The American humans, they are always obsessing, about the primates trying to be the president. In doing so, they can sometimes miss the antics of the baboons, who are contending for lesser offices.

Take this Mike Webb being. He wants to be a congressmember from Virginia's 8th District. He wants it really bad. So bad that, after the Confederate party convention said it didn't want him, he announced he would run as an independent. Webb, he speaks to the people via Farcebark. In one recent such speak, he offered to the people a screenshot. Which, up at the top there, displayed open tabs to two nekkid women: "Ivone Sexy Amateur" and "Layla Rivera Tight."

Webb, he suffers from a serious and lifelong Baptist disability. And so I suppose we can expect soon the requisite press conference. In which his wife appears, there on the stage with him, standing slightly behind, and zonked out of her gourd on valium. While Webb, he tearfully apologizes, for not paying attention, when his son snuck onto his computer, and there went to places where there was Nakedness. But the son, Webb shall firmly announce, he has since been castrated. And so, there is no reason, why the people, they can't send Webb, to the Congress.

I do not know how to make the screenshots. Nor, do I want to know.

The technology, it is hard. That is why the howler monkey James O'Keefe, he must needs now abandon his plan to expose George Soros, as the doyen of the Global Communist Conspiracy.

Because O'Keefe, he placed a phone call, to one of Soros' many sinister henchman, and there spoke into the henchman's voice-mail. O'Keefe then turned to his people, and together they began discussing the Plot. Some ten minutes passed, before O'Keefe became aware that it is beyond his powers to hang up a phone; the line was still open, feeding to the Soros henchman, all the sub rosa hoot-huddle, of O'Keefe, and his confederates.

This is certainly embarrassing, for the howler monkey. But, it is not like O'Keefe has not been embarrassed before. And, in any event, it will all turn out all right. Because The Hairball, he has announced that, once he becomes the president, he shall appoint O'Keefe, to be the director of the FBI.

The House of Representatives, this week it nervously, tentatively, evolved into the late 19th Century, in voting to permit certain physicians to recommend a beneficial weed, and to restrict the display of the slavery diaper in national cemeteries.

Last year, the Confederates, they scrapped a bill funding the entirety of the Interior Department, rather than permit an attached slavery-diaper amendment to advance. This year, however, the Confederates, they are cognizant that their party standard-bearer, he shall spend all the summer, and all the fall, shamelessly traveling the land, with the words "White Power" tattooed to his forehead. Thus, the Confederates permitted the slavery-diaper bill to proceed. In the feeble hope that, thereby, they might demonstrate some distance between themselves, and the glow-in-the-dark racism of The Hairball. But, in this, they are dreaming. For their party, it has been wholly anchored in racism, since 1964; The Hairball, he simply bellows explicitly, all day, and all of the night, what all the rest of them have communicated, with a wink and a nod, in this code and that, for the past 52 years.

Of course, some of the Confederates, they could not bring themselves to so easily abandon their beloved Lost Cause. Thus, Pete Sanborn, an aide to Confederate congressmember Lynn Westmoreland, he ululated in the email:

You know who else supports destroying history so that they can advance their own agenda? ISIL. Don't be like ISIL. I urge you to vote NO.

Yours in freedom from the PC police.

Westmoreland, he then dutifully trotted out, to piously proclaim:

I am deeply disappointed by my staffer's poor judgment. This unprofessional language is not tolerated and is distracting from the real issues Congress is working on. The staffer has been reprimanded and I assure you it will not happen again.

But it will be okay. For Sanborn. Because The Hairball, he has announced, that once he becomes the president, he shall appoint Sanborn head of the Civil Rights Commission. There, Sanborn will join his fellow Hairball appointees: Joe Arpaio, Brigitte Gabriel, David Duke, Dylann Roof.

Fulfilling the explicitly stated wishes of such fervent proponents of Occupy Womb Street as Ron Paul and The Hairball, the chimps in the Oklahoma legislature voted to lash into the prison for three years any and all doctors who might perform an abortion.

But then the party-pooping governor, Mary Fallin, she went and vetoed it.

Previously, Fallin, she had been mentioned as a potential running mate for The Hairball. But: no longer. Now, she will be tarred and feathered, and driven through the streets, and with bells on. Before the screeching, betrayed legions, of The Hairball. Who shall bear posters of vaginas, inaccessible behind belts of chastity, and who shall chant: "Build! That! Wall!"

