I learned recently that the new guy at the cigarette store, he is a genuine hero.

Like everyone who works there, this young man, he is Syrian. And, like too many of them, he is tangled up, in deep blue, with the immigration authorities, of the Americans. Because, and for no reason that makes any sense to any decent human being, these Syrians, they must "prove," to these authorities, that they should be "allowed," to remain in the United States. Otherwise, they shall be "removed."

This, is preposterous. Because Syria, it is a charnel house. Everyone in the world, with a bomb, they are at present, hurling it onto Syria, or handing it over to someone else, to hurl. All three of the empires—Eurasia, Eastasia, Oceania—are amuck there. Anyone who is Syrian, who manages to get out of the place, needs to be welcomed, and immediately, wherever they might happen to land. The immigration authorities of the Americans, they have no right, to require any Syrians, to run any gauntlets. The job of these authorities, it should be to confer citizenship, if that is what is wanted, and at once—together, with fulsome apologies.

Each of the Syrians at the cigarette store, s/he has a different story. Because all of the humans, they are different from one another. Even, as they are all the same. If these people, they want to tell me their story, I listen. But. I do not pry.

The other evening, this man, he told me his story. Seems there came the time, when he came of the age, in which he would be drafted, into the Syrian military. "I don't want to be in a war," he said. "I do not want to be shooting anybody." And so, he left Syria. And then, eventually, in the course of things, he made his way, here. "Sometimes, yes, I will watch war in a movie," he said. "But I don't want, to shoot any people."

Absolutely: goddam: right.

Not only should this young man be permitted to remain in the United States, but a statue should be cast of him, that will then be placed on a float, that will be towed, slowly, down all the streets, in all the lands, in all the world, with softspeakers, that will broadcast, from the float, his story, and also encourage, all and every one else, in all the world, to do, as he has done.

Because, the very first thing, that needs to happen, before anything else can, is that all the humans, in all the armies, in all the world, need to put down the guns, and walk away. If everyone were as this young man, all the armed conflicts, in all the world, would, in this instant, cease. All of the people, in all the politics, all of the generals, all of the weaponsmakers, they are but big impotent mouths, without the millions of humans, who pick up the gun, and then go out, and shoot, and kill, as they are told.

The Syrians at the cigarette store, they are a prime example of how, if a person ever just gets out of the tubes, and goes out into the real world, they will there quickly discover that everything—and I mean everything—that The Hairball says, it is Wrong.

The Hairball, he says that if you are a Syrian Christian, you cannot get into the United States—only if you are a Muslim, will you be admitted here. Wrong. All the Syrians at the cigarette store, and all their relations, are Christians. The Hairball says, that the people coming to the US from Syria, "they may be ISIS, they may be ISIS-related," that "we don't know who they are." Wrong. The Syrians at the cigarette store, they are not ISIS, and they are not ISIS-related. And I know exactly who they are. They are human beings. Just like me. And, when The Hairball is being a human being, they are just like him, too.

Coming to the United States to avoid conscription into some imbecilic army—this is a long-standing American tradition. Some of the very best Americans, came to be in the country, in this way. Gore Vidal, for instance, he was an American, because his great-grandfather, Eugen Fidel Vidal, floated over to the American shores, to avoid service, in the imbecilic Austrian army.

It is, also, true, yes, that some of the very worst Americans, they, too, came to be in the country, in this way. To wit: The Hairball's grandfather, Frederick Hairball, he journeyed from Germany to the US, shortly before he would be made to serve three years in the imbecilic German army. In the US, he made some money. Then, after sixteen years or so, he sought to return to Germany. But the Germans, they kicked him back into the US. Because, they decreed, that his sojourn to the US, it had been for the purpose of avoiding military service: he was, the Germans decided, "a draft dodger."

It hardly seems fair. That the Americans. Would permit into the country, a progenitor of the hideousness of The Hairball. Yet deny residency, to the young man in the cigarette store. For I will tell you this. That guy in the cigarette store. He is never going to produce. Any Hairballs.

