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 MongoRoids’ 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 your 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.”]
Then it was time for Toby Keith, the howling racist. Which is right and meet. As some 62,979,879 people voted for Mongo. All of them howling racists. Every one. For it is not possible, to vote for a howling racist, unless you yourself are one.
Keith went straight to the gutter, with “Beer For My Horses,” a song that celebrates the joys of lynching. The Clockwork Orangeman lapped it right up, like the butcher and killer he is. But “Beer For My Horses” is hardly the nadir of Keith’s oeuvre. Oh no. For there is also “The Taliban Song.” Which commences in this way:
i’m just a middle-aged middle-eastern camel herdin’ man
i’ve got a little two bedroom cave here in north afghanistan
things used to be real nice and they got outta hand
since they moved in
they call themselves the taliban
Keith soon has his camel-herder, and wife, praying for bombs, to be dropped all over their country:
now we prayed to allah with all of our might
until those big u.s. jets came flyin’ in one night
they dropped little bombs all over the holy land
man you should’ve seen ’em run,
like rabbits they ran, the taliban
In the end, the camel-herder, and his dearly beloved, they wave farewell, cheerily, to their homeland:
ride, camel, ride
my ol’ lady she’ll be here with me
just smilin’ ridin’ by my side
we should do just fine out around palestine
or maybe turkministan
we’ll bid a fair adieu and flip a couple fingers to the taliban
we’ll bid a fair adieu and give a big boner to the taliban
Keith in this song precisely delineates the sort of antediluvian understanding of the world that we can expect from Mongo, and all the many Mongrels in his administration.
But wait! It can get even worse! For Keith is also the auteur of “The Angry American.” This is the song that contains the pre-human lines:
we’ll put a boot in your ass
it’s the american way
Which the perpetual-motion Mongo-fellation machine Sean Klannity currently blares out 88 times a day as the theme music for his “ve vill march on a road of bones” radio show.
When Keith first blasted this song out from his bowels, back there in 2001, Natalie Maines of the Dixie Chicks correctly noted it was “ignorant, and it makes country music sound ignorant.” Keith, previewing the sort of ceaseless infidelity to the facts, and blithe unconcern for the serious consequences of words and acts, that would later be quintessenced in the shitgibbon, responded by touring before a backdrop of Maines standing alongside Saddam Hussein—a photo totally faked, just shit made up.
Rumor has it that somewhere up there on the Mongotron, between the Keiths and the Greenwoods, was Sam Moore, now 81, once upon a time the Sam, of Sam and Dave. But I haven’t seen it, so I am not inclined to believe it.
I do know the Mongrels have been desperate to secure some Negro for their horror show. For a brief moment they had Jennifer Holliday . . . but then she passed by a mirror, and remembered she was black, and so hastily dispatched her regrets. There is now late word that Chrisette Michele has agreed to betray all of humanity by huggin’ up to The Monster. I learned this only via Spike Lee announcing that he will thus now not use Michele’s music in his upcoming She’s Gotta Have It series for Netflix. And this is as it should be. For all those who perform for Mongo, just like all those who voted for Mongo, should be shunned, be made to live with the stench of their rot, and for the rest of their lives. Their names shall be inscribed in a Book of Offal. And even unto the eleventh generation, their descendants, they shall be met with the sign of the cross, when they are encountered, in the fields, and on the streets.
Certified Negro Kanye West had hoped to perform for the shitgibbon, debuting his new song “Kanye West Don’t Like Black People.” But it was determined, by the blazingly white doyens of the Monster’s Balls, that these Balls were to be “typically and traditionally American.” And, therefore, West—he just don’t fit.
The truth of it is that West was well-known for onstage unhinged ravings even before he went off the rails with his public Mongo love and thereby achieved a diagnosis of bipolar disorder. No one can be sure if he’s now taking the meds, and if so if they have stabilized him. So it would be the sheerest of follies for the Mongrels to put him on stage. Even if he was in his rightest of mind, West would still be seized by an irresistible impulse to say or do something to upstage Mongo—that’s just the way he is. And Mongo cannot tolerate anyone, upstaging him.
Which is why Mongo will be rudely and recurrently shoving aside other performers in order to cast his own schweinhund and shit-pearls. He will, for instance, assault all available ears with his accordion-farting.
You know, when you think about it, it is evident that here Mongo missed his true calling. That is: wandering the land, from county fair to county fair, with a little red cap on his head, squeezing his box, while people put pennies in that cup that is passed around by the little monkey.
Mellow Yellow’s bff Vlad The Impaler is helpfully sending over a Slavic squeeze-boxer to play at a Monster Ball in the Russian style.
It is said that Mongo and he will then duet in an accordion version of “Dueling Banjos.” At which point there shall occur more suicides than at Jonestown.