Then there is Sharron Angle. She is a woman with the brain of a sno-cone, unable even to correctly spell her first name. And she is contending, again, to be the Confederate candidate for US Senate in Nevada.

Six years ago, Angle, she dashed the plans of the Confederates, to snatch that seat from a politically-weakened Harry Reid. The Confederates, they had settled on a relatively Normal person, to take on Reid. But then, rumbling across the desert, in great phalanxes of motorized fat-carts, came the people of The Hairball. Led by such stunning wonderments as Sarah Palin, Joe The Plumber, Pat Boone, Phyllis Schlafly. And so the gibbering gibbons, in the Confederate primary, they abjured the relatively Normal one, and selected instead Angle.

Dark, black, hilarity, then ensued. Angle became known for literally running away, whenever the press attempted to speak with her. She publicly fellated Augusto Pinochet, because "sometimes dictators have good ideas." She said Prohibition needed to come back, and meanwhile no one should drink the water, because fluoridation saps a person's precious bodily fluids. Breast cancer, said she, it instantly runs wild, in any woman who has an abortion. And, if both a man and a woman, who have children, work outside the home, then both shall go directly to Hell. She was suspicious of a group of Latino schoolchildren, who she said looked Asian; she thought they were trying to pull a fast one.

Confederate regulars, they termed Angle and her associates, "The Island Of Misfit Toys." Like all such people, the Angleoids relied on paranoia as their motive force. For instance, campaign workers were put through a three-hour indoctrination course, in which they were vouchsafed details of a Secret Code they were to use, when Enemies were believed to be about. To wit: "If anyone came into the office who looked like a Democrat, a Reid supporter or a member of the media—they all look alike!—[the] order was to dial a certain extension in front of the interloper and say, 'It's time to water the plants.'"

Through serendipidity—that is, coincidence; which does not, in fact, exist—I discovered that Angle probably came to this code by way of the Camorra, an organized-crime outfit originally out of southern Italy, but now Known to be active in Nevada; that is, the land of mutant sand, wherein the rough beast of Ms. Angle, she was born.

In all there are said to be about five thousand words in the Camorrist vocabulary; but a large number of these are simply Neapolitan slang, for inventing which every Neapolitan has a gift.

No more interesting example of this slang has ever come to light than in the secret diary of Tobia Basile (nicknamed "Scarpia Leggia") who, after serving thirty years in prison, returned to the haunts of men to teach the picciotti the forms and ceremonies of the society and to instruct them in its secret language. This strange old man, more literate than most Camorrists, kept a diary in the ancient symbolism of the brotherhood. Having become bored by his wife he murdered her, walled her body up in the kitchen, and recorded what he had done, thus:

May 1, "The violets are out."
May 7, "Water to the beans."
June 11, "I have pruned my garden."
Aug. 10, "How beautiful is the sun."
Sept. 12, "So many fine sheep are passing."

Time passed, and a contractor, rebuilding the wall, came upon the corpse. Tobia denied his guilt, but his diary was found, as well as a Camorrist translator. "Water to the beans." That beautiful metaphor was shown to mean naught else but "I have killed and buried her." And in the face of his own diary Tobia admitted the accuracy of his record. "Water to the beans."

So. It is good that the Angleoids, they determined it was but "time to water the plants." For, if they had chosen instead, to bring "water to the beans," there would have been a bloodbath.

But maybe the bean-fire, it shall be this time. Because Angle, she has returned, to again seek that Nevada Senate seat, this year to be vacated by Reid. "It was the clamor of the people," she said, explaining why she has signed on for a return bout. "People would walk up to me in the grocery store."

Oh.

If I did what people who "walk up to me in the grocery store" tell me to do, I would be in the prison.

Anyway. The Confederate regulars of Nevada, they had previously believed their nominee would be Joe Heck (who they required change his name from Joe Hell). But now, Angle, she is back. And so they are all taking Medicine.

As Nevada Democrats, they chortled in a press release: "Nevada Republicans now have a choice between an anti-immigrant Tea Party Republican known for saying outlandish things like calling Social Security a 'pyramid scheme' and . . . Sharron Angle."

So far, Angle does not know who she is running against: she thinks it's "Thomas Heck." Also, her understanding of Social Security, it remains cabined to that wisdom she received from listening to a Runt Limprod parody. As a heavily medicated Confederate regular explains: "Her plan to save Social Security is to somehow take all the money that had been quote 'stolen' out of the lockbox, and put it back in the lockbox based in West Virginia."

