In Other Bummers

The Mongo era begins on the web

It didn’t take long.

The White House’s exposition on the threat of climate change and efforts to combat it? Gone.

In its place, An America First Energy Plan:

“For too long, we’ve been held back by burdensome regulations on our energy industry. Resident Filth is committed to eliminating harmful and unnecessary policies such as the Climate Action Plan and the Waters of the U.S. rule. Lifting these restrictions will greatly help American workers, increasing wages by more than $30 billion over the next 7 years.”

Monster’s Ball

We are still some hours away from Mongo taking the Oath Of Orifice, but already the imongoral proceedings have entered infamy.

Seems when Mongo, and his sidekick, Sixpence, trudged on out to Arlington National Cemetery, there to lay a wreath on the Tomb of the Unknowns, the soldiers interred therein, they struggled up out of the crypt, grabbed the wreath, and hurled it across the boneyard. For not even the dead, can countenance The Monster.

Then it was over to the Lincoln Memorial, where 34 MongoRoids had gathered to cheer their lumbering beero. Sophisticated brain-scanning equipment deployed by NBC News detected no cranial activity whatsoever among those assembled.

A huge Jumbotron had earlier been erected that completely blocked the greenwood-cccpMongoRoids’ view of the memorialized Abe Lincoln. At first it was believed this was typical Mongo crassness, but then it emerged the Jumbrotron had been so placed at the request of Lincoln himself: not even in stone, could Lincoln bear to look upon The Monster.

Up on the stage a simulacrum of Jon Voight babbled unintelligibly about God and Twitler. Later in the weekend’s festivities Voight shall appear in a combo monikered The Five Dementia, consisting of himself, James Woods, Tila Tequila, Kanye West, and Fran Tarkington. Together, they shall tenderly serenade Mongo & Co. with “The Horst Wessel Song.”

On this Thursday night, the clock-stoppingly ugly Melvin Greenwood delivered a specially rewritten version of the worst song ever recorded, “God Bless The USA,” a blat that first burst forth, appropriately enough, in 1984. Just for Mongo, the 567-year-old singer delivered such lines as:

and i’m proud to be an american
when i watch those hookers pee
and i won’t forget the brains that died
to cast those votes for me

Some among the MongoRoids were so transported they grabbed a passing Muslim and sacrificed him to Moloch.

Mongo himself briefly addressed the MongoRoids (now reduced in number to 31, as a trio had stumbled off in search of heroin). “We’re going to unify our country,” he vowed, “so long as everyone is united around what I want.”

To cheers—and scattered strangled screams from those ODing on oxycontin—the Clockwork Orangeman promised that “we’re going to do things that haven’t been done for our country for many, many decades. Own slaves, shoot Mexicans from a moving vehicle, beat the bejeesus out of conwayinsults-660x330your bitch when she misbehaves—the sky’s the limit! It’s going to change, I promise you. It’s going to change!”

Simultaneously, over in Davos, George Soros correctly described Twitler as “an imposter, a conman, and a would-be dictator.” It was then immediately announced, by The Gargoyle, that Soros had been stripped of his passport. “He can just stay over there,” she said. “The last thing this country needs is another mouthy old Jew.”

Jawohl!” seconded The Nazi.

Mongo-watchers noted that while Mongo himself attended the Thursday shindig out at the Mall, together with one of his wives, Mrs. Mongo Vol. III, and the lust of his life, daughter Lolita Mongo, and Lolita Mongo’s current husband, The Future Lampshade (see The Nazi, above), missing from the Mongo-train was young Barron [sic] Mongo.

Some Mongo-watchers believe Barron [sic] is afflicted with autism, and the thoroughly de-evolved Mongo family thus keeps him at all possible times shuttered away, like a red-headed stepchild, or Boo Radley. But, in truth, nothing could be further, from the truth. Barron [sic], in Reality, is the “white sheep” of the family—he recognizes his father is a stinking gaping anus, and wants nothing to do with him. He is, therefore, and at this very moment, socked away in an opium den, cranking Bowie, and engaging in intricate sexual congress with a Muslim man, and a Mexican woman.

Meanwhile, back on the Mall, taking the stage is the band 3 Doors Down, so named because, although they practice deep underground in a solid concrete igloo, it is not possible to survive their “music” unless you are hunkered down in a similarly reinforced shelter, located a minimum of three blockhouses away.

