This site has the same problem as the Catholic Church: not enough priests, who can be trusted to stay out of the communion wine and the altar boys, to daily say morning mass. JtC has of late been donning the vestments twice a week, on Sundays and Tuesdays, but he can't do that no more, because he has too many Other Masters. So I am, for the nonce, assuming the Tuesdays. But this cannot long continue. Because I already commonly extrude each Saturday morning more words than any reasonable being can bear. No one wants that twice a week. So, c'mon somebody, say you'll be an OT Tuesday.

Otherwise, things could, and fairly rapidly, get pretty dire in here. Like, I could bring out a mime.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wlwdpNw1FW8]

Maybe a mime menaced by an accordion.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=flxPXmM3CWk]

There could—yes—be banjos.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j8wCzFbbWPc]

Or, driven to it by writer's block and whiskey, I might descend into doing impressions.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DKy7amnWhR0]

Because Tuesdays, at least in the West, are associated with Mars, Marvin the Martian cartoons may attack.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OEXvsGe657Q]

Cruelly-clad animals, they could ride across the site on roombas.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Epytc4wMJ5Y]

The point is, there is simply no telling, just how bad it might get. To nick from Shakespeare, who himself nicked from the bible, in composing his Bottom's Dream:

the eye of man hath not heard
the ear of man hath not seen
man's hand is not able to taste
his tongue to conceive
nor his heart to report
how hath fucking bad it be, ye

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VKcAYMb5uk4]

So, somebody, step up. Say you'll be a Tuesday OT. Just . . . step right up.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=URp-Dbhr7EU]

Meanwhile, the Science Men, they are bickering about the invention of dogs.

Used to be thought that dogs, for some unknown reason, decided to come on out of wolves, while following along humans, somewhere in the long time when humans were hunting and gathering.

But then came the great garbage revelation of 2013, in which it was Decided dogs only invented themselves out of wolves when humans ceased moving and settled down to grow such wonderments as turnips and rutabagas. Because then the humans, they made garbage mounds. Where the dogs wanted to Go.

Now, in this most recent Wisdom, it is said that dogs first came to be in India. Which would mean they are Hindu. And would explain why they are so often so driven to so hump everything. Because they are trying to get back to the tantra.

I myself favor the theory set forth in the true-life Science book City. In which it is postulated that humans don't actually exist, but are just some made-up shit in mythic fireside tales told by dogs.

Some different-one Science Men are in a puzzlement about why Pluto has "woodworm-like pits." They are having Guesses, but basically they Don't Know.

One Science Man claimed it was acne, which Proved the planet is actually a Living Head, but he was Ordered out of the Room.

In my opinion, woodworms are some of the coolest people ever—I love the patterns they leave in wood—and I am glad they may also be worming around Pluto.

Also, if you eat wormwood, as opposed to woodworm, you can actually, fairly easily, travel to Pluto. And without ever leaving Earth.

There is literally no End, to the Wonders of Science.

For instance the Chinese, they went in and fucked with the genes, and created micro-pigs. That are even smaller than those quite small pot-bellied pigs, that white people had been buying. Until they discovered the pigs still grew to be 200 pounds or so. At which time the white people would take them to the Shelter.

But the Chinese, with the gene-fucking, soon they will have Dr. Moreaued a micro-pig that will fit in your purse, and for all of its life. And lo, the white people, shall they then rejoice. And then, when I shop, in the supermarkets, I shall hear the hosannas, of snorts, sounding from the micro-pigs, as they root around down there, in the purses.

Everyone knows that George II violently opposed the creation of "human/animal hybrids" . . . mostly because he himself is a cross between a human, and a goat anus. And so he made Laws to Stop the Creation of Beings, such as Himself.

But there are no such strictures against human/animal hybridization in China. Which is why I can now present to you—in a site exclusive, thanks to my lingering connection to Bedlam News, a non-ordinary news service created by my karass back in the last millennium—the below astounding photographs of successful scientific bridgings between humans and animals, and humans and humans.

