So apparently the Chinese, they are actually, Egyptians.

Who knew?

China's founding dynasty, it is generally considered to be the Xia, who swaggered around between 2070 and 1600 BCE.

Now, Sun Weidong, a Science Man, he says these Xia people (and he says there is support for this, in ancient Chinese texts, and in radiometry), they migrated up to China, out of Egypt; that the Xia were in Egypt the Hykosis people, who ruled around the northern Egyptlands, off and on, from the 17th century BCE onwards; until, eventually, they got kicked off and out of Egypt; and then, as Van Morrison do say, "they sailed and they sailed"; until they reached what is now known as China, and decided, there, to invent the Middle Kingdom, and become, the Chinese.

Some Chinese, to the Sun news, they are reacting, with frenzy:

How can the children of the Yellow Emperor have run over to Egypt? This topic is really too pathetic. The important thing is to live in the moment!

Fer sure. Right on. Party! Vote. For The Hairball.

Other Chinese, they See.

The world is such a big place, that one finds many strange things in it.

Absolutely. Goddam. Right.

To best understand what is currently occurring in the presidential campaign of The Mad Bomber, it helps to be conversant with the life and times of the medieval Spanish serial killer Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar—most commonly known as El Cid—and also the "Spock's Brain" episode of the true-life documentary series Star Trek.

Rodrigo, he wandered to and fro, there on the Iberian Peninsula, in the latter half of the 11th Century, killing people. Sometimes he killed Moors, sometimes he killed for Moors (those would be Mooslems, in the American language), and sometimes he killed, or killed for, various Spanish Sanchos and Alfonsos. In his final years, he mostly concentrated on killing Berbers. For himself.

Nobody hears much about Berbers these days. This is because when the white people, they drew all the borders, all over the globe, they decided there didn't need to be any Berberland. Just as peoples like, say, the Karen, and the Kurds, the white people, they decided they didn't need any nations, either.

Anyway. Rodrigo eventually decreed that he needed to be the king of Valencia. Since there were Berbers in Valencia at the time, Rodrigo rounded up some Moor and some Christian serial killers, to help him kill the Berbers, so he could, of Valencia, be The Ruler. This happened. And so, of Valencia, Rodrigo, he was The Ruler. For some five years. Until the Berbers returned, and laid siege to the city.

Rodrigo died in the city, during the siege, probably of some sort of dread siege-type disease. It was after he became dead, that he transformed into the legendary El Cid. Because, though dead, he was armored up, strapped aboard his horse Babieca, and then he "led," a thundering charge, from out of the city. Which freaked the living shit, from out of the Berbers. Who scattered.

Meanwhile, out there in the final frontier, the Enterprise people, they were one day peaceably going where no man had gone before, when some rude woman, she suddenly winked in, there on the bridge, and stole Spock's brain, right out of his head.

Then, she disappeared.

McCoy, he managed to magic a special control box, that could cause the brainless Spock to walk and talk and whatnot, until his brain could be retrieved, and re-inserted, back in his head. Which, eventually, it was.

What does any of this have to do with The Mad Bomber?

Way too much law the past several days; the clients, they got all the words; now, I don't have any left, for this place; I am an empty husk. Also, it is a full moon, and so the longer I linger in here, the more likely it is I go werewolf, or some rough beast equally inappropriate. Friday morning I noticed my feet seemed to be transforming into hooves: I figured it was because I'd been eating all week pig for breakfast, but now I fear it may be something more dire. I thought about at least convening here a 40-second press conference, like The Hairball's ludicrous Omega Man shindig—"I finished it"—regarding The Kenyan's birthplace; in mine, I would confess I was born on Neptune. But then I decided: some other time.

So, I'm today just going to post a little movie, and then get out. Don't worry, the thing is short—34 minutes—and also it's from Werner Herzog, which means it's Good. Herzog is an extraterrestrial anthropologist, who for nearly 50 years has been filmically examining the humans. This work, From One Second To The Next, treats humans who text while driving. It is a useful corrective for those afflicted with the delusion that the wholly artifical construct known as "Millennials" constitutes some sort of special, advanced, superior form of human. No. Such people are no such thing. They're just regular humans. Like everybody else. And, among their not-so special, advanced, superior behaviors, are thumbing out texts, hither and yon, while piloting motor vehicles. An activity that has killed, maimed, destroyed, hundreds of thousands of fellow humans. So far.

The Science Men, who are about the climate change, they experience many frustrations. In attempting to persuade the Americans. To—please—pay, at least a little. Attention.

The first problem, it is that all of the toxic nutbars, from The Hairball to Runt Limprod, they are out there, all day, every day, and all of every night, ceaseless ululating, that the climate change, it is just shit made up.

It isn't Real, say they, the climate change, and, even if it is, the humans, they have nothing to do with it.

