Archive for December, 2016

Naked MongoRoid Makes America Great Again

The Trump Bar opened at noon, and one of the first customers was the street performer known as the Naked Cowboy. His normal turf is Times Square, but he’s been spending a lot of time at Trump Tower. He ordered—“Vodka with a splash of orange juice”—and took a Trump On Route Outdoor Performance Piececorner stool. Over his shoulder were a TV and a magnum of Trump Champagne. He wore his signature getup—cowboy boots, cowboy hat, and Fruit of the Loom briefs with “Trump” on the rear—plus a silk boxer’s robe decorated with the Stars and Stripes. “I wear it while I’m indoors, out of respect,” he said. “I have an affinity with Trump. I get him. We’re both media promoters, media whores, whatever you want to call it. People get hung up on political stuff, but I don’t care. Black, white, gay, transvestite—just stand up and make something of yourself. Look, my wife’s a Mexican immigrant. She still doesn’t have her papers. Maybe she’ll be the next to be deported, who knows? I don’t think he’d do that. But if he does, hey, that’s fate. Plus, it’s a nice thing to have hanging over her head—you know, ‘Do the dishes, or else.’ ”

Andrew Marantz

Imongoral Address

So first it was claimed that The Troglodyte, Stephen Miller, long-time aide to Confederate General Jefferson Beauregard seSSions III, before going on the road as carny barker for Mongo, would craft Mongo’s January 20 inaugural address.

It was also expected that The Nazi would contribute a draft. In German.

Then came word that Mongo himself would get out the crayons and trump-good-brain_zpsjxlai9ymbutcher paper, and laboriously scrawl out some Mongbonics:

President-elect Mongo has gotten involved in penning his inaugural address, planning to craft a speech himself that he will keep short so supporters traveling to Washington for the ceremony won’t have to stand out in the cold.

Who knows?

It is possible that Beelzebub will weary of all these middlemen, and inscribe the address himself, in words of fire, which he will then flare out the mouth of Mongo . . . sorta like how it was with that demon-possessed kid in the true-life documentary film The Exorcist.

In the meantime, the conch shells, who are quietly monitoring every move of the Mongo, have vouchsafed unto me a copy of the most recent draft grunted up by the short-fingered vulgarian. Some excerpts follow:

—”Ask not what Mongo do for you, ask what you do for Mongo. What do for Mongo? Bomb newspapers! Newspapers mean to Mongo! Make rubble!”

—”Mongo go in inauguration parade in rickshaw pulled by Clintons. Big funny! People laugh!”

—”Mongo for police! When shoot black person, get raise!”

—”Mongo heal country. States no vote for Mongo, Mongo throw out of United States. First deport states. Then bomb!”

—”Mongo main foreign policy: Mongo need new wife! Old one wore out! She 46—is corpse! Mongo conquer Eastern European countries, with friend Vlad—there find new wives. Vlad keep countries, Mongo only want wimmins. Grab pussys!”

—”Mongo have infrastructure! Make Chinese build railroads, like in Make America Great Again days. For food, they eat Mexicans—solve rapist immigration problem! Railroad ties, them made of Muslims! Greased in pig fat! HAR-HAR-HAR!”

—”Mongo make swear of allegiance to Israel always! Unlike bad Kenyan president. Mongo only puzzlement about Israel: why so many Jews there? Should go somewhere else! Vlad take—Siberia need more peoples! Bannon say put Jews on trains, but make stop on way, for showers. Get clean!”

—”Mongo kill wind machines—ruin golf-course view! Mongo make new energy source—liquify deported people, use to run cars!”

—”Mongo solve climate change—caused by cows farting very bad! Mongo put big plugs in cow bungholes. Problem solve!”

—”Four score and seven years ago—Mongo not born yet! Still in daddy’s penis!”

—”Government must save money. Spend too much! So Mongo get rid of food stamp program. Poor can eat dirt, like in Haiti! Nutritious! Mongo use saved money to gild his advisors. Make pretty, all shiny!”

