To 6/6/1980 ( ) From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) is 5330 days
10660 = 5330 + 5330
From 5/8/1994 ( premiere USA TV miniseries "Stephen King's The Stand"::miniseries premiere "The Plague" ) To 7/15/2023 ( ) is 10660 days
excerpt, read also:
https://hvom.blogspot.com/2026/09/today-is-09172026_0335138594.html
by me, Kerry Wayne Burgess, posted by me: 6:08 PM
Number 878: The Farthest Man From Home
I am Kerry Burgess. This is what I think.
If this is the first blog-post by me you're reading then you are galactically uninformed.
Thursday, September 17, 2026
Today is 09/17/2026
Pete Hegseth
From Wikipedia [retrieved 08/20/2026]
Peter Brian Hegseth (born June 6, 1980) is an American government official, veteran, and former television personality who has served as the 29th United States secretary of defense since 2025.
https://www.yahoo.com/news/donald-trump-brands-us-third-001634496.html
Yahoo! News
The Independent
Donald Trump brands US a ‘third-world hellhole’ run by ‘perverts’ and ‘thugs’
Graeme Massie and Alex Woodward
Sat, July 15, 2023 at 6:21 PM PDT 4 min read
Donald Trump branded the US a "third-world hellhole" run by "perverts" and "thugs" in his latest 2024 campaign speech, a rambling, nearly two-hour long set of remarks to close out a right-wing conference in Florida.
The one-term president told the Turning Point Action Conference on 15 July that the American dream was "dead" under Joe Biden as he relentlessly mocked his predecessor and painted a bleak picture of a nation in decline.
"The election will decide whether your generation will inherit a fascist country or a free country, " Mr Trump told the right-wing activist conference.
https://apnews.com/article/trump-cnn-msnow-politico-media-bans-bb675679fb10738a51bef90bde6c525a
AP
Trump targets more news outlets, saying he will ban CNN, MS NOW and Politico from the White House
By JOCELYN NOVECK
Updated 4:07 PM PDT, September 18, 2026
NEW YORK (AP) — President Donald Trump said Friday that he was barring CNN, MS NOW and Politico from the White House due to what he called unfavorable coverage and “fake news,” and threatened that more such media bans could be coming — the latest salvo in the president’s increasingly aggressive response to media coverage he finds unfavorable.
"The Peripheral" (The Jackpot Trilogy) by author William Gibson
Kindle edition, page 102 of 486 - Chapter 26
"You know about the server?"
"The great mystery, yes, Assumed to be Chinese, and as with so many aspects of China today, quite beyond us. You use it to communicate with the past, or rather *a* past, since in our actual past, you didn't. That rather hurts my head, Mr. Zubov. I gather it doesn't hurt yours?"
"Far less than the sort of paradox we're accustomed to culturally, in discussing imaginary transtemporal affairs," said Lev. "It's actually quite simple. The act of connection produces a fork in causality, the next branch causally unique. A stub, as we call them."
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 17
Remember that, Starkey thought as his caller began to beep urgently behind him. The sound of burning bearings in the final stages of collapse is ronk-ronk-ronk.
He went to the caller and pushed the button that snapped off the beeper. “Yes, Len.”
“Billy, I’ve got an urgent from one of our teams in a town called Sipe Springs, Texas. Almost four hundred miles from Arnette. They say they have to talk to you; it’s a command decision.”
“What is it, Len?” he asked calmly. He had taken over sixteen “downers” in the last ten hours, and was, generally speaking, feeling fine. Not a sign of a ronk.
“Press.”
"Oh Jesus," Starkey said mildly. "Patch them through."
There was a muffled roar of static with a voice talking unintelligibly behind it.
"Wait a minute," Len said.
The static slowly cleared.
" - Lion, Team Lion, do you read, Blue Base? Can you read? One two three four this is Team Lion - "
"I’ve got you, Team Lion," Starkey said. "This is Blue Base One."
"Problem is coded Flowerpot in the Contingency Book," the tinny voice said. "Repeat, Flowerpot."
"I know what the fuck Flowerpot is," Starkey said. “What’s the situation?”
