Archive for January, 2017

Where Are Your Troubles Now

The Washington Post has a deep peek into the West Wing in which, in demonstrating why Jefferson Beauregard Sessions III is important to the administration, White House adviser and descendant of House Harkonnen Steve Bannon has this to say:

In a lengthy email, Bannon described Sessions as “the clearinghouse for policy and philosophy” in Trump’s administration, saying he and the senator are joined at the center of Trump’s “pro-America ttwitlermovement” and the global nationalist phenomenon. “In America and Europe, working people are reasserting their right to control their own destinies,” Bannon wrote. “Jeff Sessions has been at the forefront of this movement for years, developing populist nation-state policies that are supported by the vast and overwhelming majority of Americans, but are poorly understood by cosmopolitan elites in the media that live in a handful of our larger cities.”

“Cosmopolitan elites”? Didn’t know I was living in Weimar. At least he didn’t say it from atop a banquet table in a beer hall.

That is the straight stuff. From the top now, right from the Oval Office, the Republican Party is attaching itself to contemporary white nationalism the world over. If the Republican Party doesn’t like the way that sounds, it can distance itself from its president and from his handlers. Or, it can own this particular political strategy lock, stock, and armbands.

The party is daring the country to stand by the progress it has made on its founding principles ever since the ink dried at Appomattox. It is trying to bluff a self-governing republic into committing suicide just the way those renegade CBP officials are trying to bluff people out of their green cards. It is relitigating the Civil War and World War II at the same time, and right out in public. Damn, things are fragile right now.

Charles Pierce

Nits Make Lice

Asked on Monday whether Twitler’s order should apply to 5-year-old children, White House press secretary Cabbage Man gave a clear answer: yes.

“That’s why we slow it down a little. To make sure nitsthat if they are a 5-year-old, that maybe they’re with their parents and they don’t pose a threat. But to assume that just because of someone’s age or gender or whatever that they don’t pose a threat would be misguided and wrong.”

At dawn on November 29th, 1864, Colonel John Chivington and 700 men reached the edge of Black Kettle’s camp on the banks of Sand Creek. Some regular army officers protested that to attack the peaceable village would betray the army’s pledge of safety. Chivington ignored them. “Damn any man who sympathizes with Indians,” he said. “Kill and scalp all, big and little; nits make lice.”

Yesterday

Republicans are as quiet as church mice as Herr Twitler pumps out executive orders at a fevered pitch, doing exactly what he said he’d do during the campaign, for all of those who were paying attention: advancing a white nationalist agenda and vision of America, whether that be by demonizing blacks in a-mongo-confabthe “inner city,” Mexicans at the border or Muslims from the Middle East.

Not only is Twitler a literacy-lite, conspiracy-chasing, compulsively lying bigot, he is also a narcissistic workaholic who now wields the power of the presidency. You could not have conceived of a more dangerous combination of characteristics. He is the paragon of the clueless and an idol of the Ku Kluxers.

Twitler’s America is not America: not today’s or tomorrow’s, but yesterday’s.

Twitler’s America is brutal, perverse, regressive, insular and afraid. There is no hope in it; there is no light in it. It is a vast expanse of darkness and desolation.

Charles M. Blow

Bone Road

trump1

Shriekback

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shrieking-peo

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Good Americans

Don’t rejoice in his defeat, you men.
For though the world stood up and stopped the bastard,
The bitch that bore him is in heat again.

Bertolt Brecht

Herr Twitler signed an executive order Friday instituting “extreme vetting” of refugees, aimed at keeping out “radical Islamic terrorists.”

“I’m establishing a new vetting measure to keep radical Islamic terrorists out of the United States of America,” Twitler said during his signing of the order. “We don’t want them here. We want to make sure we are not admitting into our country the very threats our soldiers are fighting overseas.”

In German media, it was German citizens who were targeted for extinction by a vast international conspiracy. Hitler portrayed the Holocaust as a ttwitlerdefensive act, a necessary move to destroy the Jews before they destroyed Germany. Joseph Goebbels, Minister of Propaganda, and Otto Dietrich’s Press Office translated this vision into a coherent cautionary narrative, which the Nazi propaganda machine disseminated into the recesses of everyday life.

A Massachusetts man was charged with hate crimes after he threatened an airline worker at Kennedy International Airport who was wearing a head scarf, kicked her and told her “Twitler is here now” and “he will get rid of all of you,” officials said on Thursday.

In Istanbul, during a stopover on Saturday, passengers reported that security officers had entered a plane after everyone had boarded and ordered a young Iranian woman and her family to leave the aircraft.

An official message to all American diplomatic posts around the world provided instructions about how to treat people from the countries affected: “Effective immediately, halt interviewing and cease issuance and printing” of visas to the United States.

How do I get back home now?” said Daria Zeynalia, a green card holder who was visiting family in Iran. He had rented a house and leased a car, and would be eligible for citizenship in November. “What about my job? If I can’t go back soon, I’ll lose everything.”

