Pulse, it proves that those who deride and sneer at what they call "identity politics," they are absolutely right. Because gay people, they are, like, totally safe and stuff. They are just like everybody else, gay people, and that is the way they are regarded and treated—just like everybody else—and by everyone, and all over the world. And so the gay people, they should leave off all that gay wedding cake dilettantism, and get down to what is really important. Like, you know: money. They should all be out auditing the fed, buying some gold, bathing in rubles. That Omar Mateen fellow, he did not kill all those Pulse people because they were gay. Heavens no. Instead, he targeted them because of . . . uh . . . uh . . . uh . . . uh . . . class! Yeah. That's it. That's the ticket. Class.

It is really so peculiar. How so many of the humans. They so order their lives. Around books written by people. Who are so . . . dead.

There is the Bible book. And the Koran book. And the Marx book. And the Plato book. And the Confucius book. And the Kampf book. And the Upanishad book. Etc. Etc. Etc.

The American lawyers and judges, when they start quibbling over some law, they all reach for the case-books, and then commence quoting at one another, legal opinions that were generally inscribed, by people many years dead.

The Americans in general, and from all over the political spectrum, they frequently, fervently, bend the knee to the Constitution. A document written by a whole heap of dead people. Dead people who did not know electricity, who were unacquainted with germs, who abjured bathing because they believed that immersion in water would prove fatal.

Benjamin Franklin, regarded today as some sort of super all-around ur-Einstein genius, he strongly recommended that his fellow Americans cleanse themselves as did he: solely through the method of shedding one's clothing, and then standing, naked, in the faint breeze passing between two open windows. Eons would pass, between baths, for this water-fearing fellow. If the historical Franklin, he were at this moment to come into your presence, the stench, it would prove so overpowering, that you would run from him, as if you were Richard Pryor with his body on fire.

Franklin, he also kept his nephew chained to the floor of a barn for the last 30 years of the man's life. As such was then considered the most "humane" treatment for the mentally ill.

And Franklin, he never gave a single thought, at all, to the Reality that his sister, who was every bit as bright as he was, was never afforded even the glimmer of a chance, to be what he was.

As Jill Lepore expressed it:

In eighteenth-century America, I wouldn't have been able to vote. I wouldn't have been able to own property, either. I'd very likely have been unable to write, and, if I survived childhood, chances are that I'd have died in childbirth. And, no matter how long or short my life, I'd almost certainly have died without having once ventured a political opinion preserved in any historical record.

Yeah. For sure. Everybody wants to, and all day every day, order their lives around a document, that was written by people, from a world like that.

Once my friend T♂ and I decided we would start a Movement to convince the humans to get jiggy wid the Lonesome Dove book. We figured it contained as many wisdom-nuggets—"The earth is mostly just a boneyard. But pretty in the sunlight"; "My main skills are talking and cooking biscuits. And getting drunk on the porch"; "If you want one thing too much it's likely to be a disappointment. The healthy way is to learn to like the everyday things, like soft beds and buttermilk—and feisty gentlemen"; "I'm sure partial to the evening. The evening and the morning. If we just didn't have to have the rest of the dern day I'd be a lot happier"; "Nobody run off with her. She just run off with herself"; "He wondered if all men felt such disappointment when thinking of themselves"; "Once started, love couldn't easily be stopped"; "He had reached a point in his life where virtually nothing was known"; "People got opinions, that's all they've got"; "It seemed to him there was never much time with women. Before you could look at one twice, you were into an argument, and they were telling you what was going to happen"; "I'll pass on snow myself, when I have the option"; "She gathers information that we can't see, and puts it together"; "Life makes everybody strange, if you keep living long enough"—as any of the extant holy writs. And it had the added advantage that the author was actually still alive.

But it never happened. I can't remember why. Maybe we went to the bar.

Still, it was a worthy brainshower. As George Orwell once wrote to his friend Jack Common, "I have always thought there might be a lot of cash in starting a new religion, and we'll talk it over some time." We could make the Lonesome Dove religion, and thereby get all the money, which we would then use to buy the world, in order to Stop the Badness.