Speaking of suicide, Mongo will also reprise his Green Acres hoedown.
Mongo will next claim that he is the heretofore unheralded sixth member of Pink Floyd.
It is true that the line in Floyd’s “Brain Damage”—
is in the hall
—was written for this day.
It occurs to me that Kanye West was probably also ixnayed for the imongoration because he just doesn’t fit Twitler’s conception of black people. For the “brothers” who most often hang with Mongo, they are Don King, Ray Lewis, and Jim Brown. King is a convicted murderer who stomped a man to death over a $600 debt, and is also a thief in the league of Mongo himself. Lewis, he’s also a murder man, while Brown specializes in beating women and assaulting their cars with snow shovels. Even Uncle Ben Carson stabbed somebody in the stomach and went after his mother with a hammer.
No. West just won’t do. Maybe if he’d gone after some Kardashians with some shovels. But no. It was not to be. West’s participation will thus be cabined to the aforementioned “Horst Wessel Song,” performed with his fellow brain derelicts Voight, Woods, Tarkington, and Tequila. He will also be wired with electricity, and if at any time it appears a patented West wingding is imminent, a Mongrel hidden away offstage shall shock him into a silent, spasming St. Vitus Dance.
Other than West, the only outfit that offered to appear at the imongoration, but was turned down, was the Oswald Band.
Pre-Christmas there was an interesting interlude when Ice T twitted that he had been invited to perform at the imongoration.
I just got call to perform at the Inauguration…. I didn’t pick up and Blocked the number.
Just call Ted Nugent and call it a day….
Some people who should have known better, took this seriously. But then again, why wouldn’t they? At the time—as also in the time that is now—no one that anyone would ever want to see or hear, had signed up for the Monster’s Balls. So why wouldn’t the Mongrels be desperate enough to reach out to the auteur of “Cop Killer”?
The Mongrels certainly didn’t help any, when they responded to an inquiry from The Wrap, with but this:
First class entertainers are eager to participate in the inaugural events. The inauguration as a whole will be an exciting and uniting celebration of freedom and democracy. We will be releasing further details at the appropriate time.
So, like—shit—maybe you did ask Ice T?
Meanwhile, back on his twit machine, Ice T was trying to clue people in that it wasn’t Real.
Jokes people… I got Jokes!
But it wasn’t working. Because the MongoRoids, they had long been trained and conditioned to regard the Unreal, as Real. How else, could they ever have voted for Mongo?
Lol… It’s so easy to fire these political Trolls up… Lol
Truthfully.. Anyone that thinks those MFs would call me?! ME of all people?? Has gotta be a DumbFuck.
Just as it seemed the MongoRoids were settling down, Ice T fired them up again:
Trump wouldn’t accept my refusal to play the Inauguration so he’s coming over my house tonight to talk about it… I won’t be home.
The MongoRoids went ape. Believing it.
Then Ice T proceeded to reveal that he occupies the very vortex of all international, and even extraterrestrial, happenings.
Hold on…… Putin is on my line now…. WTF?!
The C.I.A director just called me… MAN it’s been a wild day!!
A Space ship just landed in my front yard!
OK.. The Aliens just bounced but they left me a cool Ray Gun.. Have a good Weekend Everybody….
Trump got mad at what they said the Pence at HAMILTON???? Really??? Sooooo petty its incredible.
You are a Public Figure. Anyone can say anything they want… They didn’t even say ‘Pence Eat A Dick’
Honestly… What they said wasn’t even disrespectful or personally aimed at him…. And you want an apology???! Fuck Off
Demands and Apology?? Dude has a lotta nerve.. Wow
Ok…. Back to shit that matters. My dog is snoring and farting at the same time.
If that MF was ever stupid enough to come after ME personally… Big Mistake.. I’d tell him to straight suck my balls..
That is speaking to The Monster, the way The Monster should be spoken to.
Ice T. 2020.
Though Mongo was so determined to secure black representation at his Monster’s Balls, that he was willing even to swallow Ice T, there was never any question about any Mexicans performing at his shindies. That would be a big No. Because The Monster, he does not want any Mexicans in his country. Much less at his Balls.
That does not mean that no Mexicans will Be There Now, however. Oh no. For at sunset on imongoration day, Mongo’s great good friend, Joe Arpaio of Maricopa County, Arizona, will herd onto the National Mall several vans loaded with Mexicans he and his merry mayhem men have randomly swept up off the streets of Phoenix. These shall be prodded out of the vans, and crowded together in a tight little knot. Then, they shall be set on fire. This shall be called The Burning Of The Mexicans. All the merry many MongoRoids, they shall then gather round, and toast marshmallows, over the flames.
Tasteless, you say? Maybe so. But that’s Mongo.