Shortly after noon on Saturday, Hameed Khalid Darweesh, an interpreter who worked on behalf of the United States government in Iraq, was released. After nearly 19 hours of detention, Mr. Darweesh began to cry as he spoke to reporters, putting his hands behind his back and miming handcuffs.

“What I do for this country? They put the cuffs on,” Mr. Darweesh said. “You know how many soldiers I touch by this hand?

On Friday, which was International Holocaust Remembrance Day, Herr Twitler issued an executive order to the Department of Homeland Security that now requires it to publish a list of “criminal actions” by immigrants on a weekly basis.

The order makes no distinction whatsoever between documented and undocumented immigrants.

Twitler wants Americans to hear Mexican-sounding and Middle-Eastern sounding names associated with criminal activity every single week.

As he signed the order, Twitler read out the names of US citizens murdered by illegal immigrants.

The Nazi paper The Criminal Jew published photos of Jewish people who had committed crimes. A Nazi directive to the German press declared, “Jews are criminal by disposition. The Jews are not a nation like other nations but bearers of hereditary criminality.”

On the day that Herr Twitler signed an executive action limiting immigration and refugees from war-torn nations, one man is trying to humanize the people whose lives are lost or saved by those decisions.

Russel Neiss created the @Stl_Manifest twitter account to recount the fate of passengers on the St. Louis, a ship that fled Nazi Germany in 1939 with more than 900 Jews seeking refuge in Cuba and, then, Miami. The ship was turned away, returned to Europe and more than 250 of its passengers died at German hands.

“When we say we remember and when we say ‘never again,’ it’s important to actually remember and mean ‘never again,’ ” Neiss said. “We talk about refugees in the abstract. But these are real people whose lives hang in the balance. When we say no refugees allowed, there are real lives here—women, children, men.”

As he waited inside the Delta Sky Lounge at Terminal 2, he approached an employee in her office. She was wearing a hijab.

“Are you fucking sleeping? Are you praying? What are you doing?” Rhodes said to the employee before punching the door, which hit the back of the employee’s chair.

When the employee asked what she’d done to Rhodes to make him angry, he responded: “You did nothing, but I am going to kick your ass.”

furthur=>

You Won’t Learn

U.S. Agents Take Undocumented Immigrants Into Custody Near Tex-Mex Border

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

W.H. Auden

2 + 2 = 5

There is nothing subtle about Twitler’s behavior. He lies, he repeats the lie, and his listeners either cower in fear, stammer in disbelief, or try to see how they can turn the lie to their own benefit. Every continental wiseguy, from Žižek to Baudrillard, insisted that when they pulled the full totalitarian wool over our eyes next time, we wouldn’t even know it was happening. Not a bit of it. Twitler’s lies, and hurthis urge to tell them, are pure Big Brother crude, however oafish their articulation. They are not postmodern traps and temptations; they are primitive schoolyard taunts and threats.

The blind, blatant disregard for truth is offered without even the sugar-façade of sweetness of temper or equableness or entertainment—offered not with a sheen of condescending consensus but in an ancient tone of rage, vanity, and vengeance. Twitler is pure raging authoritarian id.

And so, rereading Orwell, one is reminded of what Orwell got right about this kind of brute authoritarianism—and that was essentially that it rests on lies told so often, and so repeatedly, that fighting the lie becomes not simply more dangerous but more exhausting than repeating it. Orwell saw, to his credit, that the act of falsifying reality is only secondarily a way of changing perceptions. It is, above all, a way of asserting power.

When Twitler repeats the ridiculous story about the three million illegal voters—a story that no one who knows, that not a single White House “staffer,” not a single Republican congressman actually believes to be true—he does not really care if anyone believes it, even if, at some crazy level, he does, sort of. People aren’t meant to believe it; they’re meant to be intimidated by it. The lie is not a claim about specific facts; the lunacy is a deliberate challenge to the whole larger idea of sanity. Once a lie that big is in circulation, trying to reel the conversation back into the territory of rational argument becomes impossible.

And so CNN’s Jake Tapper, to his credit, may announce boldly that the story is false from beginning to end—but then he is led by his own caution and sense of professionalism to ask Twitler whether, if he sees it as true, there ought to be an investigation into it. Tapper, like everyone else, knows perfectly well that a minimally honest investigation would turn up no proof of this absurdity at all. But that, of course, is the trap, the game. Watch: there will be a “commission” consisting of experts borrowed from Breitbart; it will hold no hearings, or hold absurdly closed ones; or hold ones with hurt-iitestimony from frequent callers to The Alex Jones Show—and this clownish commission will then baldly conclude that there is, indeed, widespread evidence of voter fraud. And Twitler will reassert the lie and point to his commission’s findings as his evidence.

