Yesterday afternoon I cycled by the google news, to learn what it had determined was then most Real, and Important. And there I encountered this headline:

Texas Lawyer In Nazi Uniform Opens Fire At Strip Mall, 9 Injured

Yep, I thought, that about sums it up: the Americans, these days. Wanna-be Nazis. Dishinged law-jockeys. Uniforms. Shootings. Strip malls. Hurt people.

Certainly explains what would be occurring, among the Americans, in several hours hence: the debate between The Mad Bomber, and The Hairball. For no decent, civilized nation, would it throw up those two, as the finalists, to be the president. But a nation where Lone Star barristers bedecked in Adolf-wear shoot up people at strip malls—that nation, surely, could.

Extraterrestrials, surveying all the Americans, never would they select such creatures—The Hairball, and The Mad Bomber—as the best the denizens of the land-mass could produce. But, the Americans did.

The Hairball, he did not receive the majority of the votes, in the Republican primaries, but he certainly hauled in by far the most. While over in the Democratic version, The Mad Bomber—so sorry, but it's true—outpolled The Cranky Brooklyn Deli Man, by some three million votes.

These two—The Hairball, The Mad Bomber—they are what that decided minority of the Americans, who participated in the primaries, presented to all the Americans, as the two, who might best be the president.

Thing 1. Thing 2.

Yee. Haw.

Both campaigns were no doubt pleased that, at the debate, each candidate successfully crossed the minimum threshold: The Mad Bomber, she did not experience an "episode," while The Hairball, he refrained from biting the heads off any Muslim or Mexican children.

It is true that The Hairball felt it necessary to punctuate his tripe and twaddle with many peculiar snifflings and snortings: I thought perhaps he might be transforming into a wildebeest, before our very eyes.

Afterwards, during the spin cycle, The Hairball, he stomped around, raving that his snufflings had been produced by "a defective mike," thunderingly wondering "was that on purpose?" This lent credence to the theory of those who attributed his nasal-noising not to wildebeesting, but instead to snuffling up Panzer powder—as a well-known effect of such poison, is galloping paranoia. (Those who thought he might instead have been horking up his schnoz cocaine, they would be Wrong: any coke snorted into those noseholes, would immediately blow itself right out: for cocaine, it has much better taste, than to consort with such a honky honker, as The Hairball's.)

Other than The Hairball's possible Panzer-powder jones, nobody really learned anything new, about these people, Monday night.

The first question, it set the template. It was something-or-other about jobs. And, three words into The Mad Bomber's answer, I had tuned her right out. Because she is so. fucking. boring.

Remember in grammar school, that teacher who was like entropy personified, and you thought that, during the class, all the eons of the ages, they would pass, until the universe itself, had quietly collapsed, and degraded into infinitesimal dust, before you could ever get loose of the place? She, The Mad Bomber, is that teacher.

The Hairball, meantime, went straight for the racism and the xenophobia, raving about the Mexicans and the Chinese, then commenced hurling the standard GOP upchuck of the past 40 years (so funny, these people, who somehow delude themselves, that The Hairball is an "outsider," not part of "the establishment"): massive tax cuts, Reagan uber alles, yada-yada, bling-bang-bong.

And so it went. There was some sort of moderator there, a person I don't believe I have ever seen before; I didn't catch his name, and soon thought of him as but The Nebbish. This person spent the entire affair hunched forward, leaning into his little table, because he had no spine. It had been fully extracted from his body; or, perhaps, he was born without one. The inimitable Les Nessman, of the true-life documentary series WKRP In Cincinnati, he would have been more a forceful presence, than The Nebbish. It looked like The Nebbish, he was a brown person, but I couldn't really tell, if that was skin, or some sort of paint-job. Maybe the Fristian Phrenologists, they can get on that one.

The Hairball drove the debate, like he has driven the entire campaign season, and neither the Nebbish, nor the Bomber, proved either willing, or able, to stop him. The Hairball, he is a new dawn—in Greece, he is a Golden Dawn—and people like The Nebbish and The Mad Bomber, they are still asleep, in that dawn, eyes wide closed.

