He had a penis eight hundred miles long and two hundred and ten miles in diameter, but practically all of it was in the fourth dimension.

So late Saturday afternoon I rented a backhoe, and used it to lay to rest, between the blackberries and the pear trees, the vacated corporeal containers of H. G. Wells and George Orwell. Both men, as I related here, having perished, here in my abode, the previous Thursday. Unable to survive the experience of that televised Republican debate wherein, among other things, The Hairball publicly pronounced his penis larger than Hagrid's, and promised to wield it to execute Edward Snowden, deport all and every Mexican, pound China into submission, and extinguish the families of the Muslims, as well as anyone who might have the effrontery to Libel him.

The three crows, they were very interested in the backhoe proceedings. They were hoping maybe I would rest in my labors, go into the house to get a sandwich or something, and then they could sail down out of their perch in the oak, and perhaps get an Eye. Crows, they are generally impatient about humans, and other roadkill, getting to the Rotting. And so they typically dig in, with an early appetizer, of Eyes.

But I did not want any Wells or Orwell eyes going into the crow beaks. This is because it is considered rude, when a guest dies in your home, to allow corvids to peck at their parts. So, diligently, I began the beguine, and kept at it, until both men were shuffled away beneath the soil. The crows, they huffed, in disappreciation. So, after, and to placate them, I set out some hard-boiled eggs. These the three birds consumed greedily. If ever you want to make friends with the crows, go to the hard-boiled eggs.

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

The vegetable people on the property, they were even more avid in their interest in the corpses, than the crows. This is because plants dearly love meat. Animals eat vegetables, vegetables eat animals: that's the way it works, here on this planet. No plant is happier, than one fed blood meal. Bone meal, they favor that, too. Feed me, they cry. Feed me. More.

Alain Danielou, he is a Frenchman, who, for many years, plunged into Research, eventually emerging, in Shiva and Dionysus, having determined that he had unearthed the remains of the primordial human religion, which he calls Shivaism.

The Creator is a cruel god who made a world in which nothing can live but by destroying life through the killing of other living beings. Thus, no being can exist except by devouring other forms of life, whether vegetable or animal, and this is one of the fundamental aspects of created nature. Life in the world, both animal and human, is nothing but an interminable slaughter. To exist means to eat and to be eaten. All living beings feed on other beings and themselves become food for other beings in an ecological cycle. This is why the Creator himself defines his nature as devouring and devoured. "I am the food, food, food, and I am the eater, eater, eater . . . from food are born living beings. Those who are on the Earth live only by food and become themselves food in the end." (Taittiriya Upanishad, III, 2 and 10, 6.)

This cycle encompasses all of material creation, from "[t]he sun [which] only shines by destroying its own substance," to the smallest plant, which delights in devouring flesh.

The basic principle of Shivaism is to accept the world as it is, and not as we should like it to be. It is only when we accept the reality of the world that we can try to understand its nature, thus drawing nearer to the Creator and taking our place in the harmony of creation. Since nothing can exist without feeding on the life of other beings, we ourselves must take responsibility before the gods who have ordained it so. In order to share with the gods the responsibility for the fratricidal acts by which we are forced to devour other living beings so as to survive, we must offer them victims in sacrifice.

It is only when we are fully conscious of the value of our actions, consciously accomplishing the will of the gods who have ordained that life should only exist by death and by slaughter, that we can then limit its effects and play the part which has devolved on us in the harmony of the world. Only then can we avoid stepping out of our role, and avoid the hecatombs which take place when man tries to ignore his own real nature and that of the divine.

That's what Danielou says. Anyway.

As I was digging the Orwell and Wells graves, it occurred to me that if, earlier in my life, I had pursued a career as a gravedigger, living creatures today, they would not be doing the dying.

The reasoning for this, goes as follows:

I was reading this story, about how the journalists have gone away. The journalists, they used to be here, but now they are pretty much not. I know a couple of the people in that piece. Or did, back in the day. When I was a journalist. Before I killed the trade. Because, I realized, reading that piece, I am the Jonah of jobs. Whatever field I may enter, it is thereby Doomed.

I worked in a library, and now they don't have the libraries anymore. I worked in bookstores, and so those are over. I worked for newspapers, and newspapers are gone; for magazines, which are no more; and in book publishing—thus, the books are leaving. I worked on the music radio, and so we can't have that. I had a CETA job, and, as a result, Ronald Reagan, on the day he took office as the president, abolished the whole program, nationwide. I worked in a commie recycling center, so those have been abolished. I was a private investigator, and them's more or less gone.