Meanwhile, the Republicans in Congress, thoroughly intimidated, fear shining from one eye and cupidity from the other, will exploit the “question” of voter fraud to pursue policies of actually suppressing minority voters. Caligula, the mad Roman emperor, infamously appointed his horse Incitatus to the Roman Senate, and that has been for millennia a byword for cracked authoritarian action. But we now know what would happen if Caligula appointed his horse to the Senate if the modern Republican Party happened to be in the majority there: first the Republicans would say that they didn’t want to get into disputes about the Emperor’s personnel choices, and then they’d quickly see how the presence of the horse could help justify dismantling regulations in the horse-chariot industry. (“Well, you know, he’s an unorthodox kind of Emperor, so I don’t want to get into that, Jake—but I will say that, whatever the Emperor’s beliefs, we have a very inclusive party, and, if we’re slackening regulations on the stables, I want to point out it’s with the full and welcome participation MCDNIEI EC001of a horse.”) The Emperor’s lunacy and the senators’ larceny match perfectly.

Starting this week, it’s vital that everyone who is trying to maintain sanity understand that this is so—that it is a myth that reason, as normally undertaken, is going to affect this process or that “consequences,” as they are normally understood, will, either. Whenever there is an authoritarian coup rooted in an irrational ideology, well-meaning people insist that it can’t persist because the results are going to be so obviously bad for the people who believe in it, whether it’s the theocratic revolution in Iran or the first truly autocratic Administration in America. Tragically, terribly, this is never the way it works. There is no political cost for Twitler in being seen to be incompetent, impulsive, shallow, inconsistent, and contemptuous of truth and reason. Those are his politics. This is how he achieved power. His base loves craziness, incompetence, and contempt for reason because sanity, competence, and the patient accumulation of evidence are things that allow educated people to pretend that they are superior. Resentment comes before reason.

Adam Gopnik

Strangelove Classifies Mongo’s Anus

General Strangelove, an insane man appointed by Mongo to be his National Security Advisor, a post that does not require Senate confirmation, in a Friday news dump announced that he has classified Mongo’s anus, and it will therefore no longer be accessible to congressional investigators probing Mongo’s status as Vlad The Impaler’s butt-boy.

“I have given Mellow Yellow‘s anus the highest possible classification,” Strangelove snarled, “and so henceforth no one can look into c0xcbafweaiabah_1_it without my explicit written permission.”

Strangelove, who is himself one of a half-dozen or so Mongrels currently under investigation for making his anus freely available to Vlad The Impaler, warned that anyone who opposed this anal classification would probably be shot.

“This is outrageous,” nonetheless responded South Carolina Senator Ashley Wilkes. “How can we be expected to probe Mongo’s capacious opening to Vlad if we are not allowed to examine his yawning Vlad-battered sphincter?”

Who is that man?!” Strangelove shrieked. “He needs to be mutilated!

Wilkes also said he strongly opposed Mongo’s proposed 20 percent tax on Mexican goods, as it would cut into his drinking.

Simply put, any policy proposal which drives up costs of Corona, tequila, or margaritas is a big-time bad idea. Mucho Sad.

“If there is one thing we have learned early about the Agent Orange administration,” Wilkes said, “it is that all of us must drink heavily at all times, simply in order to survive.” He said he thus considers free and open access to any all liquors “a matter of national security.”

The Gargoyle has meanwhile announced that on Friday Mongo spoke via phone for an hour with Mexican President Enrique Peña Nieto. She stated that for 30 minutes Mongo boasted that more people had attended his Imongoration than had ever been born in Mexico, for 25 minutes he chastened Peña Nieto for permitting three to five million Mexican citizens to cross the border to vote for the Clinton II woman in the 2016 presidential election, and for five minutes he complained that Mexican food gives him diarrhea.

The Gargoyle next said that on Saturday Mongo will speak via phone with Vlad The Impaler, the first time the two men have conversed since the Imongoration.

“Mongo misses Vlad very much,” The Gargoyle sighed. “Every night he cries, missing Vlad so much. To get him to sleep we have to give him a methamphetamine and methadone pacifier.”

The Gargoyle said that “of course” Mongo and Vlad would discuss the lifting of US sanctions against Russia. “Those sanctions are so silly,” she said. “Mongo believes Vlad should be permitted to impale any country he so desires, just so long as it is not the United States. In fact, he wishes Vlad would immediately and forcefully impale Mexico, and so prevent all those filthy brown people from coming here.”

Old Man Shouts At Cloud then lumbered out to thunder that “Resident Trayf should remember this when he speaks to Vlad The Impaler. He should remember that the man on the other end of the line is a murderer and a thug who seeks to undermine American national security interests at every turn. For our commander in chief to think otherwise would be naïve and dangerous.”

Mongo responded that Shouts mccain-celebrationAt Cloud is “a loser who was captured,” and who was “beaten like a gong by a Negro,” and therefore anything he says is of no value whatsoever. The Nazi then jackbooted over to say Shouts At Cloud “needs to keep his mouth shut, or he can go into a Camp.”

Down at the United Nations, US Ambassador Nimrod Hellbroth swaggered in to announce that “you’re going to see a change in the way we do business. Our goal with the administration is to show value at the UN, and the way we’ll show value is to show our strength, show our voice, have the backs of our allies and make sure our allies have our back as well. For those who don’t have our back, we’re taking names; we will make points to respond to that accordingly.”