When the humans, they at last understand, that they are not going to be having any more wars, any more guns, they can then turn to various peaceable methods, in which to burn off any residual aggressions. One such, could be the roast.

The roast, at least the contemporary American version, this was developed by tummlers, in the New York Friars' Club, back in the early 1900s. Therein, various wits, would use their wit, to verbally skewer, in various degrees of savagery, the roastee, who, at least in the beginning, was one of their number. These events aborned informal, but, over the decades, assumed a more formal mien. For many years, they were private affairs. Because, if the content happened to get out into the public, all those involved in the roasts, would be arrested. This is because, as one historian puts it, "the content of the earliest roasts was extremely blue for their time." The tummlers, at these roasts, were able to indulge in language, and imagery, that, if they were to bring such to the public stage, would have led them straight into the pokey. As the pale frail wildwood flower Larry King recalls: "Seeing someone say 'fuck' is nothing now, but when I was thirty years old and went to my first Friars roast in New York and I heard Maurice Chevalier say, 'Fuck,' I thought I'd die."

Tamer versions of these roasts, they went onto the television, with Dean Martin, and various Rat Packers, in the 1970s. More recently, the Comedy Central people, they have been broadcasting roasts. People, they can, now, say "fuck," and even on the television, without having to go into the jail, and, so, now they do. It is said that none of these latter-day roasts, can even remotely approach, in ribald vivaciousness, and viciousness, those once-upon-a-time private Friars affairs, presided over by tummlers like Milton Berle, and Henny Youngman. But: we work in the dark. We do what we can.

Recently the Comedy Central people, they decided to roast Rob Lowe. A minor American thespian, best known for filming his penis entering a 16-year-old, and also for being cast as the "star" of the television show The West Wing—except the audience, they didn't want Lowe, to be the star. The audience, and very soon, it proved more interested, in the characters Josh and Toby and CJ and Leo, and, also, the president, Martin Sheen (who, in some of the universes, actually was the president, rather than just playing one, on the television). So, Lowe, he had a Pout, and, eventually, left the series.

Some inspired someone, s/he decided to invite the unholy harridan Ann Coulter, to be one of the Lowe roasters. Coulter, she is an out racist, proud sheet-wearing white supremacist, who, for no reason known to me, has been allowed to shriek like a banshee, across all and every tube, for more than two decades now. She is a shameless twit for publicity, and is currently out hawking her hideous extended fellation of The Hairball, In Hairball We Trust. Without shame, she admitted she agreed to attend the Lowe roast, not really knowing what a roast was, so she could there peddle her Hairball pedophilia. Because she did not really know what a roast was, she did not know that the roasters, they commonly cannibalize one another, as well as the designated roastee. And so, the Lowe Roast, it became, instead, the Coulter roast.

The secret of any good zinger, at a roast, is that it contain an element of truth. Thus, for instance, at the Quentin Tarantino roast, it was observed, correctly: "All your films are about torture."

And, so, too, the roast of Lowe, turned roast of Coulter, it contained (as examples), these, Truths:

"I just realized that I'm not the only athlete up here tonight. As you all know, earlier this year Ann Coulter won the Kentucky Derby."

"If you are here, Ann, who is scaring the crows away from our crops?"

"She seems stiff and conservative, but Ann gets wild in the sheets. Just ask the Klan."

"It looks like she’s having a good time. I haven't seen her laugh this hard since Trayvon Martin got shot."

"Ann, you are awful. The only person you'll ever make happy is the Mexican that digs your grave."

"Ann hopes the Republicans can hold onto the House so she can still haunt it."

"Ann Coulter has written eleven books—twelve if you count Mein Kampf."

Coulter, I don't know how her people, got into the United States. But I do know, that said entrance, it was a crime, against all of humanity.

Different people, they Fear, different things. For instance, I fear Ann Coulter, coming into my dreams. For if ever that were to happen, I would need, immediately, a head transplant. Or all the cocaine in Colombia. So that I might never. Sleep. Again.

