Now that The Kenyan, he has directed that the public schools, all across the nation, shall accommodate in the restrooms transgender students, it is futile, for the yeehaws, to form their beloved state of Jefferson.

The state of Jefferson, this is a fever-dream of people of The Hairball. A cracking of California, in order to set aside, in the far north, a sort of preserve, for white people, who are ignorant, and afraid.

This proposed preserve, it is dubbed Jefferson, for Thomas Jefferson, a president who owned slaves, and who brought macaroni and cheese to the United States. For, the people of The Hairball, these would-be Jeffersonians, they would like to have slaves, and they would like these slaves, to make them, the macaroni and cheese.

The Jeffersonian fever, it began several years ago, up in Modoc County. Which is named for some Indians genocided there. These Indians, they did very well, holding out against the white-people invaders, for many years. Until the artillery was brought in, to seal the Modoc in the lava tubes. Once the Indians were dispatched, the white people moved in. Most of these, they soon moved right out. Because there just isn't a lot, in Modoc County. For white people.

When I moved to this area, my friend M., he was working for Legal Services, up there in Modoc. He reported that the preferred form of recreation there, among the Hairballians, involved getting liquored up, come Saturday night, and then driving the pickups out to the reservation. The Hairballians, they would get in the beds of the pickups, and then whoop and holler, as they drove around, roping Indians.

After M. helped put an end to this, as well as several other sacred Hairballian practices, he was one night hauled into an alley, and there beaten about the head and body, by several Hairballians. Through the pain, he was both confused, and amused, for the Hairballians, as they rained the blows down upon him, hotly denounced him as a "nigger Jew." M.: he is an Irishman.

I myself was confused, and amused, some years later, when I read the manifesto of the Modoc Hairballians, those who would become the citizens of Jefferson. These people, they ululated three main complaints. First, the president is black. Second, the black president owns all the trees in Modoc, and the Jeffersonians, they want to own all the trees, so they can have them all cut down, sell them, and then use the proceeds to buy more pickups, liquor, and rope. Third, the Mexicans in the state legislature, who apparently do not have normal families, like do the white people, they had gone stone mad, and passed a bill allowing transgender humans, to go into the school restrooms.

The Jefferson fungus next spread to Siskiyou County. This county was the vortex of the original iteration of the Jefferson joke, back in the very early 1940s, when white people in southern Oregon, and in northern California, wanted to yoke up in a state called Jefferson. They got pretty aggressive about it, setting up armed roadblocks, and stopping passing motorists, to tell them of their Lost Cause. Stanton Delaplane, he of the San Francisco Chronicle, he won a Pulitzer Prize for a series of articles that treated, correctly, these people as a form of alien species. Delaplane, he was one of that paper's many insane drinkers, and is credited with introducing Irish coffee to the United States.

Anyway, the Jefferson joke, it went sour on December 7, 1941. Because then, the would-be Jeffersonians, they decided they liked the United States, after all, and even California and Oregon. And so went into the armed forces, and there became serial killers. And got on big boats, and sailed all around the world. To kill. And be killed. And, when all that was over, and those who survived, they got back home, they just weren’t much interested, in any Jefferson, any more.

But now, there in Siskiyou, among the people of The Hairball, the Jeffersonian disease had flared up anew. And, these people, they had the same complaints, as those in Modoc: (1) Black Man/White House; (2) trees; (3) Wrongness in bathrooms.

My friend S., he refused to believe that, even white people, they would be so addle-pated, as to strive to form a new state, simply because of something going on in the bathrooms. I explained to him that this is because he has spent almost his entire life in San Francisco and Costa Rica, areas of the planet where they do not have Hairballians. He had no idea, then, just how completely seized up such people could be, by horrifying visions, of what might be going on, in somebody else's underpants.

If he didn't believe me, I suggested, he could accompany me to a local hoedown, coming up soon, where the Hairballians among us, they would be fervently meeting, to make plans to try to persuade the county's official bodies, to board the Jefferson train.

And so, together, to this confab, we did go. And: there they were. The people of The Hairball. White. Fat. Ignorant. Angry. Shrieking, rending their garments, about the black man in the white house, the need to have control of all the trees, the crazed Mexicans in the legislature, the gays running wild in the streets, the transgenders invading the bathrooms.

At one point, while one foam-flecked Hairballian was going on about the need, at all times, for all and every, to carry multiple concealed firearms, in case someone came from a government to try to protect a tree, or escort a transgender into a bathroom, S. suddenly said: "I can't be here. I'm a Jew."

"Relax," I told him, "they plan to kill all the brown and black people, before they ever get around to the likes of you."

"I am brown," he reminded me, "I'm Syrian."

"Oh, right," I remember, chastened. And so, soon after, we left.

But first, we listened to the long, sad story of the ancient old Hairballian. His tale of woe, it began with the usual invocation of how, once, the nation, and the state, they were so very great, when there was just the white people. Where, did those days, ever go? And how, could they ever, be brought back? Jefferson! Jefferson! That, was the answer! And then, the tears coming, he began speaking of his granddaughter. The light of his life. But, she was going to the school. And the Mexicans, there in the state legislature, they were going to make the transgenders, go into the school bathrooms! With his granddaughter!

It was clear, that this Hairballian, he did not know what, precisely, a transgender person is. He just knew he didn't want one. There in the bathroom. With his granddaughter. As Stevie Wonder—another black man, and therefore totally wrong—once put it: this man, he believed, in things, he don't understand. And so: he suffers.

Now, with the directive of The Kenyan, the suffering of such Hairballians, it will continue, and without surcease. For, the dream of the state of Jefferson, it is dead. Because, even if that state, were to come into the Real, it would not be Free. Because, with his great Muslim tentacles, The Kenyan, he would reach out, even into the bathrooms of Jefferson, and there, insert the transgenders.

The only hope—as he is the hope of all no-minds, everywhere—is The Hairball. For The Hairball, he has decreed, that The Kenyan, he is wrong. This, The Hairball says, is a matter of states' rights. The states. They should decide. About the transgenders. And the bathrooms.

States' rights. Right. Like abortion. And gaydom. And voting. And slavery. And placing children in little boxes, and beating on them with big sticks.

Oh! Mighty Hairball! Deliver your people! Ensure, that they may remain, who they are. White. Retrovert. Dumb as dirt. Guarantee, that they shall be, free. Free to, and forever, drag their knuckles, all along the ground.