I am a communist. I would read anything by Jamelle Bouie. To create a list of the deviant’s crimes, would take several issues of NYT. History will see the deviant as even more deviant than we knew. Mister Deviant, you are not running the world. Nanny has been busy. But Nanny’s coming up here real soon. Nanny will not be amused. Nanny knows who did it. We are all missing one huge thing. Satire. The New York Times does not allow me to satirize. So allow me to deal with the power of satire. Instead of wringing our institutional hands, we have the neglected capacity to flame our own humbug in his face. In his face. He loathes it just like he loathes us. He pretends he does not need us. If no one comes to the Clown Show, there goes the Clown Show’s honk honk.

Under all that Vegas makeup, there is more Vegas makeup. The diaper balloon was supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Photographs of mushrooms. That rickety old plane. These are the hahas, and so is the deviant when he loses his stuff. Steam. Satire is protected speech. King George hated it. Stalin hated it. Putin puts his big head in the oven. Mrs. Deviant just sues everyone in sight. I do not much like Americans, but sometimes they’re funny. This is big girl stuff because, America, it means to humiliate, and the folks who do it well are not that far from Vegas. Forests. Trees. “There is nothing we can do.” Go home. Theatre became theatre. Pop up theatre. Laugh at it. Puppets. Do the ha ha. Will he go after us.  Deep breath. Let it go. Ha ha. Run.