Other people, they Fear—say—clowns. I know this, because, for many years, I lived with a person, who could not countenance, any clowns, or clown-like personages. If I were given over to Fristian Phrenology, I would even say, that she was phobic, about it. I say this, because, when we could go to the library book sale, and I would gather up tomes about clowns, and mimes, and ventriloquists, and the like—such people, they interest me—then, when we would get home, she would request, politely, but firmly, that I slot the books, on the shelves, so that the spines, did not show. Because, if she happened to pass through a room, and saw, on a spine, a word like "clown," or "mime," she would be seized, by The Fear.

I have since & meanwhile learned that, many other people, they too, Feel the Fear, of clowns, and their associates. I myself never saw any particular reason to fear such beings. But, here, I could be wrong. As in so many realms. And so, as a service, to any clown-fearers, who may be, here, deep, into this tummler, I offer this news, which seems, to, indeed, justify, clown-Fear.

In an Aug. 21 report to Greenville County deputies, a woman said her son had seen "clowns in the woods" around 8:30 p.m. An investigating deputy then spoke with another person who said a clown was also seen near a garbage dumpster.

There were also claims from some children that several clowns had been seen in the woods trying to persuade them to follow them with large amounts of money.

"There has been several conversations and a lot of complaints to the office regarding a clown or person dressed in clown clothing trying to lure children into the woods," the property manager of Fleetwood Manor wrote to residents in a letter.

"Witnesses told investigators that they believed the clowns lived in a nearby home, but a deputy wrote in the Aug. 21 police report that he followed a trail through the woods to the home and found no evidence related to the clown sightings."

I don't know. I still think it would be a lot scarier. If Ann Coulter. Tried to lure children into the woods. Or showed. In my dreams. But maybe. That's just me.

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

Fairly scarifying, I think, is the complete inability, of Anthony Weiner, to cease portaling his penis, through all and every tube.

Of course, first, it must be said, that every man, and every woman, has the perfect right, to publicize their genitalia, in any way they see fit. The problem, here, is that Weiner, he is in the politics. And the Americans, though they themselves, may be flashing their genitals, through all and every tube, all day, and all of the night, when once they get a whiff, that a person in the politics is up to something, like the same, they will then get all Puritan, and J'accuse. There is additionally the problem that Weiner, he is marrried to Huma Abedin, that well-known agent of the Muslim Brotherhood, and chief aide to The Mad Bomber, who is herself married to The Clenis, who is legendary, for spraying about more semen, onto and into the Americans, than even John Holmes.

Abedin, she announced Monday, that she is Officially Separating, from Weiner. And The Mad Bomber, she will announce, later today, that she is Officially Separating, from The Clenis.

Weiner, and The Clenis, they will then be taking a house together, in the East End. Which they will call: Horndogs In The Hamptons. They are also buying Al Gore's old television network. Which they are renaming The Penile Channel. And which shall offer, 24/7, images, at work and at play, of their penii. For those so inclined.

It is better. This way.

The Science Men, they have been waiting, oh so long, for some extraterrestrials, to send them a radio signal, saying, something, like, "hello."

And, now, that contact, at last, it is here.

And it seems like these ETs, ensconced there upon the solar system of the unimaginatively human-monikered sun HD 164595, they have been following the Weiner saga—or perhaps, somehow, they tuned into, the old Friars roasts. Because, the aliens' first message, once it had been painstakingly decoded, and deciphered, by the Science Men, it reads as follows:

"What . . . is . . . a . . . 'penis'?"

Also kinda scary, is that it seems that more of the Americans, they are exercised, that one of the football men, he has declined to stand for the national anthem, than are they concerned, that all of the football men, from playing the football, they will have their brains, completely, and permanently, destroyed.

The eternally scarifying Ferret, he has recently taken to appearing on the television, with a huge protuberant bulge on his head. This Bulge, it is so awful, and so obvious, that the Ferret, he was finally compelled, to issue a Statement: that he had incurred the Bulge, through hitting his head, in the shower.