First we see this:

A baby with adult legs, so that it can rapidly run up and down the endless aisles of the giant warehouses, retrieving and then passing Buy Junk objects on to the Giant-Hand Babies (pictured below), so that the objects can then be loaded onto Carts, to next be whiz-banged to some dock, where they will go into jetpack trucks, to be delivered to Somewhere.

The Giant-Leg Babies and Giant-Hand Babies are even now filling all of the positions at all of the Amazon warehouses.

But these are as nothing, compared to the creation of the Human Who Doesn't Need A Toilet.

As everyone knows, there is no longer any room on this planet for human doody. The sewers, the septic tanks, they are everywhere choking, failing. What then, as Lenin once famously asked, is to be done? Simple. Create a human who doesn't need a toilet.

This, now, has been done. Behold:

Here we see a human/animal hybrid, chopping peppers, peppers fertilized by her own poop and pee. For while the top part of the hybrid is a human, the bottom part is some sort of animal. With this creature, sewage and septic systems, they have been obviated. Because animals don't use toilets. Instead, when these hybrids have to go, they go out into the yard, and go there. And where they go, they grow things. Which they will, in the fullness of time, eat. The poop and the pee of the hybrids, they will thereby replace all of the chemical fertilizers. Which will no longer be Necessary.

O Science! O Wonderment!

As is well known, Rick Perry, former governor of Texas, is a human/animal hybrid, a cross between a human and a steer. A farm animal. And, when this farm animal recently retreated from the 2016 presidential race, because Jesus told him to, Ayn Rand Paul, he was ecstatic. "Finally!" Ayn ejaculated. "Now all the people, they will know, that I am the stupidest person left in the race!"

But then, a terrible thing happened. Uncle Ben Carson he almost immediately proceeded to gallop into a great harrowing thundering run of stupidity, one nearly unprecedented in American politics. One in which he proclaimed, among other things, that Satan controls evolution, which is why no one rushes the school-shooters, and why the Jews didn't race up the steps of the Reichstag with flamethrowers to crisp the Hitlers.

Uncle Ben meanwhile released, as the enduring and essential logo of his campaign, this:

And so, Ayn, he was so put out. Uncle Ben had stolen the duncecap right off his head!

How, he wondered, as he writhed in his bed at night, could he retreive the duncecap, that was so rightfully his?

Then, finally, Ayn, he hit on it. He would go onto a winger radio show. And he would say this, about Bernie Sanders:

It amazes me and it actually kind of scares me. I've been spending more time going after Bernie and socialism because I don't want America to succumb to the notion that there's anything good about socialism. I think it's not an accident of history that most of the times when socialism has been tried that attendant with that has been mass genocide of people or any of those who object to it. Stalin killed tens of millions of people. Mao killed tens of millions of people. Pol Pot killed tens of millions of people. When you have a command economy, when everything is dictated from one authority, that's socialism, but it doesn't come easily to those who resist it.

The deep dumbness of this statement, it is without limit. It is like a perpetual-motion machine of stupidity. Perpetual-motion machines, they are supposed to be impossible. But, trust the Pauls, to come up with one.

I will here focus on but one facet of the perpetual-motion machine of stupidity. That is the claim that "Pol Pot killed tens of millions of people."

At the time that the Khmer Rouge went truly wiggy, there were not even 10 million people in all of Cambodia. Thus, for the Khmer Rouge to have killed ten million people—much less the Ayn-asserted "tens of millions of people"—this would have required that they reduce the population of Cambodia into the realm of the negative. There would have had to be minus-people living there. Or, they would have had to import Cambodians from other universes, in order to kill them.

Ayn here reminds me of a newspaper guy I used to work for, who every time he wrote about East Timor, would raise the death count. Eventually he was claiming more people had there been killed than had ever actually lived there. I would say to him, "T––, there's no need to inflate the numbers. The truth is bad enough." But he brushed that aside. He reckoned that to get people's attention, one had to constantly balloon the numbers. In this, he was forever fleeing the truth expressed by Stalin—who surely would know—that "a single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic."

Gotta give that guy credit on this, though: out of all the people I've heard aver that if such-and-such a person were elected president, they would leave the country, T-- is the only one who ever actually did it. He said if George II were to assume the throne, he was outta the US. And, once George II assumed, outta the US he went. To Canada. Where he lives to this day.

