I can't come back: I don't know how it works.

Today they will be making the president in Indiana. The Hairball, he has to be considered the favorite son in this contest, as the Ku Klux Klan, it has never been more popular, anywhere, than it was in Indiana in the '20s, when more than one-third of the state's white males were publicly enrolled in the organization. That is the same time period as when The Hairball's daddy, he was a Klansman. The Hairball himself, of course, today cannot easily bring himself to disavow the sheet-people; indeed, everything that comes out of The Hairball's mouth, is Klan.

This week I was meeting with some family members of a young man who one night got in the wrong car, with the wrong people, and thus found himself involved in a home-invasion robbery. We were all working on ways and means that might keep him out of the prison.

During a break in the proceedings, while the lawyer went into another room to search for some paper or other, I asked these folks what they thought of The Hairball.

The cattle farmer, from down south a ways, there in the valley, who was sort of the spokesman for the group, he replied with one word:

"Klan."

The others, they nodded in agreement.

These were black people. White people, they may find it useful, to angels-on-the-head-of-a-pin, all day, and all of the night, as to the various alleged merits, and demerits, of The Hairball. But to brown and black people, that is simply a waste of time and energy. Stupid. Even dangerous. For The Hairball, they know him for what he is. They've dealt with people like him, all of their lives. It is a matter of survival, for them to be able to spot such people. Therefore, The Hairball: motherfucking Klan. Period. End of story. Next topic.

Good piece in Salon, the most recent to refute the notion that the people of The Hairball, they are for him, for any other reason, than his explict, insistent, persistent vows, to hurt, and kill, the brown people.

A few weeks ago, I was a guest on the political radio show Beyond the Beltway. To no one's surprise, the conversation turned to The Hairball, and I referred to the overwhelming evidence proving his supporters are ignorant and bigoted. The first caller, voice rising to the level of a shriek, badgered me for my "arrogance" and "smugness." Then, he concluded his tantrum with predictable sophistication. He called me a "Zionist hack." For the record, I'm not Jewish, but implying that I am such does not qualify as an insult.

The second caller—perhaps from the same tinfoil-insulated room as his predecessor—argued that I was a "snob" for citing the publicly available data I've read, and rebutted accusations of xenophobia by announcing he is "sick of seeing taco stands every five minutes."

A novelist could not invent better exchanges to illustrate the reality of the Hairball voter. Let them talk long enough, and they will soon convict themselves of indecent exposure.

The intellectual deformities and disfigurements of the average Hairball supporter should provoke universal disgust, but a fun game for phonies has begun to sweep the liberal world of commentary. Some writers, in their desire to play dress-up as Woody Guthrie, have taken to writing maudlin essays on the victimhood and pitiable state of Hairball fans. People who applaud an inarticulate blowhard's description of Mexican immigrants as "rapists," cheer for proposals to ban Muslims from entry into the United States, and laugh at mockery of women's looks and a disabled reporter's mannerisms, are actually deserving of sympathy. According to the Guthrie poseurs, if liberals fail to cry crocodile tears for their idealized version of the "white, working class," they are actually responsible for the putrid rise of The Hairball.

One will notice if paying attention that none of the Woody Guthrie poseurs are black. African-Americans seem not to suffer from any confusion over why working-class white people don't like the Democratic Party. It brings to mind the late Norman Mailer's observation that there are plenty of uneducated, uninformed, and even unintelligent black Americans, but there are no stupid ones. The condition of blackness in America brings with it a political sophistication unwelcoming of soft and sentimental illusions. The truth cuts deep: Most white, working-class voters left the Democratic Party because they did not want to associate with racial minorities, and they did not want to support any candidate who was unwilling to prove—term by term—his contempt for black people.

Unlike most pundits, I live in a small town in Indiana. There are Hairball supporters in my family, and my wife's family. Like the callers on Beyond the Beltway, if you give them enough rope, they will eventually self-tailor a noose. It is racial resentment, and little else, that motivates the Hairball supporter.

