CSI: Sesame Street

 Hello, all you beasties out there! Is it beasties or Midnighters? Did we ever decide? Well, if you are here, you know who you are.

It's Friday! In some places that still means something, I guess. Just another day around here. There are some number of you out there that may be preparing for "the weekend", whatever that may entail. Hope that goes well for you. 

We have run up against a rainy patch here, thus we are relegated to indoor games. A good opportunity to check in. Though we have been less active here at the site, things have been quite busy over these summer months. We do have some projects in the works, and you can expect a marked increase in content in September. We won't tease with any details now.

We do have an intriguing report to share from current events. There has been a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth coming from NPR and PBS. You might have heard, the Congress just cut them off. Good move. Long overdue. Quit whining! If your product is any good, then you can compete in the open market like everyone else. Plenty of pharmaceutical companies with ads to buy for drugs targeting children.

Sadly, however, there are some tragic consequences related to this story. Our sources from the Big Apple have shared some details of a developing story, which will appear as a feature length story in The Muppet Times, sometime early next week.

....this very disturbing report, early this morning from Sesame Street. In the pre-dawn hours of Friday morning, reports of gunshots from a familiar apartment building. Authorities arrived in response and were alerted by other residents to check one of the basement apartments. A chilling scene upon entering, the longtime residents of the apartment, Bert and Ernie, found dead, the victims of an apparent murder/suicide.

Most residents could only express tearful disbelief at this bizarre turn of events. There was, however, one neighbor who spoke on the condition of anonymity, who stated that "the couple was distraught over the pending loss of their rent controlled flat, due to budget cuts at PBS".

Bert and Ernie, dead today, at the age of 56.

Rebecca

 "I can taste purple!", she cried in astonishment. The words came from her mouth; she could hear it. She was astonished that she had said it.

The statement was nonsensical, yet in the context of her fragile state it made perfect sense. Blood poured from her smashed mouth. I think her teeth were still there. Loosened, but still there. Purple tastes like over ripe fruit, sweet and yet dead flesh. It is complete, it has fulfilled it's purpose but has gone beyond. It has begun to take the scent of decay, the decay in turn affects the fruit. Purple has the taste of death.

I don't think she knew I was there. I'm not even certain that I was there. I had no memory of how I had arrived at this time and place, yet I knew it. This was Rebecca and this was the river road. Most people had always wanted to call her Becky, but for reasons I never understood she had always insisted that her name was Rebecca. I had always called her that.

The car was far from totaled. She, or someone, would probably be able to drive it away. This isn't how I recalled this event having gone. The situation I could see before me told me, not only where this was, but when. She was supposed to be dead by now. As it was, she would probably live. Nothing some oral surgery couldn't repair. She was still in shock.

It was a pleasant day. A not too warm day in May. All the windows were down on the car. The Pretenders' Brass in pocket was still playing from the radio as I maneuvered to the passenger side. I stole another look at her then. Her long, straight blonde hair obscured most of her face. Some of it was matted against her bloodied cheeks and jowls and there were still a few strands clinging to the steering wheel. She was supposed to have landed in the river by that time, but the sequence of events had been altered.

She started sobbing. It seemed that for the first moment since the abrupt halt of her forward momentum, she had become aware of where she was and what had just happened. She blinked against the tears as bloody snot bubbles erupted from her face. From the passenger door I looked down into the floor in front of the passenger seat. There was the culprit, that little turtle. He was turned over on the floor mat, his little legs flailing in the air. A glass bowl was broken neatly, in nearly equal halves, the multi-colored stones from within were spilled everywhere. I reached in and gently picked the turtle up, then tossed it to the riverbank beyond. In the original timeline the turtle had landed in the river, though still inside of the white sedan.

Rebecca looked up, still disoriented. "Hey! Thats my turtle!"

"I think you have greater things to worry about right now, Rebecca."

She pulled at the matted strands about her face, wiping away blood and tears. She tried to clear her vision, to focus upon my face. "Do...do I know you? How did you know....", and then a sudden realization entered her eyes.

"I've known you for over fifty years, Rebecca. You're less than two miles up this road from the red brick house on High Street, the house you grew up in."

"Who are you?"

"You know who I am."

"I think I do, but...that can't be..."