But this, it is a Lie. For, in Reality, that Bulge, it is a manitou. Growing. In the Ferret's head. A manitou—spirit—of the Lenape people. The Lenape, the original inhabitants of what is today NYC, and environs. Eventually, the manitou, it shall burst out of the Ferret's head, and then, it shall Deal, with all the white invaders. And then, the planet, it shall be plagued. No longer. By people like the Ferret. And The Hairball. And Weiner. And The Clenis.

Meanwhile, though nobody even once asked her about it, Meth Mouth, she took to her Faceborg, and there posted photos of her own head-swelling, which she claimed to be the result of "a fall." No. For, in Truth, there, in her head, too, is a manitou. This, of the Inuit people. And, when it emerges, that will be the end of Meth Mouth, and all of her Crime Family.

So let it be written. So let it be done.

The Americans, they are just going to have to give it up, and close all the airports. Because, in the airports, they are, these days, the Americans, so filled with Fear, that they can neither Cope, nor Deal.

Recently, here, we reviewed how the Americans, they went stone-mad, with Fear, in the NYC airport, because people, clapping for somebody or other, doing something or other, in the Olympics, this clapping was Heard, to be gunshots. And then. The fear-maddened. Lemmings. Did they run.

And now—and so soon—the infection, it has spread, and from coast, to coast. All the way to Los Angeles International Airport. Where, still, as of this hour, unknown "loud noises," they caused the Americans, to believe gunshots, they were all and everywhere. And so, it was time, to commence, fear-maddened, the lemming-run.

False reports of gunfire at Los Angeles International Airport sent panicked passengers running from terminals and onto the tarmac on Sunday night.

Police responded to 911 calls of shots fired at the airport but later said the reports were unfounded and there had been no gunfire or injuries.

"Reports of a shooting incident at LAX have been proven to be loud noises only," the Los Angeles Police Department said about 45 minutes after the reports sparked chaos at the airport.

"We were on the jetway and someone starts pushing behind us," Jon Landis, a sales representative from Boston who was boarding a flight home, told The Associated Press. "One man was frantic saying there was a shooter."

Los Angeles International Airport said the departures and arrival areas of the central terminal area were closed amid the chaos; around 23 flights were diverted during a 30-minute ground stop.

"People immediately started looking at social media, where they saw reports that there was an active shooter," Rosenbusch told the AP.

That's right. Go, for Truth, to "social media."

Not.

Meanwhile, in the mayhem, officers of the LAPD, they espied an actor, black, in a Zorro costume, and immediately assumed that he, black, dressed non-ordinarily, was the culprit.

The fact that this black man, he was not shot, and at least 32 times, this was immediately pronounced a True Holy Miracle, by the Vatican; the search is now on, only, for whatever would-be saint, this miracle, should best be attributed to.

It is not only the Americans, who are crippled by Fear. Oh no. For the Fear, it runs, world, wide.

For, recently, a mushroom cloud, it was espied, in the sky, there over Siberia, and the people, they believed, had hence come, the very End, of Days.

The clouds matched the hallmark of a nuclear explosion, or so it appeared to watchers in Kemerovo on Sunday.

"Local emergency services report receiving a high volume of calls by petrified town residents fearing that the end of days was upon them," said news agency Sputnik.

But officials insisted that the spectacle was an anvil thunderstorm cloud. They explained it was a natural weather-related sight.

Uh-huh. Sure. That's what. They. Always. Say.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s4VlruVG81w]

Except. There in Siberia. There was at least one person. Like you. Like me. Like the young Syrian, there in the cigarette store. Not giving in to fear. Not practicing, anything even resembling, war, no more. Dropping the gun. Dropping the fear. Going up, and out. Into, the great wide open.

"A mushroom cloud has grown today, so this is probably a hint that the mushroom season is in full swing.

"It is time. To pick mushrooms.

"So beautiful!"

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o807jBMvwUs]