Yeehaw.

So apparently it's that time of the season when The Mad Bomber & Co. shall accuse her opponent, and his supporters, of "violence." She pulled this one on The Kenyan, too, eight years ago. It is part of the strategy of portraying her as a pale frail wildwood flower, who is always Picked On by Mean Boys, because of The Vagina. Of course, in the ever-bipolar Bomber campaign, this portrayal alternates with the one in which she is more or less the second coming of Vlad the Impaler, ready for action even more than Sergeant Rock, eager to bomb and shoot and strafe and slit anyone who even looks sideways at America.

It must be admitted that partisans of The Mouthpiece, they also, eight years ago, went in for the Kenyan-violence shtick. I still remember one quivering white boy, trembling into a thread, there to quaver, to his fellow Mouthpiecians, that the Kenyan caucus-goers, that he had encountered, they were "urban" and "loud." Translation: scary black people.

Mousetits, he has really gone round the bend, on this violence jihad. Every day, he is putting up a new post, in which The Cranky Brooklyn Deli Man, he is rendered as Gavrilo Princip reborn, instructing his legions to hurl bombs at the motorcades, pump sarin into the subways. The frenzy is such, it is almost like it is personal. Like the Deli Man, he pushed over Mousetits' bicycle, or something. Sprinkled salt in his aquarium. I don't know.

Personally, I am not the least bit interested, in anything, Mousetits might have to say, about someone else's violence. Because Mousetits, he volunteered as a serial killer in the United States military. And no one who has volunteered as a serial killer for a military, has any business commenting on anyone else's violence. Unless s/he has first crawled cross cut glass to Canterbury, in abased apology, for every second spent in serial-killing service. Mousetits, he has not done that. And so, his St. Vitus Dancing, about other people's violence: he can just pop it up the old bunghole.

So they are transplanting the penises now. I suppose this is a positive development. For one thing, it may calm The Hairball. He would need no longer be mortified by his micropenis: he can go out and get a new one. Like the rich people, they always, go out, and get a new one. Once attached to a new and improved penis, The Hairball, he then may be less inclined to rampage around the politics ceaselessly shaking his action all in everybody’s faces. You never know. Worth a try, anyway. I think.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PIcmk8WA10A]

A Haight person, she once told me, that how she knew that god was male, rather than female, involved the placement of the penis, on the human y-chrome. A female deity, she said, who was about creating the humans, she would have affixed the penis, not to the man's groin, but to his chin.

When you think about it, you realize that she is right.

Maybe, now that they are transplanting the pensies, this design flaw, it can—at last—be corrected.

Also, no one would take the people in the politics so seriously, if, whenever they were bloviating, about this and about that, their pee-pees, they were publicly, pathetically, flaccidly flopping around there, on their chins.

In the politics of late, there has been a lot of talk about rigging, and fraud, and suppression.

But no one, are they talking, about the most grievous suppressed fraud rig, in the entirety of the 2016 presidential campaign. And that is the disappearance of Deez Nutz.

Back in August of 2015, Nutz, he was polling higher, in such states as Minnesota, North Carolina, and Iowa, than such worthies as Captain Lapband, Ayn Rand Paul, The Invisible Man, The Farm Animal, Frothy, Death Of A Salesman, Star Trek Head, Happy Gilmore, Jar Jar Binks, and Mondo Boobio. There was, then, a very brief, flurry of media coverage. Since: silence. He has not appear in any tubes, he was not invited to any debates, his votes were not counted. He was suppressed-fraud-rigged, right out of the race!

This, is an Outrage. Deez Nutz, he was disappeared as completely as was Peter Bishop, in the true-life documentary series Fringe, when Peter, he got in the Machine, and there reset the Timeline. But, just as there, Peter, he could not be stopped, but instead flickered, impossibly, back into the new timeline, so too, shall Deez Nutz, he rise, in the politics, again. For Nutz, he is the Answer. He is the Choice, of the People. He is, the nation's, Destiny.

This week the Fringe events, they seem to be concentrated in Arizona.

