On Monday evening, the 1st day of February, and in a realm of corn, some white people will go into some buildings, and there, for a time, they will yap and yammer. Then, they will make some votes. These votes will be for some white people who want to be the president. When these votes are counted, and the vote-totals are released, eleventy-hundred-thousand people will then emit and/or inscribe eleventy-billion words, about what these votes "mean."

This will continue for eight days. Until, on Tuesday, the 9th day of February, and in a realm of granite, some different-one white people will go into some booths—no preliminary yapping and yammering this time—and there cast some votes for some white people who want to be the president. When these votes are counted, and the vote-totals are released, eleventy-hundred-thousand people will then emit and/or inscribe eleventy-billions words about what those votes "mean."

This sort of thing will then continue, rhythmically, ceaselessly, for the next nine months.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aNUr__-VZeQ]

It is sort of like a vast national pregnancy. For nine months, the nation is increasingly swollen with votes. Then, finally, and in the fullness of time, the new baby president is born.

The people who like the new baby president, they will coo and they will ooh and they will aah, and they will say s/he is just the best, the cutest, president, ever.

The people who wanted a different-one baby president, they will say the new president is deformed, misshapen, cripplingly impaired: is, in fact, Rosemary's baby.

The new president will be set upon at once by the modern versions of Bad witches and queens. Some will try to get the president to prick a finger on a spinning wheel, and thereby fall into a deep sleep, and so get nothing worthy done. Others will try to slip the new president a poisoned apple, so that s/he will slip into a state of suspended animation, and so get nothing worthy done.

Etc. Etc.

Then, in four years, there will be more of the votes, and another pregnancy, and another presidential birth.

Sometimes the same president is then "born again."

And sometimes s/he is thrown out, together with the stinky four-year-old bathwater.

No one these days gets to be the president for more than eight years. That is because all the presidents are born with a sort of progeria syndrome. Prey to an abnormally-rapid aging and enfeebling process. So that, after eight years, they are worn out, used up; really old, and totally in the way. Not even those who experienced a cooing-and-oohing-and-aahing OD, when first gazing upon the baby president, there in the bassinet, not even they, really, then, eight years on, want that president around anymore. Because, that president, s/he's now a long-gone mommy/daddy. In the USA.

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

Thus, what the Kenyan said yesterday, regarding himself, and Lilly Ledbetter, who was that day with him at a White House ceremony:

As she just mentioned, she was by my side when I signed my first bill into law—the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act. And I was looking at a picture of that wonderful event, and she looks the same. And I don't.

The terrifying secret behind the astonishing aging and enfeebling effect of the presidency was revealed by Robert Coover in his true-life non-fiction tome The Public Burning, the preeminent single-volume explication of American politics extant (but see also Coover's A Political Fable, a.k.a. The Cat In The Hat For President).

There, we learn that Uncle Sam, long believed to be but a mere symbol of the United States, is, in truth, a real, super-corporeal, semi-divine being. Who dashes to and fro, at home and abroad, getting about the country's business. And who, meanwhile, from time to time, "incarnates" in the body and mind, of whomsoever happens to be president. And this "incarnation," it is accomplished through anal rape. An act which does not occur but once to each president. But which must be repeated, over and over again, whenever an important decision is to be made, or speech given, or the like. And so long as that particular vessel of the incarnated Uncle Sam occupies the office of the presidency.

Such a thing. It can wear. On a person.

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

It's pretty much a Sun King thing, the presidency. Which has been around—the Sun King thing—or at least so far as anyone can tell, since the invention of white people.

The tribe elevates to a position of supremacy a person who then enjoys all the many delectable fruits of rulership. For a time. Until he is ritually put to death. At which time a new Sun King is chosen. Rinse; repeat; eternally, recur.

Such, it is said, promotes the survival, the good fortune, of the tribe.

These days, in what are known as "democracies," the Sun King isn't actually killed. Usually. Instead, while built up to be more or less a savior by the day of election and ascension, by the time s/he leaves office, s/he is commonly perceived as the modern equivalent of the Levitican scapegoat, which the ancient Hebrews loaded down with all their sins, and then beat off into the remotest of deserts.

I had to go down to the town this week to look at a cache of child porn, to make sure it really was child porn. Because sometimes the State says a client possesses child porn, when really s/he doesn't. (There is an entire industry devoted to churning out what appears to be child pornography, but, legally, isn't.)

The peculiar aspect about such material is that it depicts children engaged in acts that are normal, appropriate, desirable, for adults. But with such acts, with children, there is a disconnect. It is askew, awry, off-putting. Just not . . . right. It is doing it wrong.

And, it occurred to me, that The Hairball, he is the child pornography of American politics.

For he is engaged in an endeavor that is the province of adults. But he himself is a toddler. Red-faced, screaming, thrashing about in his highchair, pounding his fist onto his food tray, violently hurling his rattle.