Asked what “respond to that accordingly” might mean, Hellbroth replied: “nuclear weapons.”

“If you don’t support us, we will nuke you,” she explained. “It’s that simple. Resident Trayf has made it very clear that he doesn’t understand why, since this country produces nuclear weapons, it does not use them. He considers that a tremendous and inexcusable waste of resources. As a businessman, he knows that a product has no value, unless it is used. Therefore, the US will now be about nuking whosoever might deserve it. And that would be anyone and everyone who doesn’t support us.”

Nuke that man!” Strangelove screeched, as he pursued a fleeing Wilkes past the still-intoning Ambassador Hellbroth. “Nuke him!

Mein Führer!” The Nazi bellowed, as he hastened to square his machinegun on Wilkes’ rapidly retreating form. “I have him in my sights!

“We will,” Hellbroth said levelly, “march on a road of bones.”

Aqenbpuu N9y25ah7

The first thing one notices about Mongo’s press secretary is that he is a Cabbage Patch Kid.

This makes perfect sense, as no actual human being could possibly go to the podium to there daily recite and defend the Mongo mountain of lies, without his head exploding.

So Mongo, like the devil, went down to Georgia. And there rummaged around Babyland General Hospital, until he grubbed up a Cabbage Patcher he figured suitable for the job.

He named this doll “Sean Spicer,” but we’re not going to be having any of that here. Here, he shall be known as Cabbage Man.

Yesterday morning Cabbage Man caused much perplexity among the press people, when, while monitoring his twit feed, they noticed he had sent out twits reading “Aqenbpuu” and “n9y25ah7.”

At first the pressters theorized these twits were a result of “butt-dialing”: that is, that phenomenon whereby the lard of the gluteous maximus activates a pocketed electronic device, without the brain engaged at all.

Then they decided instead that Cabbage Man had bumblingly exposed to all the world his password, which is just exactly what any of the morons employed by butt-dialthe Mongo moron should be expected to do.

Cabbage Man was attempting to log into his Twitter account on his computer, and (wisely) has a two-factor authentication system. In that system, when he tries to log in on his computer, after entering his password, he gets a code texted to his phone. Typically, he can take that code, enter it into his computer and tweet away — typically by communicating Mongo administration policy, arguing with reporters, or blasting Dippin’ Dots.

But, the theory goes, in these two instances, Cabbage Man erred. Instead of using the texted code on his computer, Cabbage Man accidentally replied to it with his password. Twitter has a system that automatically allows people who connect their phone numbers to their account to tweet via SMS messages. And so when he sent his password, his Twitter account thought that was actually a message he was trying to send out.

Boom, “Aqenbpuu” it is.

That’s a nice theory. But the truth of it is that “Aqenbpuu” and “n9y25ah7” are words in the Cabbage Patch Kid language. Cabbage Man, in his new job, is lonely. And he was reaching out, there with his twit machine, trying to get in touch with some other Cabbage Patch Kids.

Informed sources indicate that Cabbage Man has since been made witting of Cabbage Blendr, and so such boners shall henceforth be more appropriately directed.

And All Their Names Shall Be Mongo

Resident Trayf shall entertain his first foreign visitor today, British Prime Minister Theresa May, a tired old troglodyte representing a clot of frightened old retrovert white people, who recently shat their nappies in a thing called Brexit, which will withdraw the United Kingdom from the European Union on the grounds that the latter has brown people in it.

May’s brief reign has thus far been distinguished most by her refusal to talk about a British nuclear missilemay-ugly that veered off target and tried to blow up Florida.

May and Mongo are expected to agree on the necessity of keeping brown peoples out of their respective nations, forcing them to live somewhere else, where they will still be required to send all their money and resources to the British and the Americans, or else get bombed.

May will also presumably promise not to fire any more nuclear missiles at the US. And because Agent Orange has previously declared that someday he may see fit to rain nuke bombs down on Europe, May is expected to likewise urge that once the UK leaves the EU, it will no longer be a part of Europe, and should therefore be considered exempt from any Mongo meth-addled European nuke-jihad.

Because Mongo and his people have already proven that their collective IQ is smaller than my shoe size—which is in the single digits—there was of course a right cock-up on the very basics of the May visit. That is, not all of Mongo, or all of his Mongrel men, could manage to correctly spell the woman’s name. Three times in the daily schedule furnished by the White House to the press, her first name was rendered “Teresa.” Scribblings from the office of Vice Resident Sixpence, they also dubbed her “Teresa.”

“The ‘h’ is silent, it shouldn’t even be in that name, anyone would miss it, it is like a trap for the unwary, and Mongo shall demand that she remove it,” Mongo oberfuhrer The Gargoyle told a small gathering of reporters, drawn exclusively from the ranks of Breitbart, Fox, Stormfront, and Sputnik.

