So yesterday I developed a great Hate for the Law. Because I was sitting here working on a brief, and I decided to take a break, to bake some cookies, so I could fortify myself with chocolate, a known and recognized Medicine, and so I made the cookies, and I put them in the oven, and then I came back in here, and went back into the law, and I got lost in there, in the law, had no idea where I was, or what I was about, just floating, in the immortal words of Justice Frankfurter, as "a derelict on the waters of the law," forgetting all about the cookies, until the bad smell, it started pumping out of the oven, and then, in a panic, I rushed into the kitchen, to pull the cookies out, and then, when once they had cooled, the cookies, they were harder than diamonds, useless as anything but weapons, to hurl, like those sharpened metal stars in the true-life documentary film Full Metal Ninja, at the people of The Hairball, if, ever, my home, they try, to Invade.

But, yesterday, there was also a Happiness, in by far and for sure the coolest and most insightful tubular thing I experienced all week: some Canadian human, he put a GoPro on the ground, and a squirrel, s/he came along, and snatched it up, ran off with it, and then proceeded to film the world, as it is experienced, squirrelwise:

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t6I_Zic29VQ]

I am thinking, that it would be very illuminating. To have one of these squirrels, that live around here, GoPro this place. So I could then contrast. How this particular world. It is experienced. When one is squirrely. As compared to how it is experienced. Humanly.

But then, I quickly realized, there are some Hurdles, that must be overcome, before this can be achieved. The first, being: I do not know. What is a "GoPro."

Speaking of Hurdles, are the Olympics still happening? I tuned them out, before they began, when I encountered this story, reporting that "US intelligence has assigned more than 1000 spies to Olympic security as part of a highly classified effort to protect the Rio 2016 Summer Games and American athletes and staff."

Alright. I don't care what it is. If you are a nation, and you feel you have to dispatch 1000 spies, in order to protect your people, at whatever it is, then your people, they should just stay home, from whatever it is, and do something peaceful, and useful, and safe. Like bake cookies.

And then I thought, well, since the spies are already down there, anyway, then, once the athletes, they are sent home, to bake the cookies, then the spies, they could have a sort of Spy Olympics. For, no doubt, many other nations, they felt compelled to send their spies down there, to Rio, too. And so, all these spies, they could come out of their spy closets, and then participate, in some Games.

There could be a hurdle event, where the spies, they run down a track, periodically leaping over hurdles, while meanwhile trying to stab each other with poison-tipped umbrellas.

There could be a shotput-like thingie, where the spies, instead of hurling some heavy lead ball, instead throw off an exploding conch shell, like was once employed by the Americans to try to kill Fidel Castro. Great distances, will no doubt be achieved, as the conch-shells, they will be primed and timed to, indeed, explode.

There could be a water sport, wherein the Spy Men, they will jump into a pool, writhing with electric eels, which the Spy Men will then be required to grab, and form into letters, spelling out some special Spy Man Code.

There could be an expanded triathlon, where the Spy Men, they would run and swim and bike and crawl and fly and submarine and row and be waterboarded and burst through multiple Maginot Lines, in order to deliver, unto a president, a top secret Spy Man document: the president will receive it, shrug, say, "All right. You've covered your ass, now. Now watch this drive."

The paramilitary versions of the Spy Men, they, of course, will compete in the traditional March And Chant Penis-Grab:

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4kU0XCVey_U]

We know that the Olympics, they are a total Menace, to the national security of the Americans. Because some of the humans, at the John F. Kennedy International Airport, in the unliveable B. F. Skinner experiment of NYC, they were looking at the Olympics, on some tubes. And they were clapping. And some other humans, there at the airport, they heard the clapping, and they thought the claps, they were actually gunshots. And so soon all the humans, they were racing around, in an absolute panic. Like the politics people, when a herd of drug-maddened wild boar, is suddenly set loose, in one of their Meetings.

Passengers described scenes of panic and chaos. Demetrius Pipkin was in Terminal 1 awaiting a Norwegian Airlines flight when he heard rumors that shots had been fired. "We were previously told to get on the floor and take cover behind any and everything we could find," said Pipkin, who told WPIX-TV that the area was a "madhouse."

[F]ormer Navy SEAL and CEO of Force12 Media Brandon Webb apparently took it upon himself to lead people to safety, then boasted of his special force-style tactics, as though he had actually protected civilians from a terror attack. "I told a group I was with that we could climb the fence and get out of the area," he wrote. "I pulled my black North Face rain jacket out of my pack and threw it over the razor wire and encouraged a lady to go up first. She insisted I climb so she could watch how I did it."