He is askew, awry, off-putting. He is doing it wrong.

The Hairball's perception of women is certainly arrested in pre-pubescence. He is like the callow boy of eight or nine who thinks girls are gross and icky and have cooties. He is, without doubt, possessed by male pre-pubescent Fear of the vagina. For when The Mad Bomber needed to use the restroom during a pause in a debate, The Hairball writhed in horror: "I know where she went—it's disgusting, I don't want to talk about it. No, it's too disgusting. Don't say it, it's disgusting." When a Mean Girl refused to appropriately acknowledge his pint-sized godhood, The Hairball was riven with terrifying visions of "blood coming out of her whatever."

Then, when the principal would not accede to his screaming, red-faced, food-tray-pounding, rattle-hurling demands that the Mean Girl be ordered out of the playground, The Hairball ran away to go play army with the other little boys. There, they had great little-boy fun, these pre-pubes, acting all tough and macho and manly, and boldly touching, together, their little-boy pee-pees.

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

The Hairball, he is the wet dream come true, of the nation's permanent War Party.

For he would play army, for real, with his little-boy pee-pee, to "make our Military so big, powerful & strong that no one will mess with us," to start a trade war with China (over a bomb the North Koreans do not have), to abandon the nuclear agreement with Iran, to waterboard, to refill the cells at Guantanamo Bay, to "take the oil," to "get these terrorists, [and then] you have to take out their families," to deport all undocumented humans in the USA and erect a complete border-running wall, to database all American Mooslims, and, as reaffirmed at a recent rally at the locus of his campaign—and his soul—the Overlook Hotel, call for "a total and complete shutdown of Muslims entering the United States," ixnay all Mexicans as druggies and "rapists," fuck his own daughter, and "bomb the hell out of ISIS," "blast the hell out of them," "bomb the shit out of 'em."

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

But none of this really matters much. Because The Hairball is not going to be the president.

Instead, his fate is to eternally recur, lost in a snow maze, vainly seeking to chop to pieces, with an ax, little Mexican, and Muslim, boys, name of Dani.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Bz5844a-Ko]

The Mad Bomber, she is not going to be the president, either. She is clinically insane, and everyone knows this, on a cellular level. There is, at least in the collective unconscious, a memory that the United States had in office, not so long ago, a president who was clinically insane—Richard Nixon. And there is no national desire, for that to occur again.

The best thing that could happen for the Americans is for The Mad Bomber to be indicted on something or other, before too many of the white people cast their votes. Then, the Cranky Brooklyn Deli Man, he could run to be the president, against one of The Monsters: The Hairball, the jabbering speed-freak Mondo Boobio, the creepy sinister vampire Zed Crud.

The Mad Bomber, and The Clenis, many years ago, made a pact that there would be "eight years of Bill, and eight years of Hill." Their conception of 16 years of a presidential dynasty was not so much based on anything they might do for the people, so much as what they might do for themselves.

The Mad Bomber and The Clenis are people who have always skated on the razor's edge of what is legal, moral, ethical. If that is how they were going to be, they should have pursued careers as criminal-defense lawyers. Where such skating could at least have benefitted defendants facing cages prepared for them by the State.

Instead, and as most notably during the eight-year presidential reign of The Clenis, the Americans were subjected to a constant low-grade infection of scandals, or would-be scandals. Because these people were always on the edge. Of what on some level was acceptable. Some of these "scandals," they were preposterous. But some, had at least some, sort of merit.

The entire eight-year experience, it was wearying, and it was draining. And it was unnecessary. Because the Clintons, they never delivered, anything, commensurate with the Pain, they put people through, with their sleazing.

It was, and is, exactly as Tim Allen recently characterized it: "The Clintons are like herpes: Just when you think they're gone, they show up again."

During the reign of The Clenis, the herpes most infamously ruptured into the 18-month-long national obsession with Bill Clinton's penis. Until said penis was actually impeached, and actually went on trial before the United States Senate.

Which was like a severely brain-damaged nutbar legal-proceeding presided over by Zardoz. Which made everyone Sane, hide their heads.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F-dOGsjRjh8]

From that moment on—the moment the United States put a penis on trial—no one in the world has taken the United States seriously.

Nor should they.

The one thing we know about The Mad Bomber, is that no one will be scandalized by the behavior of her penis.

But the other thing we know, is that she will always be eternally and recurrently scandalized, by something.

So just get her out of the road now. No American wants to go through another eight years of the Clinton herpes. And all the Americans know that. On a cellular level. So indict the woman on something already. Then send her off to a gentle Home. And afford her compassionate Treatment.

This week, here, there were white daffodils. And white violets. These last, very fragrant. And also the white allysum, still going strong. Through all the wind and the sleet and the hail and the snow and the rain.