[So. Are you ready for more? Lots more? Then come on along. By clicking, below, upon. The “furthur.”]

furthur=>

Mongo Make America Weight Again

So Mongo will be the fattest fuck to waddle into the White House since William Howard Taft, who routinely broke furniture throughout the residence from 1909 to 1913.

Under Taft, the place had only recently recovered from the second presidency of Grover Cleveland, who whaled around the White House from 1893 to 1897.

Mongo has already out-blubbered Cleveland, who spun the trump-fatneedle on the scale up to 260. Mongo, who lies about anything that happens to come out his mouth, initially claimed to weigh 236 pounds, but then revised that to 267. So, by his own admission, he’s currently larded up above Cleveland.

It is quite probable he actually weighs more, and is rapidly approaching Taft’s human-zeppelin record of 340 pounds. In fact, informed sources claim that Mongo’s true weight at this moment is 57,689 pounds. But that, through one of his many deals with the devil, he is able to keep most of it hidden, most of the time, in the fourth dimension.

It is without dispute that Mongo enters the Oval Office as the oldest fart ever to be elected to the presidency. He wheels his walker up and down the halls at age 70, besting the previous record-holder in decrepitude, Ronald Reagan, by a year.

Mongo will likewise be the first president since Reagan to drool around the White House crippled by dementia.

Mongo’s father Fred, had been suffering from Alzheimer’s for 6 years, prior to his death in 1999. And as Salon suggests, the genetic connection may explain some of Mongo’s bizarre behavior.

“At times it can be very hard to distinguish between extreme right-wing politics and symptoms of dementia. The Alzheimer’s Association tells us that if two of the following core mental functions seem impaired then it is time to seek medical help: Memory, communication and language, ability to focus and pay attention, reasoning and judgment, visual perception.

“Alzheimer’s carries other symptoms besides memory loss, including difficulty remembering newly learned information, disorientation, mood and behavior changes; deepening confusion about events, time and place; unfounded suspicions about family, friends and professional caregivers; more serious memory loss and behavior changes.”

Prior to his election, The Improper also picked up on Mongo’s trump-weightodd behavior.

“During a primary campaign stop in Pittsburgh, he gushed: ‘How’s Joe Paterno? We gonna bring that back? Right? How about that—how about that whole deal?’

“Paterno was head coach of Penn State’s football team. He was forced to resign for covering up a child-molestation scandal involving one of his coaches. Mongo seemed to be the only person in the room who didn’t realize Paterno died in 2012.”

If Mongo does have some form of dementia or early Alzheimer’s, it may be well-known among the people closest to him and members of the Republican Party. Alternately, or in combination, Mongo could be an old man with bad manners and almost no self-control, who was born into a life of privilege and thinks living in the past is an actual destination. Either way, from a political perspective, there isn’t much reason for conservative partisans to clue in the public about any of it. The levers of power can be moved by well-hidden puppeteers. And in the case of Mongo, the oldest president in American history, he may never even know it.

Texas MongoRoids Display Cranial Cow Patties

A Guardian reporter took his very life into his hands, journeying deep into the troglodyte regions, to the hamlet of Bellville, in Texas, where some 79% of the burg’s 4000 residents cast ballots for The Monster, their perverse fealty to the shitgibbon so acute and extreme they even renamed the local ptomaine palace the Mongo Cafe.

Utilizing a Universal Translator beamed down by a time-warping Starship Enterprise, the reporter was able to conform the grunts and hoots of the town’s ur-humans into something resembling intelligible speech. He then transmitted their hogwash to his editor backmongo-birdflipper in London, before the townspeople turned on him, caught him, cooked him, and served him up for breakfast, there in the Mongo Cafe. One of the very first martyrs. Of the age of Mongo.

A Richard Kienzle, a doctor retired from using leeches and saws upon patients in Atlanta, Georgia, told the now-deceased scribe that “I haven’t been following” the news that Mongo is Vladimir Putin’s butt-boy. “I’m sure there’s going to be an attempt to vilify Mongo by the Democrats,” he blatted. “I’m sure the report about Russia hacking the election is false to make his election look false. We need a purge of leftwing Democrats and the loony left.”

Jawohl! Ve vill march on a road of bones!

Lulu Rocha was unfazed by news that The Monster hired Russian prostitutes to pee all over a bed where the Obamas had once slept. “If you stop and think about it, all of these other politicians, they’ve all got bad stuff behind them too, you know? So hey, let’s give this a chance and see,” she burbled.

Sure! Everybody in government pays to watch whores pee! Happens every day!

