His life is almost co-extensive with one of the most disastrous periods in Roman history.

But failing such a breakdown, or the sort of prima-vista harebrained but ultimately eminently sane sort of h*ck-raising that I hope or at least vainly wish to incite via this essay, these charlatans’ ascendancy is guaranteed in virtual perpetuity regardless of how rapidly, or to however absolutely or relatively unprecedentedly hypergargantuan dimensions, the membership of any of the world’s churches or other so-called faith-communities eventually swells—this because they, the charlatans, have effectively monopolized the baptismal font with the highest water-pressure; because, in other words, they can deluge us with new names at will, and at a rate with which no other font-holder—be it any church, or the law of any country, or even the marketing department of the most asset-swollen commercial corporation (whose own charlatanistic baptismal fonts, powerful as they are, are ultimately at the mercy of the scientistic charlatans’, much in the same manner as the natural gas or oil pipelines of certain countries are at the mercy of the pipelines of other countries closer to the fuel-source)–can ever hope to keep up.

By this time, mine hostress set before us our dish of herrings, which, with oatmeal cakes, potatoes, and buttermilk, furnished one of the heartiest dinners I ever ate;

The eighth annual Georgia-Carolina State Fair was 11 days of corn, kennel, livestock, and poultry shows, automobile and motorcycle races, and an auto-polo game: one of the most thrilling events ever witnessed on earth.