—”Mongo make jobs program for Negroids living in hellholes. These pedal stationary bicycles to generate electricity. Put in homes of white peoples. Everyone benefit—black people have jobs, white people have power, Mongo have hellholes, where mowed down and replaced with Mongo hotels!”

—”Only thing to fear, Mongo hisself!”

We Have All Been Here Before

Hungary, my country, has in the past half-decade morphed from an exemplary post-Cold War democracy into a populist autocracy. Here are a few eerie parallels that have made it easy for Hungarians to put Donald Trump on their political map: Prime Minister Viktor Orban has depicted migrants as rapists, job-stealers, terrorists and “poison” for the nation, and built a vast fence along Hungary’s southern border. The popularity of his nativist agitation has allowed him to easily debunk as unpatriotic or partisan any resistance to his self-styled “illiberal democracy,” which he said he modeled after “successful states” such as Russia and Turkey.

No wonder Orban feted Trump’s victory as hurt-1984ending the era of “liberal non-democracy,” “the dictatorship of political correctness” and “democracy export.” The two consummated their political kinship in a recent phone conversation; Orban is invited to Washington, where, they agreed, both had been treated as “black sheep” . . . .

A first vital lesson from my Hungarian experience: Do not be distracted by a delusion of impending normalization. Do not ascribe a rectifying force to statutes, logic, necessities or fiascoes.

Call me a typical Hungarian pessimist, but I think hope can be damaging when dealing with populists. For instance, hoping that unprincipled populism is unable to govern. Hoping that Trumpism is self-deceiving, or self-revealing, or self-defeating. Hoping to find out if the president-elect will have a line or a core, or if he is driven by beliefs or by interests. Or there’s the Kremlinology-type hope that Trump’s party, swept to out-and-out power by his charms, could turn against him. Or hope extracted, oddly, from the very fact that he often disavows his previous commitments.

Populists govern by swapping issues, as opposed to resolving them. Purposeful randomness, constant ambush, relentless slaloming and red herrings dropped all around are the new normal. Their favorite means of communication is provoking conflict. They do not mind being hated. Their two basic postures of “defending” and “triumphing” are impossible to perform without picking enemies . . . .

Few developments are more frightening than the populist edition of George Orwell’s dystopia. The world is now dominated by three gigantic powers, Oceania, Eurasia and Eastasia, a.k.a. the United States, Russia and China, and all three are governed by promises of making their realms “great again.”

Miklos Haraszti

Snowblind

The concept of global warming was created by and for the Chinese in order to make U.S. manufacturing non-competitive.

—The Monster, November 6, 2012

Is our country still spending money on the GLOBAL WARMING HOAX?

—The Monster, January 25, 2014

Global warming is an expensive hoax!

—The Monster, January 29, 2014

Obama’s talking about all of this with the global warming and a lot of it’s a hoax. It’s a hoax.

—The Monster, December 30, 2015

I Was His Target

M.D. Harmon, a conservative columnist who frequently wrote in favor of gun ownership rights for the Portland Press Herald, died this week after being accidentally shot by a teenage boy.

As the Press Herald itself reports, the 71-year-old Harmon was showing off one of his guns to a 16-year-old boy in his home in Sanford, Maine, on Wednesday. Harmon apparently let the teenager handle the weapon, which jesus-gaywent off while the boy was holding it.

Harmon was a dedicated defender of gun ownership rights and would regularly rail against attempts to regulate firearms or even make the use of firearms safer.

No tears from me. I was his target.

Not by his gun, but by his toxic, lie-filled, extremist rants against the LGBT community. Every week for years and years he’d pump out the latest bullshit from whatever fake news sources (including lots of hypocritical Bible cherrypicking) caught his eye or his own rancid and fact-free opinions.

Whenever a gay rights vote would come up, either in the legislature or via referendum, he was always on the front lines railing about how people like me were undeserving of equal rights for the most bullshit reasons. That the Press Herald kept this jerk on the payroll for so long defied their mission to shed light on issues, not darkness.

And to think his life ended because he didn’t follow the gun safety rules that he sniffed so pompously about. Of course I’m a responsible gun owner because something something Second Amendment.

