Kaine, he is well across the great divide, from the Deli Man, and his people, on two core issues: Wall Street, and trade.

Less than 48 hours before his announced selection as The Mad Bomber's VP, Kaine signed a letter publicly weeping that "regulations" are strangling the banks, like some demented nanny throttling an infant in its cradle.

It is like it was not enough for the Bomber to have electorally defeated the Deli Man. No. Because, once she had him down, and prostrate on the floor, she then felt the need to put her thumbs to his eyes, and start gouging.

If The Mad Bomber thinks Wonder Bread there is going to draw any white people away from The Hairball, she is a nutbar. Because the last throes of the white people, at least the grunters with the y-chromes, they are determined to go out, crazed and in flames, there in the Danse Macabre, howling with The Hairball. They will not be moved.

But she might have maybe moved some of the people of the Deli Man. As they saddle up, and prepare to ride out into the wilderness. Like Chuckles Heston, and Nova, there at the end of the true-life documentary film, Planet Of The Apes.

I get that, as soon as she felt politically able, The Mad Bomber ran from selecting a brown person, ran like Richard Pryor with his body on fire. After all, her family's style, it is more executing brown people, especially when they are retarded.

But would it have killed her to select Elizabeth "I Was A Republican Because They're Best For The Markets" Warren? Or even the Deli Man himself?

Yes. Apparently. It would have.

She could have done something wild, and bold. Like: why not Cornel West? That would have made people sit up in their beds. But no. It had to be the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

Kaine has a son who is a serial killer in the perfectly useless United States Marine Corps. This means we will all need to be heavily sedated over the next three months, in order to withstand the ceaseless nauseating siren songs to fellate the troops.

In the days of my youth, I established two firm rules about political candidates: I would never support: (1) a member of a family dynasty; or (2) a general of serial-killers.

This made The Mad Bomber real easy for me. Because, as soon as The Clenis moved into the Oral Office, she became disqualified. Didn't matter if she developed into John Lenin. Not happening.

Meanwhile, with the wisdom of age, I expanded the general prohibition, to an anathema pronounced against anyone who serves as a serial killer, in any capacity, or allows their spawn to so serve. The only exception: if the spawn is publicly disowned, or, if the person his- or herself served, s/he publicly disavows the serial-killer service as Stupid and Wrong and Monstrous and a Disgrace. If s/he says, as has Tim O'Brien: "I was a coward. I went to the war."

They also say Kaine plays the harmonica.

Well, that's nice.

But the real question is: can he bring "Mystery Train?"

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uto9t8k-Flg]

I think not.

Meanwhile, a different-one Caine, the British thespain Michael Caine, he has been having some troubles, because of the War On Terra.

See, his birth name, it was Maurice Micklewhite. But, when he went into the thespian business, back in the 1950s, he was Told to change his name, and forthwith, or he would never get any parts. So, he did. Selecting the name, Michael Caine.

But, come War On Terra days, when he would try to get on the airplanes, or otherwise cross a border, the gendarmes, they would all get very confused. For the gendarmes, they could see, and with their very own eyes, that he was the Michael Caine, who lives on the movie screen. And yet, he was showing them a document, saying he was Maurice Micklewhite. This was Wrong, they Knew, and also Suspicious. Could it be that, maybe, he was somehow in league, with SCARY ISLAMIC BROWN PEOPLE?

Referring to his experience with security guards at airports, he explained: "He would say, 'Hi Michael Caine,' and suddenly I'd be giving him a passport with a different name on it.

"I could stand there for an hour. So I changed my name."

So, he had to go into the court. And legally change his name. To Michael Caine.

I want Tim Kaine. To go into the court. And legally change his name. To Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

The other one, non-Kaine, vice-presidential striver, the severely Jesus-disabled Sixpence, he is maybe having something of a problem. Because the people, they have Found Out, that his daughter, she is not a human.

If you study the photo there to the right, which is from Sixpence's own twit machine, you will see that the alleged daughter, she is not reflected in the mirror.

Humans, they reflect in mirrors.

Thus, this being, is not a human.

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

Among creatures that do not reflect in mirrors, are vampires. It also possible that this is a Pokeman Go being. Therefore, I am thinking, this non-ordinary "daughter," she is a clever pitch, for the youth vote. Because the young people, they are still going, and very much so, for the vampires; and, everywhere, they are wandering, heads down, staring at the little screens, looking for the Pokemen people. I am thinking that The Hairball/Sixpence brain-damage trust, they will not even announce that the alleged daughter, she is a vampire, and/or a Pokewoman. They will just let the young people discover it for themselves. Who will then think it way Kool. That this Sixpence politics dude, he has a vampiric pokey, for a "daughter."

Clever.

After a year of, out on the campaign trail, blistering The Kenyan for using a teleprompter, The Hairball, on Thursday night, he publicly and cruelly killed a teleprompter, by forcing it to scroll for him more words than are present in Birth Of A Nation.

Everywhere there are tubes recounting in detail the bizarreness and lies of The Hairball's endless sweaty stormfronting convention address. But I think among the most apt and accurate, not to mention succinct, wisdoms, were those emitted, by Billmon, in real time, on his twit machine. A sampling:

—So speech really is just Trump's same snake oil pitch, but dressed up in teleprompter language, with things like complete sentences, and verbs that agree with subjects, and arguments that don't veer into personal vendettas and pet peeves at the drop of a comma.

—The weird pauses & inappropriate stress words: not on Ambien—bath salts.

—He's picking up all the big endorsements. First David Duke, now Geert Wilders.

—It sounds like Nixon or (even more) Agnew—plus 40 years of accumulated rage and lust for revenge on Roger Stone's part.

—Overheard on the convention floor: "It's just like the Berlin Wall. We're going to build one of those."

—President Trump: "Mr. Gorbachev, put back that wall!"

—"I will personally pat you down at airports!"

—"As most corrupt man in America, I speak with some authority on this!"

—"Death, destruction, and the heartbreak of psoriasis: THIS is Hillary's legacy!"

—Trump: "Did they ever find out who killed Bambi's Mom? NO! CHAOS!"

—This man sells fascism with exactly the same devil-may-care brio as when he was hawking Trump ties & steaks.

—Trump's only real rhetorical trick is taking his commercial hyperbole (best, biggest, most expensive) & applying it to the fascism business.

—Puppets on strings, manipulated by shadowy hidden forces from behind the scenes . . . this sounds familiar.

—"Humiliations! One after another! They laughed at my finger size!"

—You know who else talked constantly about humiliations?

—Give hate a chance.

—This is to a Bernie speech as a Black Mass is to a regular one.

—Fred would probably love it. Just like a Klan rally!

—"Believe! Clap, people, or Adolf will die again!"

—So, can we mark last year's big debate over whether Trump and Trumpism are fascist as "resolved"?

—So there it is: our national rationality test. One we've routinely flunked every time a snake oil salesman like Trump has gotten up on a stage and tried to sell us our own dreams.

The premier response, to The Hairball's sad spew of stormer sewage, that was delivered by Patty Griffin. On the television. And nearly a decade ago. Because time. Goes, wherever, we wish it, to.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jac5tXhMUrE]

Whoever was at the controls of the RNC's mighty musical wurlitzer, when The Hairball at last ceased his chunder, that person was clearly a saboteur.

For, blasted, first, out into the convention hall, as the balloons, they flaccidly floated down, was "All Right Now," Free's ode to casual pickup fucking.

Followed, pretty much unbelievably, by "You Can't Always Get What You Want."

Somewhere, Marianne Faithfull, she choked on, and spit out, her sushi. While Keith Richards, he wryly rolled another number, for the road.

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

A whole different being, was in charge of the music, when, earlier, Lolita Hairball, she took the convention stage.

Because her intro-song, it was "Here Comes The Sun." Which caused every sentient being, in this and all and every universe, to weep in despair.

The people these days in charge of the George Harrison estate, and twit machine, at the speed of light, they responded:

The unauthorized use of #HereComestheSun at the #RNCinCLE is offensive & against the wishes of the George Harrison estate. If it had been Beware of Darkness, then we MAY have approved it! #TrumpYourself

"Beware Of Darkness." Not bad. Though, maybe, I think, "Stupid Girl," even more appropriate.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7UI9MlSjiRA]

Somewhere around this site, at some point, I observed that The Hairball, and Lolita Hairball, his daughter, they would fuck on the stage, live, at the convention.

Please note that while this did not completely happen, it very nearly did.

More intelligent, evolved, and attractive, than anybody in the Hairball clan, are honeybirds.

Science Men, they are having one of their "duh" moments, in excitedly yammering, that they have, Proved!, that these animals, and humans, they talk, and work, together.

Birds and humans 'talk' to each other as they hunt bees nests together in the forests of Mozambique, according to a new study.

As their name suggests, honeyguides have been known to help hunters find honey for hundreds of years, but researchers wanted to find out if there was genuine two-way communication.

This kind of collaboration between people and wild animals is incredibly rare.

Well, no, it isn't. And everyone who is a human, and an animal, they know this. It is just that the Science Men, they haven't really Noticed.

Other Science Men, they have been bickering, like "ezra pound and t.s eliot/fighting in the captain's tower/while calypso singers laugh at them/and fishermen hold flowers," and for more than a hundred years, as to why turtles have shells.

Some of the Science Men, they say the shells were developed for burrowing. Some of the Science Men, they say the shells were developed as defensive protection.

The burrowing Science Men, they are currently having the ejaculation, because they think that by Looking at a Fossil, they have Proved they are the Winners!

Both, they are wrong. For turtles. They have shells. Because they feel like it.

Then there are the Science Men, who are having a pout-lip. Because they made a Big Machine, to look at the dark matter, but the dark matter, it wouldn't be seen.

You know, Science Men, not everything wants to be seen. Especially by Big Machines.

Learn. The lesson. Of Diana. In her bath.

I think I might have mentioned here, that sometimes the books, they fall off the shelves. And that I thought this was the work of the cats.

But now, having pondered the true-life documentary film Interstellar, I have decided that it is me. That is: a future me. Having fallen into the black hole. I am there, in the wall, pushing out the books, to try to communicate. To the dullard that is the present me. About the relativity and the gravity and the dark matter.

Now that I know this, I have put the watches up, by where the books fall down. So the black-hole me, can send the evolved information, into the second-hand of the watch, via morse code.

Another reason. To learn the morse code.

When I figure it out. I will tell you.

Stay tuned.

In the meantime, mail yerself. Out to desolation row. Know there. That the ghost of electricity. Howls in the bones of your face. And that if you don't make it. You know your baby will.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AL1HUsJJCzU]

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