"You were supposed to die today, Rebecca. Right back there. You were supposed to reach for that little turtle when it fell off the seat, then steer off the road, bank off the guardrail and land upside down in the river."

Through the fear and the confusion, she suddenly grasped upon something. "It's you! You were in the road...I...I slammed on the brakes! I thought I hit you!"

 "You're going to be fine. I will stay here with you until the squad comes."

A song entered my head, a song from my own time. It was a song I wanted to share with her in that moment, but I knew that was impossible. The people who had made this song were not even born yet. It played in my head while I waited patiently. Rebecca fretted about her coming graduation. A graduation she was not even meant to make, three weeks hence. This was Sunday.

Another ten minutes passed. Someone passing had made the call, the familiar white and orange rescue squad now approached with lights and siren blazing. It was time for me to go.

"Rebecca! Listen to me...I want you to remember something, okay?"

"Okay,... what?"

"Someday, years and years from now.... when you play your favorite songs, wear dark sunglasses."

"What!?"

"Just remember. Favorite songs. Dark glasses."

Epstein's testicles for sale on E-Bay

 Did you really think that things would be different? This ship of state is a garbage scow, loaded to capacity, launched upon a sea of lies. The course is changed so that the worst of the flies and stench are directed away, but the vessel and it's cargo are essentially unchanged: SS Ship of Fools.

There are two forms of Trump Derangement Syndrome, hereafter referred to simply as TDS. There is the now quite familiar TDS type A, in which the afflicted party is violently triggered at the mere mention of the very name. The only true sufferers of this strain are the blissfully ignorant. There are others who may selectively display their TDS as an affectation, no different than turquoise hair or nose piercings; it's just part of the uniform. There are also those engaged in a more psychological cosplay, fanning the flames of every ruse and misdirection because they find their own little fiefdom at risk. There are those to whom Trump poses an existential threat, and those who are merely useful idiots. 

There is also a newly emerging strain, which we shall dub TDS type B. This is a new strain, distinctly different, yet with some common characteristics. Like type A, the only true sufferers are the blissfully ignorant. The sufferers of TDS type B are convinced that Trump can do NO wrong. The strain is not entirely new; it has been bubbling up for quite a while. I believe that it is borne largely of the siege environment cast about not only the man, but more so his supporters. Under such an incessant barrage of contrived propaganda, his supporters may often find themselves utterly loathe to admit any flaws in the man at all. Among these, one will find the Back the Blue cult, uniform fetishists who will eagerly don their kneepads and assume the position for any authority figure.

It suffices to say that there are those who will follow blindly at either end of the scale. Whether seeking demon or messiah, one is likely to find just that, if that is the only thing being sought after. Of course, as in anything political, the most likely yield is disappointment. In the news cycle of the moment, it seems that the Epstein story epitomizes this.

Epstein is dead and Ghislaine languishes in a cell in Tallahassee, yet the story refuses to die. If one has a single gram of curiosity, then surely one of the first questions to be raised would be, "Why/how is Ghislaine Maxwell still alive?" Anyone? I'm open to theories. Please share in the comments below. At any rate, the organized grab ass drill being conducted by this administration does not begin to answer this, or any of the host of remaining questions surrounding the whole affair. It's not a good look and I for one will make ZERO excuses for them.

It's on my desk. They are under review. Thousands of video files. Certain steps must be taken to protect the victims. Yeah...., no. There is no client list. I'm Blondie, I'm here through Saturday. You can also catch me on Faux News, where I try to furrow my botoxed brow in stern disapproval beneath those cruel studio lights. At least once a week, often times more. Be sure to catch my major cinematic debut this Fall, a new Disney feature.  Lying Cunt: the Circle of Lies. I have friends at Disneyworld.

And how about Dan and Kash, hunh? They've got me to thinking that they are making plans to reboot the Harold and Kumar franchise. There were certainly, at the very least, irregularities in Jeffrey Epstein's death. Too many. But now? Nope. He definitely committed suicide. Nothing left to investigate here. Oh, and yeah, Blondie's right. There is no client list.  Be sure to see our premier live stream on Hulu this Thanksgiving, Dan and Kash's Big Tel Aviv Adventure.