And now we’re going to see a bunch of accolades thrown in his direction. How he “celebrated conservatism” and “was a mainstay of the newspaper business for 40 years” and blah blah blah. But at the end of the day, he was a decades-long hate peddler. I offer my condolences to his family and those who will mourn his loss. But I won’t be among them. He was a well-poisoner. And in the end he was felled by his own negligence around guns—an issue on which which he claimed superiority over the liberal gun-control bedwetters he hated with unwavering virulence.

Wow. What a year this has been.

Bill Harnsberger

I Think America Wants Sweet Love

With Affection

Inside The Museums, Infinity Goes Up On Trial

mona-lisa-crowd

Here it is, the Mona Lisa. You woke up early for this. You waited in line for almost an hour. You’re now surrounded by seventy people, all trying to catch a glimpse of it. One of them just elbowed you while taking a photograph of it. It’s behind a lot of glass. It’s not very big. What I’m trying to say is: it’s okay to feel disappointed.

River Clegg

Mongo Bros Make America Great Again

The homeless man was lying on the ground, shaking, when police arrived. His face was soaked, apparently with urine, his nose broken, his chest and arms battered.

Police said two brothers from South Boston ambushed the 58-year-old as he slept outside of a Dorchester MBTA stop, and targeted him because he is Hispanic.

According to State Police, the Leader brothers were on their way home from a Red Sox game when they 03douthat-cs-facebookjumbofound the victim sleeping near the JFK/UMass stop on the Red Line.

He told police he was awakened by two men urinating on his face. He said they ripped away his blankets and sleeping bag, and started rummaging through his things. One of the brothers repeatedly beat the man with a metal pole.

The brothers walked away from the scene laughing, a witness told State Police.

Police said Scott Leader, 38, told them it was OK to assault the man because he was Hispanic and homeless.

“Donald Trump was right, all these illegals need to be deported,” he allegedly told the police. He said he and his brother had “tuned up’’ an “illegal immigrant’’ and that their actions were justified because the man was Hispanic and homeless.

The Leader brothers continued to urinate, bang on doors, and make anti-immigration statements in their cell after having been arrested.

Trump, told of the assault, said “I will say that people who are following me are very passionate. They love this country and they want this country to be great again. They are passionate.”

So My Daughter Can Walk Around on My Face

When I was 19, I was cast as Princess Leia in Star Wars.

The mistake was I signed away my likeness for free. In those days, there was no such thing as a “likeness,” which is a funny thing to say coming from the family that I came from. There was no merchandising tied to movies. No one could have known the extent of the franchise. Not that I don’t think I’m cute or anything, but when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t think I was signing away anything of value.

Lately I feel like I’m Minnie Mouse—the identity of Princess Leia so eclipses any other identity that I’ve ever had.

As I’ve gone along, people will come to me and say, “We got the licensing from George Lucas to make these socks.” So my daughter can walk around on my face. I was shopping at Williams-Sonoma, and they’re selling little sticks of Princess Leia that you put in your cupcake. Who wouldn’t need those? I paid for it. How much money could I have made from all this stuff? I don’t want to know. It’s too upsetting. Yet funny. For example, I found out recently that I am a type of marijuana. A friend of my daughter’s actually went to one of those medical places, and she told me there was a type of marijuana named Princess Leia. I never liked marijuana, so the fact that I’m a type of marijuana is ironic.

I’ve teased George Lucas about this over the years, but he’s never been apologetic.

When you’re 19 you don’t even think about these things. I don’t know what everyone else’s excuse was. Harrison Ford was 33! He should have known better! Here’s where I’m dumb. I assume if there’s an argument to be made, Harrison would have made it, and if he made it, I would have heard about it, because we had the same deal. But Harrison hasn’t fixed his deal. So this is an ongoing mistake.

Mistakes are a drag, because you get in the area of regret and self-pity. I don’t like to linger in this zone. Obviously, drug use is a huge mistake. So I’ve made some bad choices. That’s reflected in the Princess Leia thing. I do not take it on.