“A lot of the foreigners have really stupid names, and that is one of the things we are just not going to tolerate around here,” The Gargoyle continued. “We are simply wrong-namenot going to put up with a Pole with some name like Szczebrzeszynowsklytz Brzęczyszczykiewicz, or a Welshman like Llyfr Mynydd Llanfairpwllgwyngyllchywnd, or these people from India who insist on names like Kolungode Vishwnatha Narayanaswamy.”

The Gargoyle stated that The Nazi was drafting an executive order that will require all foreign visitors “who insist upon having wrong and stupid names” to assume the name “Mongo” upon setting foot in the US.

“That is a name easy to spell,” The Gargoyle beamed. “And all the letters are pronounced. None are hidden. It is also the name of our Resident, so anyone should be proud to have it.”

The Gargoyle noted that she had recently renamed all four of her children Mongo—monikering them Mongo I, Mongo II, Mongo III, and Mongo IV—and said that “if the name is good enough for the fruit of my loins, it’s certainly good enough for all these horrid foreign people.

“I think Mongo May sounds better than Theresa May,” she stressed, warning that Mongo might not agree to exempt the UK from the nuke-bombing unless May agreed to such renaming.

“He might not nuke someone named Mongo,” The Gargoyle concluded. “But for sure someone with a sinister, sneaky name like Theresa, she can fully expect to someday be skeletonized, or at least to glow in the dark.”

Apocalypse Not

This is not the apocalypse. I don’t believe in apocalyptic—until the apocalypse comes. I think nothing is the end of the world until the end of the world.

We’ve seen this coming. Mongo is not an outlier; he is a culmination, a logical conclusion of the rhetoric and tactics of the Republican Party for the past ten, fifteen, twenty years. What surprised me was the degree to which those tactics and rhetoric completely jumped the rails. There were no governing principles, there was apocalypse-notno one to say, “No, this is going too far, this isn’t what we stand for.” 

The Monster beating fifteen people said less about his skills and more about the lack of skills of the people he beat. But, obviously, he tapped into something. He’s able to distill the anger and resentment and the sense of aggrievement. And he is skillful at challenging the conventions in a way that makes people feel something and that gives them some satisfaction.

The new media ecosystem means everything is true and nothing is true. An explanation of climate change from a Nobel Prize-winning physicist looks exactly the same on your Facebook page as the denial of climate change by somebody on the Koch brothers’ payroll. And the capacity to disseminate misinformation, wild conspiracy theories, to paint the opposition in wildly negative light without any rebuttal—that has accelerated in ways that much more sharply polarize the electorate and make it very difficult to have a common conversation. Mongo understands the new ecosystem, in which facts and truth don’t matter. You attract attention, rouse emotions, and then move on. You can surf those emotions.

This is not mathematics; this is biology and chemistry. These are living organisms, and it’s messy. And your job as a citizen and as a decent human being is to constantly affirm and lift up and fight for treating people with kindness and respect and understanding. And you should anticipate that at any given moment there’s going to be flare-ups of bigotry that you may have to confront, or may be inside you and you have to vanquish. And it doesn’t stop. You don’t get into a fetal position about it. You don’t start worrying about apocalypse. You say, O.K., where are the places where I can push to keep it moving forward. All of this requires vigilance in protecting gains we’ve made, but a sense, yes, of equanimity, a sense of purposeful calm and optimism, and a sense of humor—sometimes gallows humor after results like the ones we just had. That’s how ultimately the race is won.

I believe in this country. I believe in the American people. I believe that people are more good than bad. The only thing that is the end of the world is the end of the world. I think we’re going to be okay.

Barack Obama

Roll Away The Dew

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Attention Americans: You Elected An Insane Person

On Monday, Resident Trayf gathered House and Senate leaders in the State Dining Room for a get-to-know-you reception, served them tiny meatballs and pigs-in-a-blanket, and quickly launched into a story meant to illustrate what he believes to be rampant, unchecked voter fraud.

The Monster kicked off the meeting, participants said, by retelling his debunked claim that he would have won the insane-1popular vote if not for the three million to five million ballots cast by “illegals.” He followed it up with a Twitter post early Wednesday calling for a major investigation into voter fraud.

When one of the Democrats protested, Twitler said he was told a story by “the very famous golfer, Bernhard Langer,” whom he described as a friend, according to three staff members who were in the room for the meeting.

The three witnesses recalled Mr. Langer being the protagonist of the story, although a White House official claimed the barking-mad resident had been telling a story relayed to the golfer by one of Mr. Langer’s friends.

The witnesses described the story this way: Mr. Langer, a 59-year-old native of Bavaria, Germany—a winner of the Masters twice and of more than 100 events on major professional golf tours around the world—was standing in line at a polling place near his home in Florida on Election Day, the resident explained, when an official informed Mr. Langer he would not be able to vote.

Ahead of and behind Mr. Langer were voters who did not look as if they should be allowed to vote, Mongo said, according to the staff members—but they were nonetheless permitted to cast provisional ballots. The howling racist resident threw out the names of Latin American countries that the voters might have come from.

Mr. Langer, whom he described as a supporter, left feeling frustrated, according to a version of events later insanr-2contradicted by a White House official.