These people are not flexible. If they see the light on the road to Damascus, they will close their eyes and retreat into a dark corner. Cute and optimistic liberals often make a vague argument for the possibilities of recruitment, but 61 percent of Hairball supporters do not believe that Barack Obama was born in the United States. What recruitment strategy will convince someone that the president is not an illegal immigrant?

The real story of demographic change in American culture is not the fairly obvious and boring transformation of party constituencies, but the "browning of America." It is not only the presence of minorities, but the power of minorities—in American institutions at all levels—that has many white voters running scared, straight into the arms of a billionaire who just a year ago was probably indifferent to their existence. Hairball voters are not deifying their candidate because liberals are mean. They are doing so for the exact reasons they have given journalists and pollsters. They don't like immigrants, and they believe minorities are receiving too much governmental assistance and cultural power, at the expense of whites.

To act as if the truth is otherwise—that white people shouting "Build the wall" at Latino teenagers need only the right message from the right liberal messenger to change—is not compassionate. It is either dishonest or naïve. To excuse ignorance is the equivalent of writing a book on why it is fine to be illiterate.

While we were waiting for the lawyer to return, we expressed wonderation, about all the white-people rubes, who somehow think The Hairball is against "the establishment."

The man is a billionaire. He is therefore, by definition, a right-up-the-asshole buddy, of all and every establishment. The Hairball, he has been establishment grande, ever since his Klan daddy handed him his first millions, and told him to go forth into the world, and there screw people. Which The Hairball has been avidly doing, ever since. Any man with a billion dollars, he has prospered, to an unseemly and frankly obscene extent, in the economic and politicial establishment. And thus, he is the establishment, defined.

These people were smart. Not only do they know The Hairball to be a Klansman, and so establishment that he has a big "E" burned into his scalp, there under his toupee, they also know there is no way in the world their young relative is not going into the prison. If he were white, maybe he would get probation. Maybe. But because he is black: no chance. No chance at all.

But, we will be at least be making it uncomfortable for the white people, as they send him there.

For instance, the uptight white-lady Probation Officer, she, there in her report, got all scared, and flustered, and panty-twisted, because the young man, he is an aspiring rapper. And so she bloodied him, there in her report, with his rap music, as proof, according to her, that he is a criminal.

And then, in written response, I wondered, why it is, that no uptight white lady probation officers, they ever get the vapors about country music, which is, without doubt, just as violent, as rap.

Counsel is finally troubled by the information set forth in the "Additional Information" section of the report. There, the Probation Officer would tar Mr. M----- with the rap music he has made—an activity, counsel notes, protected by the First Amendment. The Probation Officer nowhere asserts that in this music Mr. M------ describes criminal behavior he has himself engaged in, but states "it could be argued a portion of the visual and musical content also promotes the A---- criminal street gang, gun violence, drug use, robbery, homicide, and other forms of criminal conduct." It could also be argued, that they do not. Comments by the Probation Officer like "[h]e denied being a gang member, but admitted he has an 'A----' tattoo and performs as a rapper for an O-------based record label," as if to equate being a rapper, with being a criminal, these, counsel respectfully suggests, are really poisonous.

Counsel finds it interesting that country music, which certainly promotes gun violence, drug and alcohol abuse, robbery, homicide, and other forms of criminal conduct, has never once, to counsel's knowledge, been in this county cited to in a Probation Report as a reason to send someone off to prison. Country music routinely describes violence as not only appropriate, but all-American—a million-selling song by Toby Keith, for instance, boasts "we'll put a boot in your ass/it's the American way," and this song was used, for years, as the introductory music for the Sean Hannity radio show. Yet counsel has never encountered, in any Probation Report, any condemnation of such music, and such violent, brutish shows as the Sean Hannity program, in connection with defendants who engage in or favor it.