As I reviewed this litany of Failure, I grasped that, if only I had, early on, known the effect I would have, on any and all arenas of employment I might enter, I could have effected Great Change. Like, straight away, I would have joined the military—and so today there would be no military. Anywhere. On the planet. Then I would have taken a job in a gun store. And thus there would now be no guns. My taking a job at the Federal Reserve, that would have taken care of the money: it just wouldn't be here. As an aircraft designer, I would have guaranteed that today the skies would be free and silent and clear. While my gig as a city planner, that would mean that today those sad toxic cesspools would be wholly emptied out. And, finally, my laboring as a gravedigger, that would mean that these days there would be nothing to bury. Everything would be only about, living.

The problem with this belated brainshower, is that about fifteen years or so I mucked up, and shattered the pattern, when I started working in the law. Because that profession, it is not going anywhere, not any time soon. Because, I know, that as long as there is a State, any place on earth, it will be wanting to put people in the jail. To my Jonahing, the law is, alas, near-impervious. Though I should note that, since I entered law world, there are now fewer people in the jail, in this county and in this state, than there were when I began. The United States Supreme Court, it even issued an Order, that in this state tens of thousands of people, be put out of the prisons. So, maybe, my Jonahing, has had, some, effect.

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

Because I did not enter politics, they are still out there making the president. Because the people, they think they need one.

This past weekend, in the Democratic version of the president, The Cranky Brooklyn Deli Man, he prevailed in three electoral contests, as compared to one for The Mad Bomber, and he also bested her in accumulated delegates, 67 to 64.

But not many people in the standard Reality wanted to pay attention to this. Because the accepted Narrative, it is that The Cranky Brooklyn Deli Man, he is the Loser.

Today, the Democrats will be making the president in Mississippi, a state on The Mad Bomber's shameless Black Like Me tour. And so, there, she shall be the Winner. As her name appears on the ballot as Sojourner Rodham Truth, and she has blanketed the state with ads recounting how she tenderly cradled Medgar Evers' head, as he lay dying in his driveway, she then heavy with Martin Luther King's child.

There will also be Democratic presidenting today in Michigan. Among the Normals, they are saying the Bomber there too will prevail. But the Deli Man, he is galloping up closer, in some of the tea-leaving known as polls. So, you never know.

When you gaze at a map, and you regard the borders of various nations and states and whatnot—all of which do not actually exist, are wholly artificial constructs, just addled group agreements of the human mind—it is generally difficult to discern just why the humans drew the lines where they did. This is particularly true of Michigan. The upper portion of the state, it is not linked to the lower portion: there is a bunch of water in the way. There wasn't even a bridge connecting the Upper Peninsula, as it is called, with the rest of the state, until 1957. Physically, upper Michigan abuts but Wisconsin. And also Canada, which doesn't count, because it is not the property of the Americans.

Michigan, when it became a state, it did not even want the Upper Peninsula. But Michigan was eventually forced to take it, in a "compromise," in which Michigan was also forced to relinquish the "Toledo strip" to Ohio. Lower Michiganers were all grumbly about this, considering themselves The Losers, as the Upper Peninsula was then officially deemed "a sterile region, destined by soil and climate to remain forever a wilderness." Of course a few years later they stumbled upon the copper and iron in the Peninusla, which brought in more mineral wealth than the California Gold Rush, and so then everybody wanted the UP. But it was too late. Michigan had it.

Notwithstanding the fact there is just that one bridge, connecting the upper and lower, Michigan, it is an example, of how everything connects.

Because in Ukraine is a village called Chornobyl. Which is the Ukranian word for "wormwood." Established in 1193 as a hunting lodge. For many years home to a thriving Jewish community. The 17th Century Hasidic rabbi and Kabbalist mystic Menahem Nahum, he lived and taught in Chornobyl. And this is among what he said:

No man is beyond redemption. Redemption was established before the creation of the world itself, that's how important redemption is. No one can take it away.

During the Russian civil war, rightist counter-revolutionaries gathered together the Jews of Chornobyl, packed them onto boats, steered them out into the Pripyat River, scuttled the boats, and then shot anyone who tried to swim for shore. Boris Brasol, one of the killers who shot the Jews upon the water, later emigrated to the US, where he was responsible for the first American edition of the notorious Jew-hating forgery The Protocols of the Elders of Zion. Through this, Brasol came to the attention of Detroit automaker Henry Ford, who gave him a job on his Dearborn Independent, there in Michigan. Brasol collaborated with Ford on the latter's own sick-making anti-semitic tract, The International Jew. This book found favor with Adolph Hitler, whose government later bought vehicles and parts from the Ford Motor Company, as Germany was at war with Europe. When Hitler's troops came to occupy Chornobyl, they exterminated those Jews remaining in the region. Every one. And, this past Sunday night, The Cranky Brooklyn Deli Man, he stood on the debate stage, there in Flint, Michigan, and he said:

My father's family was wiped out by Hitler in the Holocaust. I know about what crazy and radical and extremist politics mean. I learned that lesson as a tiny, tiny child. When my mother would take me shopping, and we would see people working in stores, who had numbers on their arms, because they were in Hitler's concentration camps.

