The most important Reality to keep in mind, at all times, concerning Mongo, is that he is over. He reached his zenith, the night he was elected. From there, for him, it is all . . . down.
Today was a good example. In the Times of India, halfway around the world, from where Mongo bent, in fury, over 
his twit machine, twitlering away, he was characterized thusly:
“Golden Showers” Rain On Trump’s Victory Parade In A Pee-For-All Scandal
That is the sort of way he will be regarded, and remembered, now, and for a thousand years. Mongo. The Monster. Twitler. Mr. Mellow Yellow. Clockwork Orangeman.
Some 62,979,879 howling racists vomited Mongo into the presidency. But such people won’t always be among us. For they, too, are over. Mongo’s election, it was the last throes of the white people. They are now done.
Mongo likes to talk a lot about General George S. Patton; this is fitting, because, like Mongo, Patton was a psychotic mutant, frothing with hatred, for any peoples not exactly like him.
But Patton had more insight than ever shall Mongo. Patton wrote; Mongo, he cannot even read. Once, Patton wrote of Mongo’s most triumphant moment, and what shall then inevitably come after. Mongo, he is oblivious to this. As to all else. As he goes . . . down.
Roman conquerors returning from the wars enjoyed the honor of triumph, a tumultuous parade.
In the procession came trumpeters, musicians, and strange animals from conquered territories, together with carts laden with treasure and captured armaments. The conquerors rode in a triumphal chariot, the dazed prisoners walking in chains before him. Sometimes his children, robed in white, stood with him in the chariot, or rode the trace horses.
A slave stood behind the conqueror, holding a golden crown, and whispering in his ear a warning: that all glory, is fleeting.
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