It was like all the flowers, who are white, wanted to be blooming, in the last of the January.

I wanted then to get a white fish. To accompany the white flower people. But, in the fish store, there weren't any. That I could see.

But then all the best flowers. And fish. And people. Are never seen.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=878b3kF6d1U]

I have little sympathy for, and no patience with, the Bundy slavers. I have been dealing with such people, more or less continuously, for some 30 years. There were barely any intertubes, when these people were somehow already, all over the world, connecting, and then coming by the newsstand where I was working, to pour their nonsense into my earhole. Then, the last decade-and-a-half, they recurrently come into one or another of the law offices where I freelance, to tell me how they're going to "get off," because their names are in the legal documents in capital letters, and/or there is gold-fringe along the edges of the American flag that stands behind the judge, and therefore the case against them is an inapplicable "naval proceeding."

They are true believers, these ignorant peckerwoods, inhabiting a fantasyland, and there is no talking them out of it. I have tried, many times. But, like all true believers, their brains seize up, immediately, when confronted with any information, that travels against the grain, of what it is that they have decided, to believe. I don't know how many times I have told these people that their "Article III" horseshit, which is what Ammon Bundy is all a-fire now to get into his legal proceeding, has been definitively slapped down by the courts for more than 150 years. They don't listen. They can't. They are true believers. They live in a bubble. And that bubble is All.

I am an ignorant peckerwood myself, and therefore it is okay, for me to call them that. Like them, I go nowhere, but walking in cowboy boots, with head burrowed beneath a cowboy hat. Like them, I know that, over all and every, is the free human being, alive on this earth. Like them, I know that there is nowhere, like the pure outdoors, out in the open, there under the stars. Like them, I know there is no man above me. Like them—and Woody Guthrie—I know that the fence, it is anathema.

as I went walking
i saw a sign there
and on the sign it
said "no trespassing"
but on the other side
it didn't say nothing
that side
was made for you and me

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ifbleDsSsI]

The problem with such people, is that they won't extend such magics to others who are not themselves. That's what drives me crazy, about them. They recognize, on one level, there should be no limit to the land, but then they want to limit it to them owning it. They want every man to be free everywhere, except and unless the man is a woman, or is black, or is brown, or is red, or is a Muslim, or is wanting to get an abortion, or buy a gay wedding cake. They suffer from brain damage so severe they think driving a snowmobile or an ATV across Indian lands is "freedom."

Their seizure of the Oregon birdhouse was stupid and wrong and beyond knuckledragging. They got one of themselves killed over it.

I don't often watch the snuff films that these days cross the tubes, but I watched that one. Because there were so many competing realities, in the hours after the death, as to what had occurred. And, when the feds actually released a video, I wanted to see how it compared, with those realities. Then, what I saw, it was just sad. An old man, dying on a snowbank, for no reason, and the day before his birthday. There was nothing heroic, in any way, about it. It was just sad.

Unless you are of Markos Moulitsas. Because then you are not sad at all. Because then you write:

I'm not the kind to shed a tear over terrorists, whether dead or alive. Fuck these assholes and everything the [sic] represent.

ISIS fighters have families too. Im not gonna start giving a shit.

Once upon a time, Moulitsas was an Army man. The United States military, since the close of WWII, has deliberately set about destroying the souls of every human being it moves through basic training. And—oh my—how it has suceeeded. It programs its recruits to perceive all the world in duality—buddies/those to kill—and then it lets them loose upon the land. When it is time to muster out of the service these killing-machines, that the military has made, there is no deprogramming.

And so, you get the likes of Markos Moulitsas. Who has transferred his military-programmed duality, and his military-programmed killing instinct, to a website where he has erected the dualistic good/bad of Democrat/Republican. Where, when an old, Republican-sort of man, dies pathetically, and needlessly, on a snowbank, Moulitsas, if he does not chortle, certainly "hardens his heart." Because the dead man was Other.

So, Moulitsas, he no "shed[s] a tear." He says: "Fuck these assholes." He says: "[N]ot gonna start giving a shit."

Moulitsas, I'm sorry, but he is not an evolved human being. He is an ur-human. Digging in the dirt. At one with, or even beneath, the Bundy-sorts he so decries. Whom he can feel for: nothing. Because they are on the forbidden yonder side, of his duality.

So larval, he does not understand there is no duality. But, instead: infinite, infinite, infinite shades. Without number.

There is no but "two." No but "1" plus "O," in the laughably crawling de-evolved language of digital.

There is only infinity. There is only ∞.

In one of those slivers of shades, there in infinity, there in Reality, even, is him. Markos Moulitsas. And, there, he is frightened. And he is crying. And he is alone.

And he is shot. And he is dying. In a snowbank. And he is getting, so cold.
[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UuXb4She_sU]