Me having a tantrum in the corner for my cut of Star Wars toothpaste? I don’t want to get into it. Every so often, I wonder if Natalie Portman is getting more money than the none I’m getting. If she’s holding a check for Princess Amidala’s likeness in one hand and her Oscar in the other, that would piss me off.

Carrie Fisher

Small Blue Thing

clinton_v2-artboard_1

Chef Cooks Mongo

I’m a New Yorker, Donald Trump is a New Yorker. And the New Yorkers I know, we’ve lived with this guy for 30 years. I’ve seen Donald Trump say things one day, and then I saw what he did the next. I’ve seen up close how he does business. Just like if you lived in a small town, you’d get to know the sheriff, the guy who runs the hardware store, the guy who runs the filling station. I’m not saying I know the guy personally, not like I’d hug him, but I’m saying that as a New Yorker, we pretty much are neighbors. And my many years of living in his orbit have not left me with a favorable impression, let’s put it that way. There are so many reasons to find the guytrumpspam-0 troubling. When Scott Baio’s the only guy you can find to show up at your convention, you’re in trouble.

He has a vineyard in, is it Virginia? I think a very interesting question would be to see who’s picking his grapes. I believe I know the answer, which is why I’m asking the question.

I will never eat in his restaurant. I have utter contempt for him, utter and complete contempt. Just like David Burke—I mean, I never had the highest opinion of him in the first place, but I guess he’s the last person in this life I should look to for principles. Burke went in and took over [the space Jose Andres had originally occupied], and promptly tried to poach his staff, I hear. This was after Jose reached out and said “Everyone welcome him to Washington, don’t hold it against him, just because I decided to pull out.” So Burke’s a steaming loaf of shit, as far as I’m concerned, and feel free to quote me.

It’s not helpful, that sort of thing [opening in a Mongo hotel]. I’m not asking you to start putting up barricades now, but when they come and ask you, “Are you with us?” you do have an option. You can say “No thanks, guys. I don’t look good in a brown shirt. Makes me look a little, I don’t know, not great. It’s not slimming.”

And Trump—the man eats his steak well done. I don’t think he’s a good person. I remember the Central Park Five, and what he said. I’ve seen how he’s treated employees. I saw what he did to Atlantic City. I saw what he did to the west side of this town. It’s fuckin’ ugly. He’s going to make trumpicecreamthe whole world look like the back of Rick James’ van.

You know, it’s why they always kill the comedians and the poets first. People can’t stand ridicule. It clearly gets under Trump’s skin—he can’t bear it, it’s really a problem for him. So if you’re looking to do something, I think, you should ridicule him. Not his voters. His cabinet, for sure, and his appointees, but not all at once. Stick with him.

A lot of people are like, “I’m never watching your show again, now that you’ve moved to the Clinton News Network.” As if they’ll fall asleep for a few seconds at the end of my show, and wake up and catch a few minutes of Wolf Blitzer, and it causes some homosexual urges and a desire to join Al Qaeda.

If I can convince people to look around, and see who’s actually doing a lot of the work in this country—picking vegetables, it’s all immigrant labor—and then ask themselves, truly, whether they under any circumstances would take that job? You know, to look in the eyes of the cook who makes their eggs-over every day, and ask themselves whether they’d want to stand outside their house and be dragged away from their kids? If I can convince a few people to go to a country like Oman, which has a completely non-sectarian version of Islam, which is incredibly tolerant and super cool, or to Senegal, where they’re Sufi, they’re just as devout as anyone in the Islamic world but people who just came from Dubuque, they’d be comfortable there, they’d find trumpsausagesbeauty in it, they’d hear the call to prayer and think “Okay, there might be something here other than what I thought”? That would please me.

Twitter is proving not helpful, Facebook has been, you know. The troll army has been really interesting. They come up pretty dependably any time the Russia show airs. For a while, any seriously anti-Trump shit I posted, I would get a group of them, a fairly organized troll army, and not just eggs. That’s a new wrinkle. And that ain’t gonna go away. This is now a new, effective way to communicate.

Russia clearly is going to be a problem for me. The last time I was there, they killed my lunch partner, you know? And I’m a little pissed about that. And I’ve expressed that publicly, which is increasingly not such a wise thing to do. Russia, I personally would feel uncomfortable there at this point.