The anecdote, the aides said, was greeted with silence, and the shitgibbon was prodded to change the subject by Rinse Pubis, the White House chief of staff, and Senator John Cornhole, Republican of Texas.

Just one problem: Mr. Langer, who lives in Boca Raton, Fla., is a German citizen with permanent residence status in the United States who is, by law, barred from voting, according to Mr. Langer’s daughter Christina.

“He is a citizen of Germany,” she said, when reached on her father’s cellphone. “He is not a friend of Mongo’s, and I don’t know why he would talk about him.”

But a senior White House staff member, who was not at the Monday reception but has heard the Clockwork Orangeman tell the story, said Mr. Langer saw Mongo in Florida during the Thanksgiving break and told him the story of a friend of Mr. Langer’s who had been blocked from voting.

The story, the aide added, had made a big impression on Resident Trayf.

Glenn Thrush (who will soon be put in a Camp)

Ain’t Livin’ Long Like This

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Mongo Go Home

It is clear now that nobody really wants Mongo to be the president. It is true that some 62,979,879 howling racists cast ballots for him, but then he was running against the Clinton II woman, who seemed to have been in the politics since before the days of Benjamin Franklin; her show had been running longer than even Gunsmoke, and people wanted it shut off. For the jaded and weary a8uxrAmerican electorate, The Monster was something new and fresh and exciting, an updated form of carnival geek, frothing and foaming and biting the heads off Muslims on live television. For, originally, a “geek” was not some cheetos-bestained mumbler tinkering with the innards of a tube. But instead a person “who stood in the center ring to chase live chickens; it ended with the performer biting the chickens’ heads off and swallowing them.” That’s Mongo.

The carnival geek was never someone anyone would want to bring home to marry their sister, but people were fascinated by him, as he leaped and shrieked and gibbered about, until finally he snatched up some Mexican, and started gnawing on his noggin. In the carnival, the geek always drew the largest crowds. Except for those adults-only night shows, where Fatima slowly dropped all her seven veils. Maybe if the Clinton II woman had got naked, she would have won. But we will never know. Instead, the Americans went with the geek, “where an audience is drawn to a show where the performance consists of a horrific act that is found distasteful but ultimately entertaining by the masses.”

Until it came time Friday for the geek’s Imongoration, and nobody showed. Fewer MongoRoids turned out for the swearing-in than typically arrive at the fairgrounds for a mud bog. Everywhere the cameras panned, there was a vast sea of no one. On this visual evidence, it appeared the nation had been devastated by a horrific plague. Image after image recalled that section of The Stand where Captain Trips has really taken hold, and most of the people are so weakened they can no longer move from their homes, but just wait listlessly to die in their beds. Shots of the Imongoral parade looked like a bomb threat had been called in, and everyone had already fled, except the old, the infirm, and the alcohol-controlled. Ridership figures for the DC Metro were not only massively down from previous unnamedinaugurations, but totaled fewer riders than a flu-wracked weekday. On the day of his Imongoral ascent, Mongo was already over.

Surveys of the Americans confirm that Mongo is the most unpopular person ever to enter the presidency. He is even less popular than Abraham Lincoln—a man who impelled whole states to leave the nation, so as to get away from him. The surveys indicate that Mongo is also less popular than ptomaine, tuberculosis, and gangrene. A decided majority of the Americans affirm they would rather contract cholera, than endure Mongo in the White House. Given a choice, the Americans say they would prefer Genghis Khan, rather than Mongo, as the president. They believe, correctly, that Mr. Khan would inflict less damage.

Elsewhere, entire nations have declared themselves Mongo-free zones. Not only is Mongo himself prevented from traveling there, but at customs people arriving from the US are asked: “Are you now, or have you ever been, a MongoRoid?”

It is not only the humans, who abjure Mongo. Late Friday night, after attending his Monster’s Balls, where was performed the worst music in the history of sound, Mongo suffered an injury, when he attempted to get into the bed, and the bed then went galloping across the room. Mongo reached for the phone, to report this calamity, but the phone leapt out of his hand, smashing itself into the wall.

Mongo is also having trouble with his desk, there in the Oval Office. When he sits down to it, the chair whooshes away from under his ass, while the desk itself lumbers into another room. Mongrels attempted to cope with this by bolting the desk and chair to the floor, but the bolts quickly unbind themselves and go running off across the lawn. Mongo has been reduced to signing papers propped on his knee, as he squats on the floor, in the deafening din of the floorboards buckling and splintering to get clear of him. Since all pens he attempted to pick up wrenched free to go flying across the moors, one has been permanently grafted to his hand. unnamed-4Similarly, his clothing is each morning superglued to his flesh, lest it rip itself apart, leaving Mongo naked, the public sight of which would result in the complete and permanent depopulation of the earth.

