On Sunday The Mad Bomber gifted Fristian Phrenologists all and everywhere with Christmas in September, when she woozily wobbled at some 9/11 shindig, and then collapsed, bodily, into a van. Like any sick animal, she sought refuge in a place she associates with safety and comfort—in this case, her daughter's apartment. From which she emerged some 90 minutes later, smiling brightly, petting a small child, and pronouncing it "a beautiful day in New York." Then, she went on her way.

But this would not be the end of it. Oh no. Because, in these days, all and everything, and always, it is filmed. My bowel movement, yesterday morning, for instance, it was filmed by two separate cameras: one, fixed to a small drone passing by the bathroom window; two, an in-the-bowl "Colon Cam," apparently now standard equipment with such plumbing fixtures, connected directly to the federal Department of Howdy Doody, so that the health of the colons, of all the people, it may be monitored, and in real time, and for the Good, of All the Nation.

And so, of the Bomber's wamble and fall, there was Footage. And this Footage, it went out unto the tubes. And the tubes, lo, and yea, verily, they, and immediately, became unsane. Great crashing waves of ecstatic orgasms, they pulsated through the Fristians, as they rhythmically ejaculated, great streams of Theories. She'd stroked out, The Mad Bomber. Her battery-pack, it ran down. She'd ODed, and on jimson weed. Anus Jones, he was on the case: Parkinson's. The Express weighed in: advanced vascular dementia, and she will be dead, in six months.

The Bomber people then rolled out, as would-be Moses, to attempt to part this red sea of Fristing, the Bomber's personal sawbones, who said she'd diagnosed the Bomber with pneumonia on Friday—and, it was this pneumonia, that had caused the Bomber, to must needs be wheelbarrowed on out, from the 9/11 bacchanalia.

But the Fristians, they were not buying the pneumonia—they would not buy anything, even if the Bomber were to undergo a complete physical, live and on the television: the Fristians, they would say it was fake, like the moon landing. Meanwhile, the Normal people, in the press and elsewhere, they were wondering why the sam-hey the Bomber, she didn't just announce the pneumonia on Friday, rather than sitting on the news, until after she'd had a bad jimson-weed reaction, in front of all and everybody. "I didn't think it was a big deal," the Bomber said of the pneumonia, while aides mumbled anonymously about "privacy." But the Bomber, of all people, she should know that, for those wanting to be the president, there is no privacy, and everything is always a big deal, about each and every body part, which belong, to all the people, at all times, and not to the presidents, or the president-tryers: her husband, after all, was the man whose penis was intensively dissected by the people, and for eighteen straight months, until utimately it was actually impeached. With the very semen, of the Clenis, entered, as Evidence. On its way. To permanent, stained, display. At the Smithsonian.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u0Bx4oY4mt0]

As most of you know, on Labor Day the site crashed when Johnny tried something new, and it took him overnight to repair from the crash. Yikes! So we'll say goodbye to summer with Labor Day Caucus Critters one week late.

I thought to make sure your Labor Day is hoppy, I'd see how many hopping critters I could find.

September 12 is the 255th day of the year. There are 110 days left.
It is National Chocolate Milkshake Day

Today's number is 12

Welcome to Sunday Brunch. This is an open topic thread so help yourself to the goodies and sit a spell and let us know what is new with you.

What are the big stories of the week? We all might answer differently. The story that has captured me is the Dakota protests. And the other protests...in our prisons, in Brazil, a world record protest in India, even at football games. Are the people waking up? We can hope. Meanwhile the US election creeps ever closer (feeling creepy too). The planet is still finite in a world economy based on unlimited growth.

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.