Anthony Bourdain

Mongo Law Jockeys Arrest Charlie Brown, Snoopy, Van Pelt Siblings

In a stunning pre-dawn raid, armed agents of President-elect Mongo arrested and jailed “several high-ranking members of the so-called ‘Peanuts gang,’ com-smyp Negrofied libtards who have been terrorizing this nation for more than six decades,” Confederate General Jefferson Beauregard seSSions III has announced.

Appearing before a small gaggle of reporters drawn exclusively from Fox, Breitbart, Stormfront, and Sputnik, seSSions played surveillance footage that seemed to show Charlie Brown, the ceaselessly morose round-headed child who dresses worse than even Bill Belichick, entering a Christmas-tree lot, there selecting a small tree, and then leaving the lot without paying for it.

“You see?” seSSions crowed, “He’s a thief. Open and shut.”

seSSions said that after Brown was arrested and booked, a DNA sample was extracted from the child, “which proves conclusively that—pursuant to the one-drop rule, which, come January 20, will again be the law of this land, thanks be to Jesus—this wanton tree-thieving criminal is a Negro.

“Of course,” seSSions continued, “we knew that as soon as we saw him steal the tree. Because Americans, they don’t steal trees. That’s Negroid behavior.”

seSSions next rolled surveillance tape of “the Peanuts gang” ice-skating.

“You see that dog?” rumbled seSSions. “Negroes—I mean dogs—have no business on the ice. And his outrageous assault on those children? That dog needs to be put down.”

seSSions said that DNA testing had disclosed that the dog, known as Snoopy, is, like Brown, “of the Negroid persuasion.”

Peanuts gang” member Lucy Van Pelt was arrested on charges of practicing psychiatry without a license, seSSions said, while her brother, Linus, was charged with “flagrant homoism.”

“Homoism,” seSSions explained, “is well-known as a subset of Negritude.”

seSSions then produced surveillance footage of what he described as “a Negrified dance orgy.”

“A warrant is out for the arrest of that Negroist piano-player,” seSSions announced. “We believe his name is Schroeder. We have learned that he had no proper permits for holding that Negroid dance orgy in that cramped and confined space. The whole place could easily have gone up in flames, like in that Ghost Ship fire, that cooked all those queers and coloreds.”

seSSions said the child who is the bassist in the above “dance orgy” had been taken into protective custody. “He is known only as ‘Pigpen,'” seSSions explained, “and his parents have allowed him to live in conditions of such squalor and filth that the State has taken possession of him for his own safety and well-being.”

seSSions said “Pigpen” had been given a new name—Steve Bannon—and added that “once the poor boy is cleaned up, he will be immediately enlisted in the Marines, so he can learn how to hunt Negroes, grease Muslims, and shoot Mexicans in the desert. He’s gonna be an American.”

seSSions next happily shared with those assembled some pictures of his slaves.

Asked why he was referring to himself as “Confederate General,” rather than “Attorney General,” seSSions explained that “Mongo has changed the title from ‘Attorney General,’ to ‘Confederate General,’ in order to help heal the country’s divisions.”

seSSions then played for the reporters what he described as the “new anthem” of his department. Which is rendered, in a somewhat different form, below.

It Is Accomplished

“I would like to go to the Lion’s Gate,” Raziel told him.

The Romanian volubly refused. When Raziel realized that his driver’s mind was not about to be changed, he got out of the taxi and set out on foot for the Old City.

Approaching the end of the Via Dolorosa, almost at the Lions’ Gate, above the shouting he heard a voice he knew. It was the voice of Adam De Kuff speaking from the upper quadrant of his interior universe, strong, unafraid, joyful, thoroughly delusional. Raziel shouldered his way through the ranks until he saw the man himself.

He wore what looked like an army jacket that fitted him so badly its cuffs stopped a little past his elbows. He had hugely baggy army trousers and untied muddy boots whose laces coiled around his ankles and twisted underfoot as he shuffled passionately from one end of the bench to the other like a dancing bear. There was a kippa on his head and a white scarf tied around his forehead like a turban and he crooned at the top of his voice.