Diomedes77 of this site recently cited to Michael Perelman's The Invention Of Capitalism as an essential work. I know Perelman. He's a good guy. Once we were discussing something or other, and then Perelman suddenly said, "when are you going to give up this anarchism silliness, and come to Marx?" Jeebus. I felt like I was in church. Getting harangued by some preacher. "Come to Marx." Like: "Karl Saves!" I noted this parallel, and Perelman, he was not amused. Humor, it is not often surplus-valued, among the Marxists. Perelman, he once told me that in any Marx-based state that on this planet had thus far come to be, I would probably have been one of the first people who would have had to go into the prison. "None of them have liked clowns," he explained. "Jester," I corrected. "Clown," he repeated firmly. He then expressed wonderment, that the United States, it had not put me into the prison. "'There is a Providence,'" I recited, "'that protects fools, drunkards, and small children.'" "Then you are trebly blessed," he said. I pointed out that he had just committed humor, and, therefore, so sorry, he would have to go into the dungeon. I suggested maybe we could get adjoining cells, he and I, and then we could communicate with one another by tapping on the cell walls with our glasses, like Rubashov and the old Czarist in Darkness at Noon. "I don't know Morse Code," he confessed. "Neither do I," confessed I. "Do you think we should learn it?"

Recently my friend T♀ edited one of Perelman's latterly tomes. I cautioned her to, in the project, avoid levity. Such would not, I advised, be appreciated. "You're right," she reported back. "It's like working with Eeyore." I told her that I have always had a soft spot for Eeyore; that he is my favorite Pooh, down in Pooh-ville. "That's because you're Tigger," she said. "And opposites attract." Whatever. The point is, Perelman is a good man, with a good heart. And that's what's important.

Who is not a good man, with not a good heart, that would be The Hairball.

The Hairball, he is quite pleased with Pulse. Because most of the dead, they are brown people. Which means he won't have to deport them. Because they are dead. This will save him some money. That he can then devote to gold-plating a toilet seat.

It is really kind of amusing, sort of, maybe, okay not really, all these people, who brush off the barf that blows from The Hairball's mouth, hallucinating that he's not serious, that he's just a blithering wingding, belching forth a sort of automatic mental writing, spewing out whatever gibberish that randomly passing neutrinos fire off in his head, spraying half-digested chunks of diseased red meat upon the knuckledragging faithful . . . but that he would never, actually do, what it is, he says, he would do.

I dunno. Seems to me an awful lot like those naiveoids, who claimed The Kenyan, when he said while campaigning in 2008 that he would "surge" in Afghanistan, he really didn't mean it. Or the folks back there in 1980, who argued Reagan couldn't possibly be worse than Carter, because Carter demonstrably had blood on his hands, in Africa and Central America and Afghanistan, while Reagan, he was just a goof with a mouth.

Thing is. It's generally a good idea. To believe that people mean what they say.

Anyone who's ever worked a suicide hotline. For example. They, will tell you that.

Like, take this Omar Mateen fellow.

Described as "racist, belligerent, and toxic."

Just like The Hairball.

"He had anger management issues. Something would set him off, but the things that would set him off were always women, race, or religion."

Just like The Hairball.

"He always referred to every other race, religion, gender in a derogatory way. He did not like women at all. He did like women in a sexual way, but he did not respect them."

Just like The Hairball.

He was "unhinged and unstable. He talked of killing people."

Just like The Hairball.

So. When The Hairball says he will "bomb the shit out of ISIS," go into Iraq and "take all the oil," dispatch a minimum of 30,000 US troops to Iraq and Syria and Libya, sprinkle generals throughout the whole of his administration, swell the US military to the largest it's ever been, maybe drop a nuke on Europe, kill the families of people he deems "terrorists," blockade the South China Sea, block from entry into the US any and all Muslims, build a huge fucking Berlin Wall across the nation's southern border and toss over it all the Mexicans who even gaze sideways at him, throw women into prison who have had an abortion, gleefully torture people, assassinate Kim Jong-un, and execute Edward Snowden: believe him.

Just like Omar Mateen, who should have been believed.