Where was I? Right. Accordion, and bagpipes.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sQVYOsZOEA8]

Scarier than Halloween! Hot damn!

Halloween is coming, and a fun book to read this time of year is Roger Zelazny's A Night In The Lonesome October. It is narrated by Snuff, Jack the Ripper's dog. Snuff, in the course of things, makes a friend, who is a cat. Who is the familiar of a witch, Jill. Who, in the course of things, becomes a friend of Jack's. All four of these people are sympathetic characters. Folks like Dracula and Frankenstein and Sherlock Holmes also pass through the thing. Recommended. Pretty much highly. This is the last book Zelazny wrote. Before colorectal cancer killed him in 1995. At age 58. Which was totally wrong.

I combed through the tubes to see What Happened on this day in history, and, near as I can figure out, nothing has ever been as important as the fact that on this day, in 1955, Harry Belafonte recorded "Day-O."

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zvl8pzXoXww]

Jim Webb is apparently planning a Halloween-style press conference for later today, in which he will announce he is running for president as an independent, which will free him to appear in public as he really is: clothed wholly in a slavery diaper, blasting off a shotgun, sucking his son's penis.

In 2020, "entertainment" and politics" will at last completely merge. Now that we know that Kanye West and Lindsay Lohen shall be contending against one another for the presidency.

West is linked via his penis with the Kardashians. Who are so omnipresent they must be of the Overlords. While it has long been known that Lohan is a "sacrificial goddess" enmeshed in "a Freemasonic conspiracy involving US intelligence agents" in which she is "a MK-ULTRA-like sex slave who perform[s] in what [a]re described as Call to Chaos rites."

So, basically, a Bush III v Clinton II rerun, with more sex, and—maybe—better music.

There are many reasons why I do not fly on airplanes. One is because, as I am sitting there, in an insanely-thin metal tube, constructed by congenitally insane human beings, at an insanely elevated altitude, suddenly, my suddenly insane seat-mate, feels the need to start biting me, and then rolls over on the floor, and dies.

A postmortem exam is being conducted on a 24-year-old Brazilian man who collapsed and died aboard an Irish aircraft on Sunday after he bit another passenger.

Cork police arrested a 44-year-old Portuguese woman travelling with the man after discovering five pounds of suspected amphetamine powder in her suitcase.

Ireland's police force, known as the Gardai, is hoping the post-mortem will show if the man ingested a substance which led him to his frenetic state.

Gee. Ya think?

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKk-w_0SpSw]

The Russian serial killers, they are just so pleased, to be trying out all their new war toys, on the brown people of Syria.

As the howlingly embarrassing brain-dead drooling-idiot site Moon of Alabama ejaculated on October 7, Vladimir Putin's 63rd birthday:

He he ... Russia is now really showing off

Four Russian Navy warships have fired a total of 26 missiles at the position of the terrorist group Islamic State in Syria, Russia’s Defense Minister Sergey Shoigu announced. The missiles were fired from the Caspian Sea.

"Four missile ships launched 26 cruise missiles at 11 targets. According to objective control data, all the targets were destroyed. No civilian objects sustained damage," Shoigu said.

The missiles flew some 1,500 km before reaching their targets, probing their efficiency.

"And a happy birthday to you dear Vladimir Vladimirovich," Shoigu added.

Isn't it glorious, how we can all clap and laugh and dance and sing, and even come, oh so pleasantly and pleasurably, in our pants, when it is the Russians who kill brown people, rather than Americans?

It is, of course, traditional, to invoke Thanatos, on Vladimir Putin's birthday.

For instance, Anna Politkovskya, journalist—at the time the premier thorn in Putin's puckered pute-hole—was assassinated on Putin's birthday, in October 2006.

Investigating, was she, then, the false-flag attack of the Moscow apartment bombings, which effortlessly eased Putin into power, and the slaughterhouse of the Second Chechen War, in which Putin oversaw the crushing of a country, and the killing and maiming of more than a million souls.

Just a little present. Politkovskya's death. From Putin's friends.