Danielou, he writes of phenomena like the Jew-killing, thusly:

Since cruelty is one of the basic constituents of the world, it also belongs to the nature of all living beings and is found—more or less disguised—in all men. Apart from vital food requirements, it is found in the form of the defence of vital territory, among both animals and humans. It is also used to ensure the supremacy and "purity" of a species, race, religion, or culture, and is thus one of the causes of genocide.

Each human group instinctively seeks to assert itself at the expense of others, whether "foreigners," or elements who are considered "different" or discriminated against. Any group may be subject to this collective instinct of cruelty. It may be the people of a nearby country, or of a foreign race, a social class or a religious or political conviction. The taste for violence and slaughter is latent in all societies. "Purges" are often considered legitimate by the partisans of whichever regime is in power. As a proverb says, "Give your dog a bad name and hang it."

It is not possible to fight effectively against one of these instinctive forms, while accepting others.

This is the appeal of The Hairball. It is very clear, to those who cleave to him, that The Hairball wants to hurt people, wants to kill people. The people of The Hairball: they like that. Because that's what they want, too. The Mexicans, and the Muslims, the brown people, those people The Hairball has explictly stated, over and over and over again, that he wants to hurt, wants to kill, they are, to the people of The Hairball, nothing but Other. And so:

what's all the fuss
they ain't like us
they don't matter anyway

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J0U2KqVC1-0]

The Hairball, he was mighty peeved, when, this past weekend, the creepy, sinister vampire, Zed Crud, accumulated more votes, and more delegates, in the Republican version of the presidenting, than did he.

And so, The Hairball, he reacted, as he always does, when thwarted: he lashed out. He decided that he would again behave as if he is already the president, as he did the night of the Nevada caucuses, when he presided over the burning of the Mexicans. And so he hand-scrawled two Orders: one to place a 35% tariff on all goods from China entering the United States, and one to "bomb the shit" out of ISIL, and all Muslims related to, or who might look like, ISIL.

Unfortunately, because The Hairball is a short-fingered vulgarian, his writing is not at all coherent, or readable. And so, The Hairball minions, they got the Orders mixed up. And thus, the word went forth, to slap a 35% tariff on all goods entering the US from ISIL, and to "bomb the shit" out of China, and all the people related to, or who might look like, the Chinese.

It was indeed fortuitous that Hairball senior aide Horst Wessel, he detected the error, before the planes entered Chinese airspace, and was able to turn them around. All except one. Piloted by a certain Major Kong. That plane, alas, reached its target. And bombed away. Which is why we should probably all now go down into the Shelter.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wcW_Ygs6hm0]

But maybe it will be okay, down there in the Shelter. After all, these very tubes, they were invented by insane people, to enable serial killers, who had already nuclearly crisped the planet, to "route around damage," and thus continue to communicate, down there in the holes, with one another.

The Republicans, they will be making the president today, in Idaho, Hawaii, Michigan, and Mississippi.

The Hairball, late last night, he announced, on his twit machine, a new Policy. Those states that do not elect him the Winner, they will be Bombed.

The Hairball, he is, at root, Sad. We know this from his micropenis, and from the fact that, 25 years on, he still cannot get over the fact that effete East Coast foreigner Graydon Carter wrote in the long-defunct Spy magazine that The Hairball is "a short-fingered vulgarian."

To this day, I receive the occasional envelope from Trump. There is always a photo of him—generally a tear sheet from a magazine. On all of them he has circled his hand in gold Sharpie in a valiant effort to highlight the length of his fingers. I almost feel sorry for the poor fellow because, to me, the fingers still look abnormally stubby. The most recent offering arrived earlier this year, before his decision to go after the Republican presidential nomination. Like the other packages, this one included a circled hand and the words, also written in gold Sharpie: "See, not so short!" I sent the picture back by return mail with a note attached, saying, "Actually, quite short."

This is pitiable, and also deeply Disturbed. The Hairball, like Private Pyle in Full Metal Jacket, he suffers from a "major malfunction." And, like Pyle, he should not be allowed anywhere near weaponry. Way back in his past, something scarred him badly, and he has not been able to recover. He remains a poor, lonely child. Like Ebenezer Scrooge, in the true-life documentary film Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b7qOFB4IXA8]

The Hairball, he Hurts. And so he Hurts, in return.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8pHVRLdWzaQ]

He should go Quiet. And get Treatment. All those enablers, praising his name, they are not Helping. For they will never be Enough.