A white man country singer, he can be a criminal, and even go to the prison, but when he dies, the white-people media, it will sing nothing but hosannas. As recently occurred with Merle Haggard. Who openly admitted that he continued living as a criminal, until the day he died. But let a black man rap singer, be a criminal, and go to the prison, he will, in the white-people media, remain Lucifer, until the day he dies.

The white-people media, it is currently in a frenzy, because the black Prince, it seems he may have liked Medicine. So what? This is a hard world. Sometimes it cries out, for Medicine. Prince, to my knowledge, he never laughed, when someone he didn't like, died. Which is more than can be said for The Mad Bomber. So Prince, he was a better man than she. Gunga Din.

Raccoons are fighting, all over my porch.

How can I concentrate, in this mayhem?

I blame Obama.

Because he is a vile, violent, sadistic person—even worse than a raccoon—The Hairball is of course drawing endorsements from other vile, violent, sadistic individuals, who are also worse than raccoons.

The most recent such brute to publicly embrace The Hairball, he is Bobby Knight, who for decades serially, viciously abused young men in the Indiana University basketball program. His behavior, it eventually became so bestial, that he had to be fired. But now, he is back, pronouncing The Hairball "the most prepared man in history to step in as president of the United States."

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uMVmhI1SUq0]

Knight, I always suspected, that he suffered from organic brain damage. That some sort of malign growth was up there, in his cranium, pressing against various brain centers, causing him to behave like a raccoon fed a bucket of garbage infused with PCP. But now, there is definitive proof. Witness, for instance, this tale Knight told, from the public stage, as he expounded upon the godhood, of The Hairball.

I'll talk to you one other thing about Donald Trump and how he operates and how he gets things done.

Johnny walks into his dad's office one morning and says, "Dad, did Mom tell you I passed the driver’s test?"

And Dad says, "Son, she did tell me that. She told me that the trooper who gave you the test said you had the best written and the best driving test of anybody he's ever had. I'm so proud of you, Son."

"Now, Dad, will that give me an opportunity maybe to drive your car or Mom's car once in a while?"

Well, son, now, this is the man in charge I'm talking about now. Or it could be the lady in charge. But this is all about the person that's in charge.

And he said to his son, "Well, sure, Son. There'll be a time for you to use one of our cars. However, there are some prerequisites. Your mother is not real happy with the way you treat your brother and sister. Your grades are two below what they should be. And I've talked to you son about reading, Son, about reading and I never see you read. And I've talked to you about the Bible because, Son, there are a lot of good things in the Bible that don’t have anything to do with religion.

"And then there's one last thing, Son. And it's that damn long hair of yours. I've told you to get a haircut and you haven't done it. Now when you think you've done all of these things, Son, then we'll talk about driving the car."

About three weeks later, Johnny comes in to talk to his dad and says, "Dad, I wanted to talk to you, I think I’ve done a lot of things you've asked me to do."

"Son, I'm proud of you. Your grades, the way Mom feels, the way you’re treating your brother and sister, all those things we talked about, all those prerequisites, really good in all of them. But there’s one thing left—it's that damn long hair of yours and you haven’t done a thing with it."

Now this is the man in charge, and that's this man right here.

And that boy looked at him and he said, "Well, Dad, you know you got me to read the Bible. And I did. And when I read the Bible, I learned a lot of things. But, Dad, I also learned that Matthew, Mark , Luke, John, Jesus himself all had long hair, Dad."

And the man in charge looked at that kid and he said, "Son, you are absolutely right. And they walked their ass off everywhere they went."

Zed Crud, he has always had a frightening face. But now that his efforts, they are waning, to replace there The Hairball, as the preferred monkey for the Republican organ-grinder, it is actually starting to melt.

Crud, he is clearly preparing for his next gig; a role in the remake of The Devil's Rain, a hideously awful film from the mid-'70s that marked the nadir of the careers of everyone from Ida Lupino to Ernest Borgnine, William Shatner to John Travolta, Keenan Wynn to Tom Skerritt.