The Hairball, he rolled over The Nebbish, like a tank rumbling over a huddling mass of baby bunnies. Even more than Meth Mouth, during her 2008 debate, The Hairball "answered" whatever "question" he felt like, and talked whenever he liked, regardless of whether anyone else might have the floor. He was all night into his pathological shtick, where every word to leave his lips was a lie, but The Mad Bomber, she mostly just smugly smirked, and said "the fact checkers" would be on it.

But she doesn't understand: the Americans, they don't want any "facts." Unless they are the "facts," they already Know, and Agree with. The Americans, they are all siloed; and, mostly, their "facts," they come from their Faceborg, and their Twitblurt, there from their friends, and from Kardashians.

The Bomber, she is so out of touch, it is just embarrassing. At one point, in responding to some unreality The Hairball was St. Vitus tap-dancing all over the stage, she offered that people could go read her book, which they could pick up at at "any bookstore, or airport." Newsflash: Bomber: most all the Americans, they don't go, to any airports. Because airports, they require the Americans, to have some monies. And mostly, the Americans, they do not have, the monies. They're "dead broke." You know, Bomber, like you were. "Dead broke." When you could only afford nine maids. And your husband, The Clenis, could parcel but the pennies out, for six hookers.

At one point, when the Bomber was slagging The Hairball about the endless number of people who've worked for him that he's stiffed, and he was meanwhile beating her about the head and body, with a bladder, over all the emails she's stuffed up her keister, they both stood there clear: a couple of sneaky, nasty, little thieves. Rats. Come out of the wall at night, to scrabble through the kitchen trash, to make off with an orange rind, maybe, a crust of pizza. Then, so proud and full of themselves, skittering back into the wall.

The Hairball, he didn't help himself, against those who'd cloak him in the fascist shroud, with his Monday night Tourette's goosestuttering about "law and order," and his shameless fellating of any thug, serial killer, or random dingleberry, so long as s/he's in a uniform—cops, border paterollers, admirals, generals, the whole lot. But then, a lot of the Americans, especially the bedwetting white people, they like "law and order"—that phrase, a major winner, among the bedwetters, back in Nixontime—and they like cops, and border paterollers, and serial killers, on the desert storm.

When my phone started ringing, serially, that was when The Hairball, deeply mad, in his utter balderdash, soberly intoned that "the blacks," they were coming unto him, like all the little children unto Jesus, because he, The Hairball, had done them, "the blacks"—including the head black, The Kenyan—a real service, in "forcing" The Kenyan, to produce his birth certificate. In this, he had, The Hairball said, performed a "healing."

On my phone: brown people. Convulsed in laughter. Brown people, and particularly black brown people, they have always known The Hairball, for what he is. Which is why he is currently polling at roughly 0%, among "the blacks." One of my favorite, as most apt, characterizations: "He's Klan. David Duke. Except his sheets, they're silk, rather than cotton. That's all."

An hour or two before the debate, I had one of those moments, sublime, where it all, fits together.

First, I read that Disney, it is considering buying Twitblurt. And I was thinking, well, that could work. Because they could put Jiminy Cricket, in charge of the thing. And he could then transform it into a platform where people who do not suffer from several serious and intractable mental illnesses, might like to go.

Then, next, I stumbled upon the shocking photo, over there to the right, depicting the hideous Bad Queen, from Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs, whispering incantations, into the earhole, of The Hairball.

It was then, that I realized, that all the Disney characters, at long last, they have come out of the movies, and are now here among us.

Everyone who has seen the true-life documentary film The Purple Rose Of Cairo, they know that it is perfectly possible, for movie characters, to step out of the screen, and commence stepping out, here, in the "real," world.

And, that is now. What is happening. With all the Disney, celluloid, people.

Long, have I waited, for this moment. I always knew, it would come: this moment. From way back, when I was a little child.

I especially look forward, to the emergence of Louie, and Baloo, accompanied by all the other Disney wonderments, to encourage all the humans to scat, and to swing. Because, for one thing, when you scat, and you swing, you certainly don't never need anything, so stupid, so silly, as a "president."

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WJD8kTFXOQY]