“I think he’ll be great,” she gabbled. “Everybody spies on everybody, and all that, and now with all this technology there’s hacking done all over the place. But what gets me is that, I mean, [the press] are just bulldogs on something like that, but they can ignore everything that Hillary has done.”

“The only Hillary sign that we saw was ‘put her in jail’,” added her husband, Thomas. He said he was so excited to see the shitgibbon drag his knuckles into the White House that “I’ve got it on my calendar, you know? God bless America again, on the 20th. That’s how I feel about it.”

Did these people produce children?

The horror. The horror.

Benjamin Marchi, a man with a severe jesus-trumpcognitive disability that prevents him from accurately ingesting and understanding Reality, jabbered that “it’s pretty clear. The fact that director of national intelligence Clapper has stated the intelligence community doesn’t believe it’s reliable should be a pretty clear message to observers that the media jumped the gun on this.” In the realm of Actual Reality, of course, Clapper stated no such thing.

But then this man is completely unmoored from Reality. To wit: “Today I could not be more pleased with his picks for various positions for the cabinet. His reliance on true professionals who know how to get the job done, rather than rewarding political allies, has really impressed me.”

That would be “true professionals” like Uncle Ben Carson, who admitted he was unqualified for a cabinet position, and the Farm Animal, who accepted the job of Secretary of Energy without knowing what it was he would actually be doing.

“So far, so good,” said Judy, another diner at the Mongo Cage, who declined to provide her last name, because she couldn’t remember it. “He’s his own man,” she said of the anti-man Mongo. And anything that tends to indicate the shitgibbon is anything less than Lord Jesus returned with a bad comb-over, she decreed, is but balderdash “just thrown out there by anti-Trumpsters.”

“We will hunt them down,” vowed another diner. “And catch and cook them. Then build a cage with their bones.”

“Mongo uber alles!” the diners all then shouted, in unholy unison.

At which point, the reporter, he became scrambled eggs. Kyrie, eleison.

What It Means, To “Make America Great Again”

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Daddy’s Home

Then [Mongo] meets Roy Cohn. Now, if you were in your late 20s or your early 30s and you were looking to hitch yourself to a wagon that would pull you forward, if you could sit down with Roy Cohn and be charmed—there was something wrong with you. Roy was the second-most important figure in Donald’s life, next to [his father] Fred. And if you could meet that guy, and say to yourself, “I want to be with this guy . . . ” Roy was already representing the heads of all five crime families in the city of New York. The five crime families would meet in his law office because the feds couldn’t eavesdrop. It was lawyer-client. That’s cohn-mapplethorpe_0where the bosses got together, in his office. The feds couldn’t do anything. That was an attraction to Donald.

Donald was new to the Manhattan scene. He had just moved to Manhattan. He was looking to make connections. He went to a club where connections can be made. He met Roy there. And he ran past Roy the facts of this Justice Department suit. Now, keep in mind that this is the Richard Nixon Justice Department suing on the basis of racial discrimination. It had to be a pretty clear case, right? 

And Roy took on the case. And he sort of gave Donald the answers that Donald was looking for, which is that he would be a pit bull in the case and he would take on the Justice Department. And he did that. He called these Jewish lawyers who brought the lawsuit—he called them Gestapo agents.

And he filed a major countersuit against the Justice Department that the judge basically laughed at that was just filled with all kinds of gross statements about the prosecutors, you know, even suggesting that one of them was interested in sex with Donald, you know, throwing out every conceivable allegation, which the courts just rejected. The government wrote a very carefully documented brief. It was a pretty compelling case. And Donald’s response to that and Roy’s response to that was total bombast. Make the ugliest allegations you can against your accuser.

So these were signs from the get-go, Donald was looking for the dark side. He was angling for the dark side. He understood that the dark side was the way of power. And he proved to be correct.

I had lunch many times with Roy Cohn. I got to know him over the years, and it was like having lunch with Satan. Roy Cohn ate with his fingers. I kid you not. He brought a little glass inside of his coat pocket. He would pop little white pills when he thought you weren’t looking. He was the most satanic figure I ever met in my life. He was almost reptilian. I think he’s going to handle the swearing-in at the inauguration. They’re not going to bring a judge, they’re going to have Roy. And then Roy’s going to go back to the White House and fuck a 12-year-old. In the Oval Office.

Wayne Barrett

Days Of Future Passed

lead_960There’s never been a more dramatic difference between an outgoing president and a new one. The irony of the split screen is that the guy who is leaving actually represents the future, and the guy who is replacing him represents the past.

Dan Pfeiffer


When I Worked

January 2017
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