In the header of our homepage, we include the tag "home of the undilutable slang truth". This is an homage to the late Mark E. Smith. It is also an ethic we embrace at Midnight and other beasts. It means that we call out bull shit wherever it lands. It is raining bull shit at the DOJ, and our forecasting would suggest that this storm will continue to gather steam, affecting all of the Beltway for days to come. This one isn't going to wrap up and head out to sea. It's going to spiral overhead until the very last turd goes down the drain. Or until the drain backs up, whichever comes first. The smart money is on the latter.

If our kind audience will permit, I will digress for a moment, to a simpler time when our sex scandals were limited to Oval Office blow jobs and expensive cigars sacrificed as sex toys. If one has been breathing and holds at least a room temperature IQ for the last thirty years, then one will know whereof we speak. Why, most of us from Generation X backwards could tell where we were when we first heard of that now infamous, semen-stained blue dress. We all remember that, right? Okay. For those of you readers who do not share this benefit of age and experience, I would suggest that you Google "Bill Clinton impeachment". A cursory glance at those search results should bring you right up to speed.

Now, for all those who can recall all of those more salacious details of the case, I have a serious question for you. Ready? Here it is: What actually predicated the investigation which led to the Lewinsky affair being uncovered? I will wager that most will not be able to answer this question correctly. That speaks to the efficacy of the scandal management employed at the time. The popular narrative will suggest that Bill Clinton's impeachment was all over his having an affair with a White House intern. The impeachment counts were for perjury and obstruction of justice. These were related to the Paula Jones civil suit, filed for acts of sexual harassment which occurred before Clinton was in office. There were also rumored instances of suborning perjury from others. Most do not remember this. Because all of the chatter was focused upon the sex scandal. Because that was forgivable. After all, who could not feel sorry for this guy? Being saddled to that shrieking harridan, Hillary? Of course he cheated!

Do I have to spell it out further? Have you connected the dots? There is a parallel in these cases. Focusing on the client list is the equivalent of focusing on the sex scandal aspect of the Clinton case. While the details of these crimes may be horrendous in terms of the victims, there is nothing to be done that will make those victims whole. They have had something taken from them that can not be restored. I am, of course, referring to the girls who were trafficked. As for those parties being subjected to blackmail? I don't consider them victims. Learning who they are only tells us why they were targeted, what value did they have. And that leads to the more significant question. It doesn't matter who Epstein was pimping to. It matters who he was pimping for.

That circles us back to the Maxwell question: How/why is she still living? One possibility would be that there is indeed no client list. This does not track, because then what is it that she is locked up for? Process crimes?

It could be that Ghislaine doesn't know where all the bodies are buried. This would seem unlikely, but knowing no more than we do it is possible. We have no way to know for certain, but maybe she was just a procurer, fluffer and sometime participant.

Or, it just might be that Ghislaine knows who Jeffrey was pimping for. That could be her protection. After all, we know that Daddy was balls deep into the Mossad. Like father like daughter? It's not entirely implausible. Look at the Comey family. In fact, there is quite a bit of evidence to suggest that this is at least in part true, if not entirely true.

This is not the first time that President Trump has suffered from bad counsel. Mike Pompeo blew in his ear, warning against a full disclosure of the JFK files, remember? Who was it this time? A certain son-in-law? Oh, right! To suggest such a thing makes me an anti-Semite! The horror! You know what? Don't give a shit. Call me an anti-Semite. I am long on record for having ZERO use for Arabs.

There is another syndrome. IDS, or Israel Derangement Syndrome. Like TDS, it comes in two strains. There are those who swear that Israel and Jews are the center of all that is sinister and evil. Then there are those wedded to the erroneous belief that the modern-day secular state of Israel is the "moral equivalent" of the biblical Kingdom of Judea. Neither of these things are true. 

From the Levant eastwards there is that part of the world that I like to think of collectively as "Krapkanistan".  Ending (?) the capability of Iran to build deliverable nukes was probably a wise move. Perhaps we ought to consider taking these toys out of the hands of the Israelis as well. It is not morally right for any US administration to have the lives and livelihoods of 330 million citizens placed at risk, in defense of Israel or any other nation in that corner of the world. Especially not when there are such a minority of whom even have any truck in this fight at all.

I would offer this advice to President Trump. I doubt he'll hear it and even further doubt he would heed it, but here it is. The only man giving you sound advice on this is Michael Flynn. Ignore him at your peril.

THE ELITES MUST BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE