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Like Babies At Birth

I have no name
I am but two days old—
What shall I call thee?
I happy am
Joy is my name—
Sweet joy befall thee!

—William Blake

Space is changing humans. And that is a good thing.

A while back I wrote about Ron Garen, spacehuman who takes marvelous photographs, and compiles wondrous videos, while up and out, in the great wide open.

Garen is responsible for, among other things, the video below, which always makes me happy, in the best, because the most vulnerable, of ways. It documents the final hours of Garen and two Russian cosmonauts aboard the International Space Station; then, their return to the planet.

I realize there still exist supremely silly larvals, like Captain Underpants, who, in presuming to speak for the transitory artificial construct known as the United States, recently bellowed that Russia is “our number one geopolitical foe.”

But all that is so over. Russians and Americans: they are the same human. Space helps people to understand that. For: as above; so below. Garen and his fellows, Alexander Samokutyaev and Andrey Borisenko, they get that. So should we. Space, it has shaped these humans’ sense and sensibility. Having gone up, they more clearly apprehend and appreciate what is down to the ground. So should we.

Now comes this spaced-human. Who has fallen in love, up there on the International Space Station. In love with space itself. And so, as all true lovers will, he has written his beloved a poem. Titled “Space Is My Mistress.”

This would never have happened, if he’d never gone out there.

But space has made him more, of who he really is.

we stroll outside together 
enveloped by naked cosmos 
filled with desire to be one 

Yes indeedy.

This sort of thing has been happening to humans ever since they began venturing into space. Most recently, in machines. As we not long ago passed the 50th anniversary of John Glenn’s first trip into the great wide open, let us recall, beyond the “furthur,” what happened to Mr. Glenn, in his up and out.




Of the pseudo-humans bred or assembled by extraterrestrials to serve as the 2012 GOoPer candidates for president, one has already been driven from the race because of the wanderings of his wee-wee. That would be Herman Cain, the pizza topping.

That the wee-wee of The Bedbug, also known as Newt Gingrich, long ran wild across the land: this has been known to many, and for many years. So long as The Bedbug languished in irrelevance, nobody thought much of making much of this.

But once The Bedbug began gnawing his way to the top of the plops—enabled by those GOoPer voters simply unable to stomach as their nominee Captain Underpants, the rag doll sewn by inebriates—then The Bedbug’s meandering member received renewed attention. This culminated in a televised appearance last Thursday by one of his innumerable ex-wives, who basically denounced her former spouse as a cretin and a cad, cravenly compelled to flee wives when once they evince intimations of mortality.

This, as it developed, made no difference to the GOoPer voters of the state of South Carolina. Who, as detailed here, are most focused, when they go to the polls, on whomsoever on the ballot most hates black people. That is whom they will most wuv. And so it was Saturday night. The Bedbug, that being on the ballot with the record of most hating black people for the longest period of time, chewing his way to victory. Though it is true that Captain Underpants remains “the whitest white man to run for president in recent memory,” voters just didn’t perceive his heart to be filled with the requisite hate. Meanwhile, The Grub, also known as Rick Santorum, was regarded, correctly, as a man who hates pleasure, more than anything else. While the fourth candidate remaining in the race, Rugs, a.k.a. The Wizard Of Paul, hates hardest, paper currency.

Prior to the arrival of the South Carolina primary results, appeared in the New Yorker an interesting piece on The Bedbug’s present partner in matrimony. It contains an observation from once and future GOoPer presidential candidate Mike Huckabee, which is reprinted here for the consideration of red readers:

“I hear from friends who are conservative women who say, ‘I will not vote for Newt Gingrich.’ I say, ‘Why?’ ‘He’s walked out on two wives.’ And these are hard-core Republican women—conservative activists, women who put signs up in their yards, make phone calls. And they have bluntly said, ‘I will not vote for him.’ Not ‘I have questions about voting for him’ but ‘I will not vote for him.’ That sort of rocked me back on my heels.” Huckabee added, “I don’t hear that ever from male voters, by the way. What does that tell you? Men are pigs.”

What think ye?

Grub Stake

It is Known that the 2012 Republican candidates for the presidency are pseudo-humans, bred and/or assembled by extraterrestrial beings, who have decided that it is fun, for them, to mess with the American electoral process.

Yesterday GOoPer voters in New Hampshire trudged to the polls to cast ballots for one or more of these pseudo-humans. It was expected that Captain Underpants, also known as Mitt Romney, would finish first in the contest. And he did. Of primary interest to those afflicted with a perverse need to follow this extraterrestrially-controlled road show, was the question of whether, when the results were in, The Grub, a.k.a Rick Santorum, would in New Hampshire maintain his position as latest favorite among those GOoPers who cannot bring themselves to vote for Romney.

Probably not.

The nation’s Republicans do not really want to select Romney as their nominee. At last week’s Iowa caucuses, Romney received the same percentage of the vote as he had in 2008. In that year, it was declared that he had been beaten like a gong, as Mike Huckabee finished first, with 34% of the vote; Romney trailed with 25%. This year, also with 25% of the vote, Romney finished first, and was therefore deemed the “winner.” But the sad fact is that Romney actually received fewer votes in 2012 than he did in 2008—30,021 in 2008, to 30,015 in 2012. What this means is that after devoting four years and tens of millions of dollars to wooing Iowa voters, Romney failed utterly to convince any new people to be for him. Several of his former supporters, in fact, drifted away. He is like a boy who spent the entire four years of high school doggedly working to secure a date for the senior prom, and in the end came up empty. He is the very definition of “loser.”

Mitt Romney will never be president. The American people are capable of many things, but not of elevating to the highest office in the land a man whose feet have been screwed on backwards, whose ass is where his crotch should be, and who has had all the bones sucked out of his arms. He is like a rag doll sewn by inebriates. Further, he is petulant, and whiny, and has for decades retained on the payroll an Italian who does nothing but fuss over his hair. He made his fortune robbing people, and, in a nation where vast quantities of humans cannot obtain or maintain a job, he recently pronounced that he feels great joy when firing people. “I like to be able to fire people,” he said, in perhaps the most deranged public utterance from a political figure since Chauncey Gardiner’s immortal “I like to watch.”

There is also the matter of the underwear. Romney refuses absolutely to shed, under any circumstances, special undergarments that he believes his deity decrees that he wear at all times. Many bizarre charges have been leveled against Barack Obama, but never has it been alleged that he is a devotee of Abakua, an all-male Afro-Cuban religious outfit which commands the faithful never to expose their bare behinds to anyone, even when making love. Captain Underpants is basically a milquetoast whitebread variant on these people.


Drinkin’ Wine Spo-Dee-O-Dee

Not long ago I wrote on this blog that “Rick Perry looks more like a farm animal than a human being. He appears to be the result of an experiment that sought to cross a man with a steer. I’d say the experiment failed. For an obvious side-effect of this Island of Dr. Moreau monkeying with nature is that Perry was born without a brain. He is like that episode of Star Trek where Spock’s brain was lifted entirely out of his body. Dan Quayle was dim, so was George II; Perry is simply dumb. Never have I seen a man so dumb on the national political stage. What do people in other countries think, when they see this cow-man treated like an actual serious person? This is why it is Wrong to view such things [as the Republican presidential debates] without opiates.”

I would now like to retract these words. Because Rick Perry does not, in truth, look like a cross between a man and a steer.

Instead, he seems, and more precisely, like a cross between a man, and a dirt clod.

Please, as an example, observe there the photos, reproduced there to the left.

I have been around a lot of humans, and animals, in my life. But never have I encountered a look as dumb as dirt, so devoid of sentience, in any creature’s eyes, as I perceive here in the orbs of Rick Perry, attempting to explain, reading off a postcard upside down, the details of his “tax plan.”

Now, I have lived through Richard Nixon. I have lived through Ronald Reagan. I have lived through Dan Quayle. I have lived through George II. I have lived through Sarah Palin. But I refuse, absolutely, to live through Rick Perry.


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