Raziel kept trying to force his way closer to the old man. He had the notion of taking him away from there, before the thing failed utterly, before all spells and mercies were suspended, before whatever grace that had touched their pilgrimage was withdrawn and the violence and raw holiness of the place overwhelmed everyone.

De Kuff himself understood only that he was in the place he knew and loved best, the scene of his successes, the ancient Serapion and Pool of Israel. All that day he had been trying to reach the souls within himself as they weaved in and out of his consciousness. He had begun to think that everything he had ever believed about soul and mind was wrong. There was no way to exercise control.

But there at the Fountain, his souls were manifest and his heart was full, and in the completeness of his joy he had no choice but to tell about it. It was necessary to tell everyone, anyone, no matter how distressed or distracted they might be by politics or by the illusion of separateness and exile that burdened everyone. He felt elected and protected by God, ready to support the Ark in the holiest of places. He used the metaphors that were employed in this city, although, in a way, it might have been anywhere.

“Call me as you like,” he explained to the angry crowd. “I am the twelfth imam. I am the Bab al-Ulema. I am Jesus, Yeshi, Issa. I am the Mahdi. I am Moshiach. I have come to restore the world. I am all of you. I am no one.”

There were screams of terrible passion. “Perish he! Death!”

People began to throw stones.

“Death to the blasphemer!”

De Kuff opened his arms to them. For a moment those who were advancing on him stopped. Raziel, shouting, shoving, tried to get through.

“You don’t have to listen,” Raziel said to the crowd. “It’s all over. Rev,” he shouted to De Kuff, “it’s all over! Another time, man. Another soul. Another street.”

The men who were taking hold of De Kuff, pulling him down as he tottered on his bench, also laid hands on Raziel.

“Another day!” Raziel told them. “Another mountain!”

“I tell you, ” De Kuff informed them in his restrained Louisiana drawl. “That all was once One and will be and has always remained so. That God is One. And faith in Him is One. And all belief is One. And all believers in Him, regardless of sect, are One. Only the human heart divides. So it is written.

“See? Do you see?” De Kuff asked the men who were pulling him down. “Everyone’s waiting. And the separateness of things is false.”

He went on declaiming, using the images, the reversals, the metaphors everyone knew, expounding the souls, raising their voices, until the great holiness turned to fire and he lost consciousness.

—Robert Stone, Damascus Gate

There Is Always Mary At Christmas

An Undigested Bit Of Beef

 . . . . may be an undigested bit of beef,
a blot of mustard,
a crumb of cheese,
a fragment of an underdone potato . . . . 

There Are Always, Now, Alas, Twits At Christmas

Away from his twit machine, for not even one day, can The Monster stray.

And so, today, even as people were tucking away unnamed-1in the manger, trying to secure some heavenly peace, he was up there in the tower, snuffling up the Panzer powder, blowing baloney hard, showering it, in chunks, upon all the world.

A sampling, of The Monster’s most recent yuletide emissions:

I have only the best Christmas, tremendous Christmas, Jesus and Santa are both here with me—they voted for me, twice each!

Bethlehem has brown people in it—sad! On January 20, this will change. Jesus was white!

People who say happy holidays are against Jesus and me. Time to drain them into a swamp!

Muslims don’t have Christmas—Unamerican! They should at least eat at a Chinese restaurant, like Jews!

Jesus said “I come with a sword.” Me too—bigly! I also come with my daughter!

Merry Christmas to all, even to the haters and losers. You’ll soon get yours. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

There Are Always Spliffs At Christmas

There Are Always Winos At Christmas

There Are Always Uncles At Christmas

Mom

Things my Mom said that I rolled my eyes at & wish I appreciated: “Oh Sarah look at the clouds!” “Oh Honey look at the 473a6e6f8e8b1165d699a4d4beca304ecolors in the sky!”

I wish I hadn’t scoffed when she sang.