According to The Hairball, for instance, climate change, it is totally a hoax, invented by those people that Limprod, forever maroooned in 1951, invariably describes as "the ChiComs." These nefarious ChiCom creatures, apparently, they invented the climate change, in order to secure all the monies. It is, admittedly, kind of hard to follow the argument, expressed as it is through The Hairball's galloping brain syphilis. Which, even as we speak, is being dissected and discussed, by many learned Fristian Phrenologists, and across eleventy-five billion tubes.

Anyway. The next problem, it is that the climate change, it is at present most obviously occurring, in places where the Americans, they are not going to go on their vacations. The Arctic, say, or those little islands out in the Pacific, that are not Hawaii or Tahiti.

Then there is the immediacy problem. The Americans, they are most likely to become exercised, about something that might calamatize, before the sun goes down. Like: what if they open the door, and see a brown person? Or, if the cable doesn't come back on in the next 30 minutes, they will not be able to watch the football game! Or, if they don't get to the store by 6:00 p.m., they will miss the shoe sale!

I have been poi dog pondering, upon how the Science Men, they might better craft their climate change message, to better get through, to the Americans. And I think I may have hit on a couple ideas. That might encourage the Americans. To at least slump up, some, from the depths of the barcaloungers, and mutter: "wait—what?"

Like: the Science Men, they could tell the Americans, that the climate change, and pretty soon, it is going to melt all the chocolate, and make all the beer, taste like cat piss.

So I was noticing the other day that people on this site, they are again having the bickering. Sustained bickering. So much so, that, JtC, he has several times had to go in, cranky, in his bathrobe, to tell people to go to their rooms, or go sit in the corner, with the duncecap on. In one instance, a person became no longer a survivor, and was removed, wholly, from the island. JtC. As Thor. Hurling. The hammer.

Then, when I sat down here Friday night, to draft this Sesame, I noticed that it was still happening. The bickering. Sustained. And even the Giant, he appeared, here, in this room, to confirm. That: indeed. It Is Happening. Again.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pWa0dZMHYeE]

This bickering, it has occurred, is occurring, across multiple threads, and on multiple topics. None of these topics, at bickering issue, are they really new, or nuclear. All have, here, on this site, been previously discussed. Without the bickering. Sustained.

So. Why the bickering? Now?

Then: I had a brainshower. Maybe the Problem, it is astrological. Maybe, as the site is moving through time and space, it is encountering planets and moons and aspects and nodes and conjunctions and squares and whatnot, that are stimulating effects that are Bad. Maybe people here, they are being whipped about, by Saturn & The Sabian Symbols. Which sounds like a band. And. Maybe. It is.

If I were cloned, I would set one of my selves, to examining this Problem. But, I am not. So, I'm not going to. Anyway, I would have to first know the date and the time the site was born. I know JtC mentioned this once here, but I don't remember it, and I'm not going to look it up. Also, I would have to know where, the site, it was born. I assume that would be JtC's computer. But, maybe not. I have never cast a chart, for a tube. Maybe the birthplace of a tube, it is considered the server. Who knows? I have no idea. I assume tubular astrologers, they have long ago solved this problem, of where it is, that tubes, are actually born. Or, maybe not. Because, after all, astrologers, they are humans. So, no doubt, there are endless heated tube threads, out there, somewhere, where the astrologers, they convene, to be all about pinpointing, just where it is, that a tube, it is born. And: lo: look: there they are. Bickering.

So I am in the kitchen, weeping in frustration, uselessly attempting to get into some American packaging—please, jeebus, I just want a little cheese—when, suddenly, I am seized by a brainshower: the most successful terrorist, in the history of terrorists, that would be, whoever that was, that was that unutterable freak, who put the cyanide, there in the Tylenol. Back there in Chicago. And environs. Back in 1982.

Because, not only did this unutterable freak kill seven people, and never did get caught, but the Americans, in their typical fear-sweating, pants-crapping way, of Total Overreaction, to All and Everything, perceived as a Danger, that might ever Strike, at any time, Again, they then grimly proceeded to make it totally, permanently, impossible, to get into any product, that is intended, to be put, into a person's mouth. It is like, now, today, all these products, they are armored up, in impenetrable chastity belts. And, nobody, provides a key. Today, a hunk of cheese, it is more heavily secured, than is Fort Knox. Random screwlooses, they may occasionally leap the fence, and run right into the White House: but no American, ever, will get into a bottle of aspirin—not without several specialized tools, and at least three handymen. In you want to pry open some vitamins and supplements, you will need to purchase many and manifold complicated devices, that cost more than cocaine, and then you will need to devote at least the entirety of an evening, to the task. So that—at last—you may gobble whole fistfuls, of St. John's Wort, and Valerian Root, and Melatonin, and the like, in hopes you will then remain sufficiently calm, so as not to blow out a valve, or your aorta, the next time you try, to get into some American packaging.