The Hairball, he will do, all that he has said, he would do.

But not in my universe. Because, in my universe, The Hairball, he will not be the president. And, neither, will be The Mad Bomber.

While he was killing the brown gay people there in Pulse, The Hairball—I mean Omar Mateen—he spoke on the phone to the 911 person, at which time he said he was pledging allegiance to ISIL.

This is supposed to be a big deal.

Except that the humans, when they go to the guns, they are most often, always, pledging allegiance, to somebody or other.

Take the serial killer who blew Osama bin Laden's head off. "For god and country!" he excitedly ejaculated, this sorry-ass serial killer.

A second SEAL stepped into the room and trained the infrared laser of his M4 on bin Laden’s chest. The Al Qaeda chief, who was wearing a tan shalwar kameez and a prayer cap on his head, froze; he was unarmed.

The first round, a 5.56mm bullet, struck bin Laden in the chest. As he fell backward, the SEAL fired a second round into his head, just above his left eye. On his radio, he reported, "For God and country—Geronimo, Geronimo, Geronimo."

This religiously disabled crusader, who killed the unarmed bin Laden, he came from a serial-killing outfit that consisted of but 300 people. Nearly 50, or one-sixth, were deployed, in some capacity, on the mission to assassinate bin Laden.

And on May 6 of 2012, The Kenyan, he met with all of those people. At which time these religiously disabled serial killers presented The Kenyan with an American flag: three-by-five, stretched, ironed, and framed. These religiously disabled serial killers, all of them, had affixed their signatures to the back. On the front were the words: "From The Joint Task Force Operation Neptune's Spear, 01 May 2011: 'For God And Country. Geronimo.'"

The Kenyan, he told the crusaders assembled, that he would stash their relic "somewhere private and meaningful to me."

What The Kenyan should have done, is stuff their obscene murderous diaper into an old tire, haul the tire out onto the White House lawn, douse it with lighter fluid, and set it on fire.

What I hope, at least, he did, was use it, "somewhere private and meaningful to me," to wipe some stinking shit, from the crack of his ass.

Reports are now emerging that Omar Mateen, he was himself gay.

Of course. For, most often, when humans go to the guns, they are, in the most Real, killing themselves.

All the guns are going to go. That's just the way it is. Nothing shall stop it.

Guns, they are larval maximus. And the humans of the future, looking back on this, the firearm age, they shall laugh and laugh, even as they cry and cry.

Guns, they are a deep dumbness, that have only been around for about 500 years. Other deep dumbnesses, that have been around for a lot longer, they too, are, soon, going to go: money, cities, jobs.

The guns, they are done. They are instruments of living in fear. And fear, it is over. It is no longer necessary. Fear, it is a product of, beneath, the lizard brain. And the lizard brain, it peaked hundreds of millions of years ago. Its day is done.

Guns are finished. The humans, they don't want them anymore. Guns, they are an appendix of the age of the warrior. Which is finally over. The humans, they are in the age of the healer, now. Killing, it is done. Nobody wants any warriors, not any more. The warriors, they are awkward and geeky and embarrassing stumblebums, and so old and in the way. The humans, they are so past all that. They are now, all about . . . living.

It will start, first, among the serial killers. Deployed to some faraway elsewhere. To kill somebody other than them. But who is them. Which they will—at last—realize. And so, the universal soldiers, they will lay down their guns. And they will go home, to their families.

Then, there, back home, they will notice, that all of the police, from the very nature of their jobs, they suffer from serious brain disorders. And so, none of them, should be armed. And so, the police, they shall carry guns no more.

And then, the people, they will become awake and alive, to the fact, that they need no guns themselves. Because they will not, live in fear. And so, the people, they shall bury, all of their guns, in the ground.

And there must needs be no laws, to get there. It is just the way, that it is. As the human, s/he evolves. Currently, coprophilia, it is not what, among the humans, is considered socially acceptable. Soon: it shall be the same way. With guns. A human, s/he shall be no more likely to pick up a gun. Than to fuck or eat shit. Coprohiliac: gunophiliac.

This is Real. And already happened.

I know. I've seen it.

Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I've looked over.

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