She loved musicals. Records always playing when I was lil it was always Annie Get Your Gun or Ain’t Misbehavin’

She directed 50 plays in our town despite encouragement from almost no one. She could’ve been the artist of her dreams if she only knew it

Sarah Silverman

Morning Mongo Mania

So today we learn the Radio City Rockettes are effectively slave girls, forced to perform for whatever monster and/or molester curries their master’s favor. For the Rockettes have been ordered to kick it for Mongo, and they don’t wanna:

I usually don’t use social media to make a political stand but I feel overwhelmed with emotion. Finding out that it has been decided for us that Rockettes will be performing at the Presidential inauguration makes me feel embarrassed and disappointed. The women I work with are intelligent and are full of love and the decision of performing for a man that stands for everything we’re against is benhur_galleybcappalling. I am speaking for just myself but please know that after we found out this news, we have been performing with tears in our eyes and heavy hearts. We will not be forced! #notmypresident”

And:

Most of the Rockettes do not want to perform at the inauguration. AGVA, their union, has put in writing to the full time Rockettes that they must accept the inauguration gig or they will lose their jobs. It’s perfect, actually. What could be more fitting for this inauguration than forcing a group of women to do something with their bodies against their will?”

No one wants to perform at The Monster’s inaugural balls. I mean, no one. Artists all over the world, they are running from Mongo, and faster than Richard Pryor with his body on fire. The hideous Clockwork Orangeman has thus far secured but three “name” acts: the aforereferenced Rockettes, who, we now know, are functionally the equivalent of Ben Hur galley slaves; the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, secured only after many desperate Mongo meetings with Mitt “Captain Underpants” Romney; and some 16-year-old singer, Jackie Evancho, a young woman who human-rights groups are furiously working to bar from the proceedings, on the grounds that it is a crime against humanity for The Monster to approach within 50 yards of any minor.

It is just eerie, that not even known knuckle-dragging proto-humans like Kid Rock, Ted Nugent, and Charlie Daniels are stepping up for Mongo. The inaugural people have become so desperate they are now going door-to-door in the DC karaoke district, hauling people off the stage and holding them at gunpoint in a remote warehouse until inauguration day. They are relying on obscuro outfits so bizarre they would give even David Lynch pause. Witness this mutancy:

A Place To Be Trio – Heroes Tribute, comprising the hitherto unheralded trio of Amy Stone (“Amy finds her Cerebral Palsy to be a gift not a disorder”), Brendan Friedrich (“Brendan’s goal is to be an announcer and America’s first blind meteorologist”) and Forrest Allen (“Forrest had a severe snow boarding accident five years ago and sustained a Traumatic Brain Injury”).

Not even Keith Richards can secure and consume enough Medicine to cope with something like that.

Now it is true that putin-boy-kissit is possible that noted boy-buggerer Vladimir Putin may show up at a Mongo ball to croon “Thank Heaven For Little Boys,” for Putin said today he’s ready to come to the US just as soon as Mongo summons him.

Putin also told the Democrats to shut up or get shot about losing to Mongo, adding:

“Trump understood the mood of the people and kept going until the end, when nobody believed in him,” Putin said, adding with a grin. “Except for you and me.”

Putes meanwhile shrugged off Mongo’s rabid ravings about nuke bombs—”nothing unusual” there, Putin said—even as Mongo was frothing to the Morning Joe people: “Let it be an arms race. We will outmatch them at every pass and outlast them all.” Mein Fuhrer! Ve can valk!

That lunatic neocon, General Strangelove, Mongo’s selection as his National Security Advisor, he is this morning in some trouble, as it develops he is in business with a guy convicted of selling information to the KGB. Strangelove is only the man who would fill the nation’s most sensitive intelligence post. But as his appointment is not subject to Senate confirmation, Strangelove could appear in public, stripped to the waist, with I EAT INFANTS scrawled in bright red lipstick across his chest, and not a damn thing could be done about it. Expect Strangelove to so come out. January 20. Dancing and twirling. At one of the Monster’s Balls.

Mongo Make Nuke Bomb

In this morning’s twit spasm, Mongo writes:

The United States must greatly strengthen and expand its nuclear capability until such time as the world comes to its senses regarding nukes

He would destroy the village, in order to save it.

He is insane.


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