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.

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