And the American packaging, it has killed far more people, than ever did the original Tylenol poisoner. Tennessee Williams, for instance, he became so enraged, at his inability to open a simple bottle of aspirin, that finally he began wildly gnawing on the lid with his teeth. He then aspirated the cap, and commenced to choke to death. The world, it was deprived of another decade or two of Blanches and Big Daddys. Because the fear-crazed Americans. They insanely shield their aspirin. Better than they do the shit. They shoot up into space.

I remember once I was at my brother's, and he was trying to get into some American packaging. After several minutes of futile effort, he began muttering quietly, but intensely. This was never a good sign, with my brother. And, sure enough, he suddenly went for this huge knife, sheathed at his belt, and with it began savagely stabbing, the American packaging. I don't remember what was actually in the American packaging. But I do remember, that it was totally destroyed. I also remember that, my brother, he said he didn't care. Because, at least, he felt better. A year or so on, he called to tell me he had been wholly unable to extract a leg of lamb, from its American packaging. "So I used the 12 gauge," he told me. "Then I had to pick the beads out. But there were still all these goddam tiny shreds of plastic, embedded in the meat. Finally, I gave up, and threw it over the fence, for the neighbor's dog. All day, the fucker chews wood, and stuffed animals—he always goes first for the eyes—so I figure he can probably digest plastic."

All of the law jockeys, to this day, they claim, that they do not know, who it was—that unutterable freak—who put the cyanide, there in the Tylenol.

But I know.

It was The Hairball.

So yesterday I developed a great Hate for the Law. Because I was sitting here working on a brief, and I decided to take a break, to bake some cookies, so I could fortify myself with chocolate, a known and recognized Medicine, and so I made the cookies, and I put them in the oven, and then I came back in here, and went back into the law, and I got lost in there, in the law, had no idea where I was, or what I was about, just floating, in the immortal words of Justice Frankfurter, as "a derelict on the waters of the law," forgetting all about the cookies, until the bad smell, it started pumping out of the oven, and then, in a panic, I rushed into the kitchen, to pull the cookies out, and then, when once they had cooled, the cookies, they were harder than diamonds, useless as anything but weapons, to hurl, like those sharpened metal stars in the true-life documentary film Full Metal Ninja, at the people of The Hairball, if, ever, my home, they try, to Invade.

But, yesterday, there was also a Happiness, in by far and for sure the coolest and most insightful tubular thing I experienced all week: some Canadian human, he put a GoPro on the ground, and a squirrel, s/he came along, and snatched it up, ran off with it, and then proceeded to film the world, as it is experienced, squirrelwise:

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t6I_Zic29VQ]

I am thinking, that it would be very illuminating. To have one of these squirrels, that live around here, GoPro this place. So I could then contrast. How this particular world. It is experienced. When one is squirrely. As compared to how it is experienced. Humanly.

But then, I quickly realized, there are some Hurdles, that must be overcome, before this can be achieved. The first, being: I do not know. What is a "GoPro."

Apparently the new thing in the politics is for the mayors to become crime waves.

R. Scott Silverthorne, he is the mayor of Fairfax, Virginia. He also maintained a tube in which he offered methamphetamine to men willing to have sex with him and some other men.

Silverthorne, 50, indicated that he could provide methamphetamine for sexual encounters and undercover detectives agreed to meet for a group sexual encounter in exchange for methamphetamine, police said. Silverthorne arranged to bring methamphetamine and other men, police said.

Detectives met Silverthorne at the Crowne Plaza Hotel in McLean on Thursday and he was arrested after he gave them methamphetamine, police said.

When you are an American, you are not allowed to have methamphetamine, when you have sex with the men.

Neither are you permitted to get naked with the minors and load them up on alcohol. That is why Anthony Silva, mayor of Stockton, California, he was put in the pokey. It seems that, when not mayoring, Silva runs himself a "youth camp," where he whips out the liquor and then invites the young people to join him in a game of strip poker. Suffering from some sort of Nixon disease, Silva decided to tape these encounters, and now Mean Police, they have the tapes, and Silva, he is in Trouble.

Previously Silva had some Trouble when a 19-year-old woman accused him of sexual battery, the city manager charged him with secretly taping their conversations (more Nixon disease), and there occurred a fracas in a limousine, which caused police to handcuff the mayor while a woman ululated that Silva had inappropriately gone Clenis on her. Silva also had a firearm that got itself stolen; the gun then fired into a house, before killing a 13-year-old boy who was standing in his driveway. The cop people are claiming that Silva is declining to provide information in the homicide investigation, apparently because he doesn't Feel Like It.