A former football man, there in Goodyear, he was seized by a compulsion to put a poodle in a smoker. And then a newsman, who arrived to report on the story, he suddenly dropped his drawers and defecated on the lawn. Meanwhile, some sort of mystery stench, it is causing people in Marana to cough and choke and gag and wheeze. Farther south, the people are dropping by the roadside, with dengue fever. Mammoth dust storms, bigger than god, are closing down the highways, and the people, they are frantically trying to douse them, with gorilla snot. And because Phoenix is a blazing desert, hotter most days than the surface of Venus, Nestle is opening there a water-bottling plant.

"It's certainly ironic to some degree to have a water-bottling plant in one of the driest cities in the country," Sierra Club Arizona director Sandy Bahr said.

"It's not a good direction for Phoenix."

You know, it has always been tough, life here on this planet. Even before it got all Fringey. Like, 76 million years ago, you could be a dinosaur, that the Science Men have since named Judith, and you could have arthritis so bad it was painful with each step to walk. And you would walk, arthritically, around, all day, every day, with a hole in your skull, where somebody once plunged their horn. And then, one day, somebody else, puts their teeth all in you, and you die.

And then you are not even allowed to rest in peace. Because Science Men, they dig you up, and they run their Science Men hands all over you, and now they are going to display you, naked, in a museum.

I am starting to worry, a little, about what happens when the Science Men, they have finally dug up everything, that has ever died. Because the Science Men, once they get started, they do not stop (see, for instance, building the nuke bombs). I am thinking that, after they run out of the dead, they shall then have to start grabbing and groping and measuring and dissecting all the live people, places, and things.

And today, well, the people who work for Disney, they have it about as bad, as did Judith. So fraught are their lives, that they huddle together in a tubesian support group, there on Whisper. Among their moans:

"Every day before my shift I drink liquor to help make me more cheerful for the children."

"I work at Disney Land and I want to kick the kids, especially the ones that come near me."

"I work at Disney, and 'have a magical day' is mouse for 'go fuck yourself.'"

"I've always wanted to work at Disney and be a princess. You need to be a size 10 (UK) and under 5ft 6ins. I'm already screwed."

"I used to work at Disney, where Rule No.1 is: Always stay in character. I once walked in on Belle and Gaston having sex. They paused and then Belle says: 'Don't tell the Beast.'"

So what, as Lenin famously asked, is to be done? I figure, whether ye be Judith, or Belle, try to find some fun, wherever you may happen to be. As the true-life documentary film The Full Monty teaches, this is possible, even in such a place, as the unemployment line.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H4wuH9pSSRo]

So it seems that jbou, his name was Jon Boudreau, he lived in Connecticut, he was 45 years of age, and he died, of heart failure, on May 10 of this year.

He was one of the most distinctive voices on Daily Kos. That is to say, he actually had a voice. Which most people there—or anywhere, for that matter—do not. He first caught my eye with a piece titled "I've Given Up Hope And It Works For Me." In which he said, among other things.

How can we win and finally start reversing what is happening to our country?

We can't, so lets drop the fuck out. I'm tired of supporting a bunch of losers in the Democratic Party, and the laws of the land do not allow me to beat up the Republicans so I am left with no options. The Dems won't fight, I can't hit them, and nobody else on the national stage is stepping up to actually fight the right wingers.

[S]o I am rolling up my stake and moving to Vegas and I am going to play poker for a living, drink a lot, and smoke indoors.

He did not get involved in any of the cliquish squabbles that so plague that place. He was not of any cant or orthodoxy. But sometimes his low tolerance for bullshit would find him wading in, and then he would get in Trouble. As when, in February of 2008, The Mad Bomber insanely called herself the "movement" candidate. In response, he posted a piece titled "Hillary Is The Bowel Movement Candidate." The church ladies in site administration, they came in and cut off the title, so it read only "Hillary."

"BREAKING - Obama Caves Again: Freed Slaves To Give Back 20 of Their 40 Acres." That was another memorable title.

He was the sort of person with whom you could discuss, say, the absurdity of a judge sentencing somebody to "life plus 20 years." Wondering if that meant, when the prisoner died, the corpse then had to remain in the cell, for the additional 20 years.

In recent years, he sought to pursue stand-up. And, in his Kos pieces, he tried out lines. Bill Hicks was his inspiration. And, like Hicks, he knew this life, it's just a ride.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KgzQuE1pR1w]

Hicks' ride, this go round, didn't last long: he died when he was 32. Jbou, he made it but another 13.

But that's just in this universe. In plenty of others, he's still around. In some, he's as successful as Hicks. I like the ones, where they appear on a double bill. Good times.