For too many days, the tubes have been clogged with stories about Mommie Poo Pants, one of the wives of Ronald "Where's The Brain Of Me?" Reagan. I have not opened many of these tubes, because too many of them mention the woman's unspeakable "Just Say No" jihad. And, whenever I encounter this anathema, I feel morally compelled, to ingest a narcotic. And I do not want to OD.

In but one of the recent "Just Say No" tubes, have I found related the bleeding irony of her campaign: that Mommie Poo Pants was herself addicted to a galaxy of prescription pills, and for more than 40 years. Her daughter, Patti Davis, blamed this addiction for the vicious and unrelenting child abuse to which she was subjected; Mommie Poo Pants' favorite weapon, a hairbrush. Davis was so traumatized that she had herself sterilized, in her early 20s, so afraid was she that, in turn, she would abuse her own children.

While Mommie Poo Pants lay moaning in the hospital, struggling to emit Patti into the world, hubby Ron was out bouncing the bedsprings with lover Christine Larson. Reliving the glory of his peak Hollywood days, replete with libidinous, bibulous blackouts, when he would not uncommonly awake not knowing the name of the woman lying beside him.

A number of years on, producer Robert Evans, he encountered a similar problem. However, more clever than Reagan, Evans devised a system in which his housekeeper would serve him breakfast in bed: black coffee, and a piece of cheesecake. And, under the cake plate, the housekeeper slipped a thin piece of paper, upon which was written the name of the woman lying beside him.

Evans served the planet far more than ever did Reagan. In hiring Roman Polanski to structure, re-write, and direct, Chinatown.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9cWnubJ9CEw]

Just in case you might think "time" is any more Real than balderdash like "nations" and "borders," today a solar eclipse will commence, that will end the day before it begins.

The Science Men, they say they have espied the most "far-away galaxy" out there, which they are calling GN-z11.

There are two problems with this. First, this is not, by any measure, the most "far-away galaxy" extant. Second, it is not called GN-z11. I have been out there, a time or two, and I can tell you, with confidence, that the true name of this galaxy, according to the galaxy himself, is Bob.

Danielou, he may write accurately, of what was, and is, but it is not what shall be. And actually, as seen by a Mexican, whom The Hairball would deport, it is already over:

The information we're plugged into is the universe itself, and everybody knows that on a cellular level. It's built in. Just superficial stuff like what happened to you in your lifetime is nothing compared to the container which holds all your information. And there's a similarity in all our containers. We are all one organism, we are all the universe, we are all doing the same thing. That's the sort of thing that everybody knows, and I think that it's only weird little differences that are making it difficult. The thing is that we're all earthlings. The earthling consciousness is the one that's really trying to happen at this juncture and so far it's only a tiny little glint, but it's already over. The change has already happened, and it's a matter of swirling out. It has already happened. We're living after the fact. It's a postrevolutionary age. The change is over. The rest of it is a cleanup action. Unfortunately it's very slow. Amazingly slow and amazingly difficult.

Because we have been to the monolith. And we have seen over.

Roger Ebert, dying of a terrible disease, in terrible pain, saw, as related by his wife, this:

That week before Roger passed away, I would see him and he would talk about having visited this other place. I thought he was hallucinating. I thought they were giving him too much medication. But the day before he passed away, he wrote me a note: "This is all an elaborate hoax." I asked him, "What’s a hoax?" And he was talking about this world, this place. He said it was all an illusion. I thought he was just confused. But he was not confused. He wasn't visiting heaven, not the way we think of heaven. He described it as a vastness that you can't even imagine. It was a place where the past, present, and future were happening all at once.

Ebert had already seen this, clear, years before, and related it, in the concluding words of his review of 2001: A Space Odyssey:

And here man undergoes a transformation as important as when he became a tool-user. He becomes a natural being again, having used his tools for hundreds of thousands of years to pull himself up by the bootstraps. Now, he no longer needs them. He has transcended his own nature, as that original ape did, and now he is no longer a "man."

Instead, having grown old and died, he is reborn as a child of the universe. As a solemn, wide-eyed infant who slowly looks over the stars and the Earth, and then turns his eyes on the audience.

These last 20 seconds, as the child of man looks down on his ancestral parents, are the most important in the film. We in the audience are men, and here is the liberated, natural being, Kubrick believes we will someday become.

But when Kubrick's space infant looked at the audience the other night, half of the audience was already on its feet, in a hurry to get out. A good third of the audience, must not have seen the space infant at all.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AXS8P0HksQo]