When it comes to the climactic face-melting scene, Zed, he will not even need makeup. He can just let his face, do what it's doing, naturally.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gTS8i31SBhw]

The Democrats, they too are making the president, today, and in Indiana. But I recently read that more than 10 million of these Democrat-people, they have cast votes for The Mad Bomber.

This means there is something deeply wrong with them, and I don't feel like coping with that right now.

Instead, I am going to look at a clip of the Bomber barking, forwards and backwards, which clearly indicates that her power-pack is running down.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NNl7VrYoygo]

Please, lord, let the power-pack soon fail. Then the Bomber, she will have to go into a Facility, to be Repaired. At which time, some normal sort of Democrat, like maybe The Cranky Brooklyn Deli Man, he could instead be getting the votes, of the Democrats.

Rather than the millions of people voting for The Bomber, I would prefer to think about the Oort cloud.

I love the sound of "Oort cloud." It is like something that should be in a Dr. Seuss book. With the hortons and the sneetches and the ooblecks.

Anyway, once upon a time, some of the same sort of matter that formed this here planet, it got flung into the Oort cloud. Which is a long, long ways away.

But now, some sort of object, it is coming, from out of the Oort cloud, and it is heading this way.

No one knows what it wants.

Different-one Science Men have meanwhile woken up and realized that lizards dream. Even daydream.

I could have told them that. I have a bearded dragon here, and he every day engages in deep thought, there in his daydreams.

Since I have taken to observing this creature, I have changed my opinion about lizards. And in fact now know it to be a slander, this "lizard-brain flight or flight" business. Lizards are so much more than that. Than fight. Or flight.

I think I am going to start a campaign. To try to stop this slander. A campaign to change "lizard brain," to "Hairball brain." That is more appropriate. More accurate.

It is not only the Americans, who cannot control themselves, with the guns.

A 15-year-old boy in India, he shot and killed himself, while trying to take a "selfie," as he fondled his father's revolver.

And the extraterrestrials, quietly, they expanded the no-go zone, around this planet, an additional 50 parsecs.

This is kind of sad.

The first US cruise ship to travel to Cuba in half a century docked in Havana Monday, marking a new milestone in the rapprochement between the old Cold War foes.

A crowd of onlookers waved Cuban and American flags and filmed with their cell phones as the Adonia, a Carnival cruise liner, sailed into port in Havana after setting off Sunday from Miami.

No! No! Turn the ship around! Don't let it dock!

Ocean-going cruise ships, they are pretty much Bad and Wrong. They are affordable basically only to rich people, and they mostly take white people, to places where there aren't white people, to there infect them with capitalism.

Also, they are peculiarly prone to food plagues, which cause everyone on board to heave. And, if you get on one, there is a good chance you will disappear.

Take this 63-year-old Britisher, last seen quaffing cocktails on an Egyptian cruise. Then: nothing.

Today, more than five months on, Mr Halford, a bookseller from Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire, remains missing, his fate unknown.

His case is far from unique. Over the past few years, there have been an alarming number of unexplained and unsolved disappearances on board cruise liners.

According to the U.S.-based International Cruise Victims Association, 165 people have gone missing at sea since 1995, with at least 13 this year alone—many of them from vessels popular with British holidaymakers.

It is a mystery. Like that guy coming here, from out of the Oort cloud.

[W]hat is happening to all these passengers who simply vanish while at sea, never to be seen again?

Are they the victims of a sinister crime wave? Have they had a mishap at sea and fallen overboard, or perhaps chosen to take their own lives?

The sad fact is that, in many cases, no one knows.

Maybe The Mad Bomber, will she go on an ocean cruise. To rest up. From the rigors of the ongoing campaign.

And then, there on the cruise ship, she will be beamed up. By the intergalactic prankster, Q.

Who shall, out there, show her a thing or two.

Until she Learns. Then, maybe, she can come back.