The tinny voice coming from Sipe Springs talked uninterrupted for almost five minutes. The situation itself was unimportant, Starkey thought, because the computer had informed him two days ago that just this sort of situation (in some shape or form) was apt to occur before the end of June. 88% probability. The specifics didn’t matter. If it had two legs and belt-loops, it was a pair of pants. Never mind the color.
A doctor in Sipe Springs had made some good guesses, and a pair of reporters for a Houston daily had linked what was happening in Sipe Springs with what had already happened in Arnette, Verona, Commerce City, and a town called Polliston, Kansas. Those were the towns where the problem had gotten so bad so fast that the army had been sent in to quarantine. The computer had a list of twenty-five other towns in ten states where traces of Blue were beginning to show up.
The Sipe Springs situation wasn’t important because it wasn’t unique. They’d had their chance at unique in Arnette—well, maybe—and flubbed it. What was important was that the “situation” was finally going to see print on something besides yellow military flimsy; was, anyway, unless Starkey took steps. He hadn’t decided whether to do that or not. But when the tinny voice stopped talking, Starkey realized that he had made the decision after all. He had perhaps made it as long as twenty years ago.
It came down to what was important. And what was important wasn’t the fact of the disease; it wasn’t the fact that Atlanta’s integrity had somehow been breached and they were going to have to switch the whole preventative operation to much less satisfactory facilities in Stovington, Vermont; it wasn’t the fact that Blue spread in such sneaky common-cold disguise.
“What is important—”
“Say again, Blue Base One,” the voice said anxiously. “We did not copy.”
What was important was that a regrettable incident had occurred. Starkey flashed back in time twenty-two years to 1968. He had been in the officers’ club in San Diego when the news came about Calley and what had happened at Mei Lai Four. Starkey had been playing poker with four other men, two of whom now sat on the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The poker game had been forgotten, utterly forgotten, in a discussion of exactly what this was going to do to the military—not any one branch but the entire military—in the witch-hunt atmosphere of Washington’s fourth estate. And one of their number, a man who could now dial directly to the miserable worm who had been masquerading as a Chief Executive since January 20, 1959, had laid his cards carefully down on the green felt table and he had said: Gentlemen, a regrettable incident has occurred. And when a regrettable incident occurs which involves any branch of the United States Military, we don’t question the roots of that incident but rather how the branches may best be pruned. The service is mother and father to us. And if you find your mother raped or your father beaten and robbed, before you call the police or begin an investigation, you cover their nakedness. Because you love them.
Starkey had never heard anyone talk so well before or since.
Now he unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and fumbled out a thin blue folder bound with red tape. The legend written on the cover read: IF TAPE IS BROKEN NOTIFY ALL SECURITY DIVISIONS AT ONCE. Starkey broke the tape.
“Are you there, Blue Base One?” the voice was asking. “We do not copy you. Repeat, do not copy.”
“I’m here, Lion,” Starkey said. He had flipped to the last page of the book and now ran his finger down a column labeled EXTREME COVERT COUNTERMEASURES.
“Lion, do you read?”
“We read five-by, Blue Base One.”
“Troy,” Starkey said deliberately. “I repeat, Lion: Troy. Repeat back, please. Over to you.”
Silence. A faraway mumble of static. Starkey was fleetingly reminded of the walkie-talkies they made as kids, two tin Del Monte cans and twenty yards of waxed string.
“I say again—”
“Oh Jesus!” a very young voice in Sipe Springs gulped.
“Repeat back, son,” Starkey said.
“T-Troy,” the voice said. Then, more strongly: “Troy.”
“Very good,” Starkey said calmly.
Going southeast out of Sipe Springs, if you get on US 36, you are headed in the general direction of Houston, a day’s drive away. The car burning up the road was a three-year-old Pontiac Bonneville, doing eighty, and when it came over the rise and saw the nondescript Ford blocking the road, there was nearly an accident.
The driver, a thirty-six-year-old stringer for a large Houston daily, tromped on the power brake and the tires began to screech, the Pontiac’s nose first dipping down toward the road and then beginning to break to the left.
“Holy Gawd!” the photographer in the shotgun seat cried. He dropped his camera to the floor and began to scramble his seat belt across his middle.