Politkovskya worked for Novaya Gazeta. The newspaper Mikhail Gorbachev set up with his Nobel Prize money. It is the premier independent newspaper in the country. Gazeta reporters, they die, when that, to the government, is necessary. Six major investigative reporters, to date. All while on about the apartment bombings. And/or Chechnya.

The Russian serial killers, they are determined to be just as big and bad as are the Americans. Thus, if the Americans bomb a hospital in Afghanistan, the Russians will set about, in Syria, bombing ambulances, bombing ambulances in Idlib, bombing an ob/gyn hospital, bombing a field hospital, bombing an amublance depot. Dropping bombs that kill 48 people from a single family.

The Russians! They are great! They are mighty! They are massive! They are equal! They can bomb and bomb and bomb again! For they are not Americans! They are the anti-Americans! So with them we can freely get our ya-yas out! We can come! And come and come and come again! When they bomb! For we are all, then, christhitlerallexcusedallalmighty, wunderbar!

Oh happy day. When Putin walks. When he walks. When he wash. Oh lord. All our sins away.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EfGDvDGE7zk]

Richard Pryor, once upon a time, back in 1977, they allowed him a TV show. He knew it would never last, so he put as much into as he could, right up front.

Pryor, he knew from experience, that all guns speak, and everything every gun ever says, is Wrong and Foul and Filthy.

He put that into his show.

Then it was cancelled.

Because he was just too True.

The people with the money, they decided it was just better. That the people watch. What was then on the other networks. Happy Days. Laverne & Shirley.

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

Albert Einstein, these days, is no longer a human. He's been all demigodded. In science, he's the guy who, nearly 100 years on, inscribed theories still out of reach. In profane political discourse, he's a thing, that people will sling, when they want to make some point about socialism, zionism, pacifism, whateverism.

I don't like those Einsteins. I like the Einstein who is a human. Who, like you, like me, sometimes had his drawers down.

Which is why I like this story, related by astronaut Pete Conrad, to journalist Oriani Fallaci:

I didn't attend Einstein's classes, because he only taught seniors. But I knew him, though. Boy, what a character! First there was his hair, so long he could have braided it. Then his eyes, good, wicked, beautiful, ugly, sad, gay, everything. Then his sweatshirt. White, with short sleeves, and a picture of Popeye printed across the front. Popeye, you know? The one who eats spinach to grow strong. Einstein used to wear it for eating ice cream. Otherwise, he used to mess up his good shirt.

He liked strawberry best. You know, the kind with the whole strawberries in it? The trouble was, he didn't want his ice cream in a dish, he wanted it in a cone. And then he never stood still while he ate it, he used to walk while he ate it. And then he didn't walk normally, he used to hop while he ate it. That was because he had one foot on the pavement. And the other foot in the street.

Boy, what a man! I loved that man. Not for his theory of relativity. But for the way he used to eat ice cream.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WKZPO01iFzY]

(And so maybe you're wondering: "what the hey is a 'tummler,' and what are all those weird numbers and words, there in the title, after the 'tummler'?'" Well, the weird numbers and words, after the tummler, they are this day, October 20, 2015, in the Hebrew calendar. Inscribed, for you, this day, just as a reminder, that not every human on this planet, runs the world go round on Greg time. As for what is a tummler, Mel Brooks, who once was officially employed as one, puts it this way: "a tummler wakes up the Jews when they fall asleep around the pool after lunch. One of the things I had to do as the pool tummler was, I used to do an act. I wore a derby and an alpaca coat, and I would carry two rock-laden cardboard suitcases and go to the edge of the diving board and say, 'business is no good!' and jump off." A tummler is a person who "stirs up tumult or excitement," a jack-of-all-trades, a jester, a fool, a fallen one, a person of songs and shtick and slapshtick, a person who may, if necessary, flourish a pig-bladder, or pull back to such truth-jokes as the one about the mother whose son excitedly announces that he has been picked for the part of the Jewish husband in a school play, and then the mother storms: "You tell the teacher you want a speaking part!" A tummler, he and me and we, strives to please you. And every day.)

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FhSfZplNbN0]

P.S. Oh yeah. And as for the latest recurrent nonsense in Palestine. Ruben Bolling, he already said, all that has can and will ever be righteously and rightfully said.