Joe Pentangelo, a spokesperson for the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey Police Department, declared, "At this time, no firearm, rounds or shell casings or other evidence of shots fired has been found."

Maybe the Americans, they could have a pants-wetting Olympics. They could compete to see who could flood their underpants with the most fear-crazed urine, for No Real Reason, at all.

For sure, there are going to need to be, some Olympics, of Fristian Phrenology.

Fristian Phrenelogy, this is the suddenly widespread practice of diagnosing serious medical conditions in a human by looking into a tube, rather than by physically examining the human, as a medical professional.

In the Fristian Phrenology Olympics, tubular athletes, they will intensively gaze into some tubes, and then pronounce, What Is Really Wrong, with the person, that they have been, tubularly, Looking at.

Since this Fristian Phrenology thing, it is now such a ravenous fad—almost as popular as Pokeman Go, and just as fanciful—I thought maybe I'd try my hand at it. I mean, why not?

I begin with Patti Davis. Kind of an interesting human. She is the daughter of Ronald "Where's The Brain Of Me?" Reagan. During the period when Reagan was trying to be, and then was, the president, Davis, she was off being a Real human, enjoying sex, drugs, and rocknroll.

During some of this period, one of the penises that Davis accommodated into her body, it was attached to Bernie Leadon, who, during some of this period, was attached to the band known as the Eagles. Together, Patti and Bernie, they wrote a song, "I Wish You Peace" which appeared on the Eagles' One Of These Nights album.

Davis, I believe, is the only presidential daughter, to have ever written a song. (It is true that Lolita Hairball, she claims to be the author of "The Horst Wessel Song." But that copyright is disputed, and in any event she is not a presidential daughter. Yet.)

Dare I embed here this "I Wish You Peace" song? Why not? I imagine most people here. Have plenty of Medicine.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r0aRpLqWgGU]

Don Henley, he would later bitterly complain, that this song is "smarmy cocktail music and certainly not something the Eagles are proud of," that "nobody else [but Leadon] wanted it. We didn't feel it was up to the band's standards, but we put it on anyway as a gesture to keep the band together."

In truth, the song was hastily slapped on the album, at the insistence of Lawyers, to replace a Henley composition baldly describing the great joys of getting nekkid with 15-year-olds, and then ODing them on cocaine and quaaludes.

Davis also wrote a rather youngish autobiography, in which she disclosed that her mother, Nancy Reagan, was such a vicious and savage child abuser—her favorite weapon on Patti a hairbrush—that Davis had herself sterilized before the age of 25, in fear she, in turn, might abuse her own children. Davis later gave Mommie Dearest a bit of a pass, when she learned that Nancy had been addicted to prescription pills for well over 40 years. Yes, Ms. "Just Say No," she was, herself, a junkie.

Anyway. When The Hairball, he recently chundered his putrid bits about "second amendment people" maybe unloading on The Mad Bomber and some judges, Davis, she was not amused. She took to her twit machine, and there wrote this:

To The Hairball: I am the daughter of a man who was shot by someone who got his inspiration from a movie, someone who believed if he killed the President the actress from that movie would notice him. Your glib and horrifying comment about "Second Amendment people" was heard around the world. It was heard by sane and decent people who shudder at your fondness for verbal violence. It was heard by your supporters, many of whom gleefully and angrily yell, "Lock her up!" at your rallies. It was heard by the person sitting alone in a room, locked in his own dark fantasies, who sees unbridled violence as a way to make his mark in the world, and is just looking for ideas. Yes, Mr. Hairball, words matter. But then you know that, which makes this all even more horrifying.

Now, John Hinckley, the guy who took a shot at Davis' dad, the Ronster, he was one of those people, who just didn't get the movie.

This is a common problem: the humans, not getting the movie.

For instance, Francis Coppola, in his true-life documentary film Apocalypse Now, he intended the "Ride Of The Valkyries" sequence, to repulse people, to viscerally pound home the horrors of war. But, by the time Operation Panty Shield roiled around, stonebrained serial killers in the United States Marine Corps, they were beating their meat to those images, using them to jack themselves off and up, to go out and kill them some brown people.

Similarly, in Martin Scorsese's true-life documentary film Taxi Driver, Travis Bickle, he is a man, with many, many, screws, that are very, very, loose. He decides he will shoot a politics man, because a woman who worked for the politics man, she Spurned him. But Travis, he cannot get close to the politics man, because he is too fucking weird. And the security people, of the politics man, they run Travis off. So, instead, Travis, he goes and shoots a pimp, and some pimp-like people. And, thereby, becomes a Hero. Even the young woman, who Spurned, once upon a time, Travis, she is Impressed.

So, Hinckley, if he had been paying attention, and truly wanted to Learn from this movie, he would have gone out and shot a pimp, and some pimp-like people. But no. He took a shot at a president. And, then, he was not a Hero. And no one was Impressed. And he went to the loonbin.

(Just as a sidenote: very shortly before The Hairball chundered his "second amendment" solution, Hinckley, he was let loose from outta the loonbin, and he now walks among us. Coincidence? I think not.)

Now, Robert De Niro, he played Travis Bickle. And De Niro, he says: "I don't know, it's crazy that people like The Hairball. He shouldn't even be where he is, so God help us. What he's been saying is really totally crazy, ridiculous. He is totally nuts."

Okay. So here's where we wrap up the Fristian Phrenology. Robert De Niro, he played a crazy person. And, his playing, it inspired a Real crazy person, to, in Real Life, shoot at a Real president. So, De Niro, he, demonstrably, knows crazy. And De Niro, he says The Hairball, is "totally nuts." He knows whereof he speaks, does De Niro. Therefore, and pursuant to the Laws and principles of Fristian Phrenology, The Hairball, he is, unequivocally, "totally nuts." Case closed.

Meanwhile, there is The Mad Bomber. I have come upon a Fristian Phrenologist, who has run his hands, over some tubes, and thereby produced, and presented, powerful evidence, that she is: wait for it: a synthetic clone reptilian demon.

Witness:

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P23HLWtro0E]

The Mad Bomber, she is a synthetic clone reptilian demon. Without doubt. Case closed.

Now. We can all move on.

One thing that can be said about The Hairball, is that he has inspired some fine writing.

To wit, Garrison Keillor.

And so a large contingent of people who sat way in back in high school history class and now need to blame foreigners for their lack of progress in the world have nominated a bloated megalomaniac for president, running on a platform of contempt and fantasy.

When the rational fails to satisfy, then why not the counterintuitive? If your car won't start and you don't know why, push it over a cliff and watch it blow up. If you're tired of the same old same old in Washington, why not elect Bob Barker, former host of The Price Is Right? It's like having a walrus in church Sunday morning. The minister tries to explain the parable of the vineyard and the walrus says, "BLEAUGHHHHHH." Which one do you remember for weeks afterward?

Like David Remnick:

You have to say this for the crooked demagogues and reactionary populists of the American past: they may have stirred the bitter soup of nativist resentment with as much zeal as The Hairball, but their family counselors did not take time out from politics to cruise the Aegean on a plutocrat's yacht; their rhetorical counselors did not attempt, for decades, to instill fear in their employees through the most squalid sort of sexual terror; and their political counselors never worked in the interest of Slavic autocrats. Oh, Father Coughlin, we hardly knew ye!

Like Billmon:

—The Hairball has passed beyond most vile POTUS candidate in history, even beyond most vile pol. Bucking for most vile human being in U.S. history. Kissinger is the 800-pound gorilla in The Hairball's way.

—When he's really wound up, The Hairball can do a pretty good carny geek show. Now he's just pitiful, but without pathos. Just ugliness.

—Just pure repulsiveness, unrelieved by any emotional empathy or sense of tragedy. Just want it to be over.

—He's oozing failure now. Saturated with it. Stinks of it. But it only puts him closer in touch with his loser audience.

—This is The Hairball to the T: Says He'll never forgive the VOTERS if he loses. Like [GODWIN REDACTION] in the bunker, blaming the German people for being too weak to win his war for him.

—He's a political suicide bomber. Just can't figure out who he's really trying to blow up—other than himself.

The Mad Bomber, she does not inspire fine writing. Because she is so fucking dull. I am a person who has literally watched paint dry, and I can tell you, from personal experience, that drying paint, it is infinitely more interesting, than is she. She is like a dried booger, there on the floor. Faintly disgusting, but you can just pick it up with a kleenex, toss it in the trash, and be on your way. You know how in that true-life non-fiction story "It's A Good Life," the boy transports the whole little town to some unknown floating disattached somewhere, and surrounding the town is nothing but a dull gray impenetrable haze? That dull gray impenetrable haze, that is The Mad Bomber.

The Hairball, he is more like a werewolf, walking the streets of Soho in the rain, stiil dripping blood from the little old lady he mutilated late last night. Kinda attracts, that sorta thing does, one's attention.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OFtg0wX_jkI]

and his hair
was perfect

Harvey Weinstein, he is another creature, who has inspired some fine wordsmithing.

Like The Hairball, Weinstein, he is a Monster. And, also like The Hairball, Weinstein squirted out from the rat bowels of the B.F. Skinner experiment of New York. But, unlike The Hairball, he did not remain in that anushole. Instead, he came out here, west, where we did not want him, in order to further ruin the movies. He is known as Harvey Scissorhands, for his uncontrollable penchant for butchering films, and is prone to addressing anyone, who disagrees with him, on anything, with such endearments as "I am Ariel Sharon! You are the Palestinians with sticks and stones!" Or "I am the tank commander! And you are the infantry, and you're about to get run over!"

The filmmaking team of James Ivory and Ismail Merchant, they once made the mistake of working with Weinstein. After, Ivory, he observed:

He's passionate about films in the same way a dog is passionate about meat. Harvey has a canine appetite for dismembering his own movies.

While Merchant, he said:

He doesn't know what he has in his films. He's like a savage in the jungle walking along, and he sees some bright, shiny thing down on the ground, and he stops to pick it up, he looks at it, he doesn't know what it is, but he knows it's valuable, so he puts it in his pocket and goes on his way.

I just put those quotes in here because they're so Vivid, and so Right, and I've been waiting months, to insert them somehow, idling till there seemed a place they'd well fit, and, tonight, I just ran out of patience, and, figured, now, was as good a time, as any.

Another thing for which The Hairball, he must be credited, is for showing us, every day, and in every way, just how unutterably, and titanically, stupid, are so many, of the Americans. That is: his people. The people of The Hairball.

Like: take a look at this. After The Hairball, like the eternally tantruming child he is, squirmed and screamed, there in his diaper, pounding his fist on his highchair, hurling his rattle, howling that the only way he could lose to The Mad Bomber, is if the election were to be "rigged," some 40% of the people of The Hairball, there in North Carolina, they said they believed that ACORN will steal the election, for The Mad Bomber, while 42% were "not sure." Meanwhile, some 41% of these people, they agreed, that The Mad Bomber, she is "the devil."

Where are the Fristian Phrenologists, with these people? The 81% of the people of The Hairball, who either firmly believe, or are "not sure," that ACORN will Steal the Election? Do they, even, these people, like, have, brains? Are there maybe just Cheerios, rattling around up there? Are their brainpans perhaps pretty much completely empty? Like that of Terri Schiavo, the original victim of Fristing?

These people, the people of The Hairball, they are completely unmoored from the Sane. They are derelicts, whirlpooling, there on the Waters of Madness. Because ACORN, that thing never stole any elections. And it certainly isn't going to be stealing any now. Now, that it has been completely extinct, and for more than six years. ACORN, it is no more capable of stealing an election, than is Judge Crater. Or Alley Oop, the dodo, or the marsupial lion. Or any other, extinct, creature.

And what, you may reasonably ask, is a marsupial lion?

According to the Science Men, it was a dude, and a dudette, who roamed around the planet, about 18 million years ago. It was small—about the size of a squirrel—but it was fierce, and it could rip your lungs out, Jim: just like a werewolf of London. Or The Hairball.

The Science Men, they claim they now know all sorts of shit, about this marsupial lion, because they dug up a tooth, and they Looked at it.

It was in reading this article, that I decided, definitively, that Science Men, all they Say, is mostly just shit made up.

Because you just can't. Sit there and Look. At a tooth. Or two. And then Decree. That you know, all and every, about somebody. Any more, than you can know all and every, about somebody, by roaming your hands, across their image, on a tube.

I now think that the Science Men. They mostly just go back to some Lab. And there get heavily into the nitrous. And get all giggly. And then just make shit up.

How the fuck, would we rest, even Know?

As Orwell once wrote, he could not, independently, on his own, definitively prove, even that the world is round. He, basically, just took that, together with a shit-ton of other "facts," on faith. Faith, in Science Men. As the humans, they once had faith. In Priests.

But. I want to believe. In the marsupial lions. And, I think, the Science Men, they are saying, that they can now drag DNA, out of really old and dead shit, and revivify it, and bring long-dead creatures, back to life. And so I want them. To do that. With marsupial lions. Because I want them to ship a couple, to this place.

And when they arrive, the marsupial lions, I will endeavor to Learn, what is a GoPro. And I will give this GoPro—whatever that might be—to these revivified lions. And then I will, "respectfully suggest," as we say in the Law, that these revivified lions, then film, all and every, of what all and every, is, around here.

Including me. A derelict. Upon the waters. Of the Law.

And then I will put that footage, including that of me, out onto the tubes.

So that all the Fristian Phrenologists. They can Look. At me. And they can run their hands. All over the images. Of me. A ghost. From out of their tubes.

And then. I guess. They can go tell it on the mountain. And all over. All and every tube.

About what it is. With me. That is Really Wrong.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WdZLTnRnHs8]