The driver let up on the brake, skirted the Ford on the shoulder, and then felt his left wheels start to drag in the soft dirt. He matted the gas pedal and the Bonneville responded with more traction, dragging back onto the blacktop. Blue smoke squirted from beneath the tires. The radio blared on and on:
Baby, can you dig your man,
He’s a righteous man,
Baby, can you dig your man?
He tromped the brake again, and the Bonneville slued to a stop in the middle of the hot and deserted afternoon. He drew in a ragged, terrified breath and then coughed it out in a series of bursts. He began to be angry. He threw the Pontiac into reverse and backed toward the Ford and the two men standing behind it.
“Listen,” the photographer said nervously. He was fat and hadn’t been in a fight since the ninth grade. “Listen, maybe we just better—”
He was thrown forward with a grunt as the stringer brought the Pontiac to another screeching halt, threw the transmission lever into park with one hard thrust of his hand, and got out.
He began to walk toward the two young men behind the Ford, his hands doubled into fists.
“All right, motherfuckers!” he shouted. “You almost got us fucking killed and I want—”
He had been in the service, four years in the army. Volunteer. He had just time to identify the rifles as the new M-3A’s when they brought them up from below the rear deck of the Ford. He stood shocked in the hot Texas sunshine and made water in his pants.
He began to scream and in his mind he was turning to run back to the Bonneville but his feet never moved. They opened up on him, and slugs blew out his chest and groin. As he dropped to his knees, holding both hands out mutely for mercy, a slug struck him an inch over his left eye and tore off the top of his head.
The photographer, who had been twisted over the back seat, found it impossible to comprehend exactly what had happened until the two young men stepped over the stringer’s body and began to walk toward him, rifles raised.
He slid across the Pontiac’s seat, warm bubbles of saliva collecting at the corners of his mouth. The keys were still in the ignition. He turned the car on and screamed out just as they began shooting. He felt the car lurch to the right as if a giant had kicked the left rear, and the wheel began to shimmy wildly in his hands. The photographer bounced up and down as the Bonneville pogoed up the road on the flat tire. A second later the giant kicked the other side of the car. The shimmy got worse. Sparks flew off the blacktop. The photographer was whining. The Pontiac’s rear tires shimmied and flapped like black rags. The two young men ran back to their Ford, whose serial number was listed among the multitude in the Army Vehicles division at the Pentagon, and one of them drove it around in a tight, swaying circle. The nose bounced wildly as it came off the shoulder and drove over the body of the stringer. The sergeant in the passenger seat sprayed a startled sneeze onto the windshield.
Ahead of them, the Pontiac washing-machined along on its two flat rear tires, the nose bouncing up and down. Behind the wheel the fat photographer had begun to weep at the sight of the dark Ford growing in the rearview mirror. He had the accelerator pressed to the floor but the Pontiac would do no more than forty and it was all over the road. On the radio Larry Underwood had been replaced by Madonna. Madonna was asserting that she was a material girl.
The Ford swung around the Bonneville and for one second of crystal hope the photographer thought it was going to keep right on going, to just disappear over the desolate horizon and let him alone.
Then it pulled back in, and the Pontiac’s wildly jittering nose caught its mudguard. There was a scream of pulling metal. The photographer’s head flew forward into the wheel and blood sprayed from his nose.
Throwing terrified, creaky-necked glances back over his shoulder, he slid across the warm plastic seat as if it were grease and got out on the passenger’s side. He ran down the shoulder. There was a barbed wire fence and he leaped over it, sailing up and up like a blimp, and he thought: I’m going to make it, I can run forever —
He fell down on the other side with his leg caught in the barbs. Screaming at the sky, he was still trying to free his pants and dimpled white flesh when the two young men came down the shoulder with their guns in their hands.
Why, he tried to ask them, but all that came out of him was a low and helpless squawk and then his brains exited the back of his head.
There was no published report of disease or any other trouble in Sipe Springs, Texas, that day.
- by me, Kerry Wayne Burgess, posted by me: 01:37 AM Pacific-timezone USA Saturday 09/19/2026