Released on bail, Silverthorne and Silva united to form the Meth & Minors party, with which they now seek to become the president, and vice-president, respectively. They have already seriously redrawn the electoral map, as political analysts expect the Meth & Minors party to prevail this November in at least West Virginia, where four years ago some 41% of the Democrats voted for a Texas prison inmate, rather than cast ballots for The Kenyan.

Election days, come and go. But the struggle of the people, to create a government which represents all of us, and not just the one percent—a government based on the principles of economic, social, racial, and environmental justice—that struggle continues. And I look forward, to being part of that struggle, with you.

I thought that was a good speech. I think it would have been a better speech, without all that lauding ladled onto The Mad Bomber. But then, it wasn't my speech.

I have never agreed with The Cranky Brooklyn Deli Man, on everything. To turn it around: the Deli Man, he does not believe, everything that I believe. But then again, neither does anyone else on the planet.

I think the Deli Man, he is a good man. And I think he meant it, when he said:

I understand, that many people, here, in this convention hall, and around the country, are disappointed, about the final results of the nominating process.

I think it's fair to say, that no one is more disappointed, than I am.

The Deli Man, he has now made a Finding. And from that, he has reached a Conclusion. The Finding, it is this:

The Hairball is a bully and a demagogue. The Hairball has made bigotry and hatred the cornerstone of his campaign.

In objective Reality, every word of that is True.

The Deli Man's Conclusion, however, after having made this Finding, it is that people should then vote for The Mad Bomber, to be the president.

I think the Deli Man, he has the right, to come to this Conclusion. If he wants to. But I also think, that just because that is his Conclusion, that doesn't mean that everybody else, has to Conclude so, too.

It is kinda like when the Science Men, they dig up a bone. They all look at it, and then all agree on the Finding: this is a bone. But then come the Conclusions. "This bone, it is from an elephant," pronounces the first Science Man. "Actually," asserts the second Science Man, "it is from a donkey." "It is clear that this bone, it is a Fringe event," propounds the third Science Man. And the fourth Science Man, he Concludes: "This bone does not really exist."

And so it goes. As they say: other voices, other rooms. And all that.

It's almost like she wants to lose. The Mad Bomber. I mean—Tim Kaine? Seriously? Some 300 million Americans to choose from, and this is what she comes up with?

A pale, stale slice of white bread, flaked right off a Pat Boone loaf. So somnambulant, he makes '90s-era wood-block Al Gore, look like Little Richard.

Way back in the day, when it was presumed the Republicans would nominate someone at least remotely resembling something sane, the Plan was to yoke the Bomber to a brown person. But now, the last throes of the white people having gone stone mad, selecting as their standard-bearer a genuine reptile, combining the very worst characteristics of Roy Cohn, Charles Lindbergh, Strom Thurmond, and Yosemite Sam, a lizard who cannot even shift slumbering position at night in his rockpile, without shouting out for some brown person to be bombed or burnt . . . well, the Bomber, apparently, now believes she can go with Rainbo boy, because she no longer needs to pander to any brown people.

In this, she is very wrong. In truth, the Bomber, she needs to pander, like she has never pandered before. Because 56% of the Americans, they believe she should have been criminally charged, for the server sleaze. This basically means they think she should be in the prison. This is not a real safe and secure place for a politician to be, some three months before an election: a majority of the voters thinking you should be lying atop some cold iron bed, rather than flying high up there on Air Force One.

If the Republicans had managed to nominate even a mammal, the Bomber today would be polling behind not only that semi-humanoid, but also Jill Stein and Gary Johnson, as well as Deez Nuts, Don Ho, and Dirk Diggler. Because no one really wants The Mad Bomber to be the president. She is like some politics version of Sheldon Whiteside in The Man Who Came To Dinner, who showed up one night, and now, years later, still never leaves, forcing everyone in the house to consume many Medicines. She is like a television show, from out of a time warp, that no one can understand why it hasn't been cancelled. She has been around so long that young people confuse her with historical figures like Betsy Ross, Carrie Nation, and Lizzie Borden, thinking she was the woman who sewed up the wounds in her husband with threads from an American flag, after she took an axe to him, when she caught him in a saloon spraying semen on the barmaids.

The only people who really want her to be the president, these are the fanatical PUMAs, who disappeared into the jungle back in 2008, after the Bomber was defeated by The Kenyan—refusing, like those WWII Japanese soldiers who wouldn't believe the emperor had surrendered, to face Reality. As was true with those Japanese soldiers, there are not, today, many survivors, among the PUMAS: most, in the succeeding eight years, have died, or gone into Homes. Not even the Bomber herself, these days, can she articulate why she should be the president. Other than that, many years ago, she and The Clenis, they Decided on it: "eight years of Bill, eight years of Hill."