Everywhere Mongo goes, the people don’t want him there. Saturday he decided to venture out to the lair of the conch shells. This required agency personnel to hastily remove the wall art, which these days consists of images like the one reproduced above. Just as he had when he initially announced his geek show, Mongo brought with him his own paid actors, to clap and cheer. Because the conch shells, they were not clapping and cheering. Mongo stood before a memorial commemorating the conch shells who have died in the cause, something of some significance to these people. But Mongo never addressed it. Choosing instead to geek-scream about the press reporting, correctly, that fewer MongoRoids had attended his Imongoration than typically show up at the opening of a tire store. There was only a limited Q and A, but it was probably significant that the first question posed by a conch shell was: “Mr. Mongo, have you ever been poisoned?”

When Mongo left the conch-shell edifice there was a cock-up when his limo suddenly raced off into the distance, as he attempted to board it. It was decided he would walk back to the White House. But after two blocks he had been pelted by so much garbage, hurled by outraged citizens, that the Secret Service moved to form a protective cordon around him. Except they could not—every time they moved to get near him, their bodies were repelled backward, every cell in their beings resisting coming anywhere close to the geek. He just stood there, alone. His clothing struggling mightily, against the glue, to rip away from his body. It will be remembered that Jeff Bezos offered to put Mongo in a rocket, and shoot him into space. Would seem the wisest course. All around. So let it be written. So let it be done.

Voters Don’t Care

So I can only say that I am with you 1000%. And the reason you’re my first stop is that as you know, I have a running war with the media. They are among the most dishonest human beings on Earth. And they sort of made it sound like I had a feud with the Intelligence Community. And I just want to let you know, the reason you’re the number 1 stop is exactly the opposite. Exactly. And they understand that too.

And I was explaining about the numbers. We did a thing yesterday, the speech, and everybody really liked the speech, you had to right? We had a massive marlon-brando-as-us-army-special-forces-colonel-walter-e-kurtz-apocalypse-now-as-based-on-joseph-conrads-heart-of-darkness-the-tyranny-of-corporate-enterprisefield of people. You saw that. Packed.

I get up this morning. I turn on one of the networks and they show an empty field. I say: “wait a minute. I made a speech. I looked out. The field was—it looked like a million, a million and a half people.” They showed a field where there was practically nobody standing there. And they said “Donald Trump did not draw well.” And I said “well it was almost raining.” The rain should have scared them away. But God looked down and he said “we’re not going to let it rain on your speech.” In fact, when I first started I said “oh no.” First line, I got hit by a couple of drops. And I said “oh, this is too bad, but we’ll go right through it.” But the truth is: that it stopped immediately. It was amazing. And then it became really sudden, and then I walked off and it poured right after I left—it poured.

But you know, we have something that’s amazing because, we had, it looked honestly, it looked like a million and a half people. Whatever it was. But it went all the way back to the Washington Monument. And I turn on, with my steak, and I get this network shows an empty field. And it said we drew 250,000 people. Now that’s not bad. But it’s a lie. We had 250,000 people literally around, you know, the little bowl that we constructed. That was 250,000 people. The rest of the 20 block area all the way back to the Washington Monument was packed.

So we caught them. And we caught them in a beauty. And I think they’re going to pay a big price.

Resident Trayf

They lie. They lie, and we must be merciful, for those who lie. Those nabobs. I hate them. How I hate them.

—Colonel Walter E. Kurtz

Mongo does not lie to cover up the truth; he lies to deny the possibility that such a thing even exists. His feints and reversals are the essence of his belief system; he espouses a philosophy of bullshit. Until now, those habitual falsehoods have been the idiosyncrasies of a private citizen with no real responsibility toward anyone but himself. Once he takes the oath, his style becomes policy. We will have to get used to a president who dismisses the intelligence apparatus he commands, who denies events that took place on live television, who does not care whether he is caught in an obvious contradiction. We will have to learn to read a leader who treats truth as one option among many. When he issues a howler from the Oval Office, and his minions faithfully repeat it, that won’t be propaganda, but showbiz.

Mongo has stripped his public utterances of coherence, let alone ideology. Instead of riling up crowds by preaching faith, or nationalist zeal, or dialectical materialism, he relies on his instincts as an entertainer. His highest value is not636195716673609463-epa-usa-presidential-inauguration fanaticism, but sheer excitement and suspense. He fears only that we look away—and by getting elected president, he has ensured that we can’t.

In his collection of essays from the early 1950s, The Captive Mind, Czeslaw Milosz describes the mind games that citizens of the Soviet sphere played to insulate themselves against an all-consuming ideology. The friction between official policy and personal experience produced a population of actors, people who, even amongst themselves, recited lines they knew to be false and masked their thoughts, which were by definition dangerous. Americans of 2016, instead of becoming actors and reading ideologically prescribed lines, have elected as president a performance artist who has no script at all. Mongo’s mendacity is improvisational, insubstantial. He tosses out a daily spectacle of sparkling untruths that dazzle like fireworks and are replaced by others before they have a chance to flare out.

Mongo’s lies can seem like ploys to divert us from some underlying, unspeakable truth. But in the spray of distractions, he seems to have forgotten what, if anything, he’s supposed to be hiding. Are his Twitler blasts a diversion from a plan to use the presidency as leverage in his business dealings? Is his overt corruption really a cover for a program of white supremacy? Or does it all mean nothing?

The Resident’s hostility toward fact threatens America’s stability and the world’s. The nation’s debt has value because the world believes its treasury to be sound. Official documents certify the truth of their contents—an American’s place of birth, for instance—and allow its citizens to travel freely around the world. The 40-insane-arnold-schwarzenegger-bodybuilding-pictures3-600x847democracy stands because its people assume their votes will be tabulated using objective math. This system has endured abuses, hypocrisies, violence, and co-optation precisely because it sits on the bedrock of hard, verifiable evidence.

You’d think that a public inoculated by Photoshop, CGI, and Stephen Colbert would be savvy about the difference between truth and truthiness. Instead, Twitler’s election and leadership style suggests that voters don’t care. Americans love to elect entertainers—viz. the political careers of P.T. Barnum (who served as a representative in the Connecticut legislature and as mayor of Bridgeport), Ronald Reagan, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Al Franken, Jesse Ventura, and Clint Eastwood. But while those men used their showbiz skills to political ends, Mongo goes much further: He has replaced politics with greasepaint and colored lights.

To challenge the shitgibbon on the facts is to play his game and lose, because it promotes nonsense to the level of reason. Newspapers and experts find themselves in the impossible position of having to take seriously the utterances of a deeply unserious leader. The Washington Post has produced a Google Chrome extension that displays instant fact-checking commentary along with each of Trump’s oracular tweets. The Times tries to divine the positions behind the rants. But there is no position, no ideology, no strategy. There is only Clockwork Orangeman, an invented character honed over years of public exposure. That persona has no use for offstage realities. Mongo doesn’t oppose climate science because it contradicts his short-term interests, but because it is science. He sows suspicion because he breathes it, and lards his rhetoric with expressions of extravagant doubt: “I don’t know and you don’t know,” “We have to find out,” “We have no idea.” His only answer to uncertainty is the assurance “Believe me”—the very advice he makes it impossible to take.

Mongo’s deployment of fiction as a tool of governance can only 176695-004-cc0161afmake artists despair. He has turned outlandish plot twists into wan imitation, and made every imagined grotesquerie seem soft. In the HBO show Westworld, Robert Ford is the creator and CEO of an alternate reality that well-heeled “guests” visit to discover who they “really” are. In the final episode, he paraphrases Picasso’s (apocryphal, but who cares?) statement: “Art is a lie that tells the truth.” Ford is an evil yet somehow sympathetic genius, an artist who has taken his creative urges to their lunatic extreme. Back in the real world, a fabulist has acquired awesome powers, including the legal license to kill on a mass scale. This leaves the rest of us feeling like characters in a John le Carré novel or the bits of humanoid machinery in Ford’s manufactured universe, possessed of the consciousness to understand a suicidal system but not the tools to change it.

Justin Davidson

The Letter

Traditionally, an outgoing president inscribes a brief, private letter to his successor, signs it, seals it, and then leaves it behind on the desk in the Oval Office, next to the Xanax, and the key to the White House bunker.

President Obamaunnamed-4 followed this tradition.

Resident Trayf will not.

“Mongo is not opening that letter,” The Gargoyle said Sunday morning on Beat The Press (With Big Sticks). “What if there is anthrax in there? We don’t trust that Kenyan. He might have put rabies, or leprosy, or even Negritude, in that letter.”

The Gargoyle pointed out that Mongo ascended to the residency spurning many traditions. “For instance,” she said, “it is traditional that people running for president behave like a human being. Mongo never saw any need to conform to that tradition. And the people rewarded him for it. So, if he did not see fit to present himself as something even remotely resembling a homo sapien, he is certainly not going to be bound by any nonsense about a letter.

“Besides,” she further explained, “the outgoing president is a Negro. And everyone knows Negroes can’t write. Just as everyone knows, Mongo can’t read.”

The Conversation

As the Obama presidency draws to a close, we should acknowledge that America held the national conversation about race Obama called for, even though it ended up sounding more like an angry shouting match than the earnest, enlightening discussion he clearly hoped for.

In fact, the “conversation” ultimately broughtdale_robertson4 race relations to the current, troubling moment of backlash.

“There was a shocking amount of resentment that a black family had been in the White House for two terms. I think it would be naive to overlook it—the irony that one of the legacies of Obama’s presidency was an enormous amount of resentment,” Harvard historian Henry Louis Gates said after the election. “I don’t think a Mongo could have emerged without a black president. The Monster tapped into and fueled and stoked an enormous amount of racial resentment. And Obama symbolized it.”

Gates is right. Resident Trayf, let it never be forgotten, launched his successful campaign on a multi-year campaign of conspiracy theories and lies, dubbed “birtherism,” that purported Obama was not born in the U.S. and was a fundamentally illegitimate President. The fact that Twitler has never renounced, or even acknowledged, the obvious racism of his birther falsehoods, will remain a stain on his residency.

Errol Lewis

And Now A Word From Our Sponsor

And So It Begins

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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=>


When I Worked

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