As that’s also Vlad The Impaler. For check out those folks there above. That would be the wife of Vlad’s toweringly corrupt spokesmouth, and some other geek—the fabled Holocaust skaters. Who sickened all the civilized world, some six weeks or so ago. For an encore, they shall, Friday night, glide all around, the Monster’s Balls. As Mongo, he prepares to march, on a road of bones.
Vlad has being doing his very best, to help out his bff, Mellow Yellow, with his Balls. He intended to send over the entire Red Army Choir, but then they died in that plane crash. Fumbling for a replacement, Vlad came up with the boozy accordion guy, and also the sickfuck Shoah skaters. He has offered to himself deliver, via live video hookup, a soulful rendition of “Thank Heaven For Little Boys.” Vlad has previously successfully publicly performed an English-language “Blueberry Hill,” but plans for he and Mongo to duet on that number are in limbo, as in rehearsal Mongo unerringly bumbles the refrain, bellowing out “Hillary—Kill!” rather than “Blueberry Hill.”
Vlad also offered to help craft Mongo’s imongoral address—an offer gratefully accepted. For that speech has been nothing but tsuris, for Twitler. Initially, Stephen Miller, the jack-booted troglodyte who worked so many years for Confederate General Jefferson Beauregard seSSions III, was assigned the task. But then his penis was found in a hamster, and so he was relocated bodily to a dank and remote basement. Next Mongo himself tried his hand at the thing, but the results, as seen here, were deemed a little rough, not quite ready for public consumption. The Nazi was expected to pitch in, but he got distracted, helping the Breitbart boys coordinate bomb threats to 27 Jewish community centers across the nation. Monica Crowley, who got her start as an ambitious 22-year-old ingenue blowing a 78-year-old Richard Nixon, was abruptly removed from the project when it was revealed that throughout the course of her career she had pretty much plagiarized everything, including her name. What particularly angered Mongo was that Crowley had lifted whole sections from the speeches of Adolf Hitler, for inclusion in the imongoral address. “I no Hitler!” he thundered. “I Twitler! I know all these words! From only book I ever read! I, Twitler, to be better—bigger! stronger!—than Hitler!” Beelzebub, exasperated by all this dumb-bunny ineptitude, then elected to inscribe the address himself, in words of fire, which he would 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. But then when Vlad stepped up, ol ‘Bub decided, what the fuck, let him handle it, he’s the next best thing to me.
Vlad also suggested Twitler roll out his very own fascist motorcycle gang, like Vlad’s own Night Wolves, for imongoral “security.” Mongo was so taken with this idea that, when speaking of it, he manages to cram two and sometimes three lies into every word he utters. These mini-me Night Wolves, they meanwhile have vowed to “form a wall of meat,” to protect Mongo at the imongoration.
The horror. The horror. Visions of hundreds of thousands of pounds of biker flab, jelloing all over the National Mall.
Also a horror, shall be the actual swearing-in of The Monster. As revealed here on red just two days ago, the oath shall not be administered by the chief justice of the United States Supreme Court, as is customary. Instead, presiding over all, shall be Mongo’s late, unlamented mentor, Roy Cohn. For a clot of unscrupulous Science Men, utilizing all the most recent advances in cloning and DNA and whatnot, dug Cohn up out of the crypt, scraped off a little bit, and then went into a Lab, and there grew a new one. This new, and in no way improved, Cohn, shall debut at the imongoration. As described here two days ago, and again below, by Wayne Barrett, Mongo’s first and best biographer:
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.
The ravaging of the 12-year-old shall not be the only Thanatos attack on Eros to occur in the Oval Orifice immediately after the imongoration. For Mongo too, shall retire there. To fuck daughter Lolita, there on the desk. A photograph of a rehearsal of this act, may be seen there to the right.
It will not get better, when these satanic satyrs, father and son, emerge from the Oval Orifice, to commence their tour of the Monster’s Balls. For, we are told, by the cretinous Washington Examiner, that The Monster “plans to take the floor as the 45th president at the Liberty Ball just as Nashville-based jazz singer Erin Boehme delivers opening song ‘Mack the Knife,’ which will be live broadcast for tens of millions of Americans to watch on TV.”
This is entirely appropriate. For “Mack The Knife,” originally “Die Moritat von Mackie Messer,” was written by Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht, for that musical drama known in English as The Threepenny Opera. And, as seen in the clip from G. W. Pabst’s 1931 film of the Opera, embedded below, the song is a sinister murder ballad, recounting the bloodsoaked career of an utter psychopath, who, among other larks, knifes a woman to death in an alley, burns alive seven children and an old man, and rapes a teenager while she is unconscious. Truly the very moral soulmate, of Mongo.
It should be noted that Brecht penned additional lines of application to Twitler. To wit, speaking of Hitler, anticipating Twitler:
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.
Once Twitler, via “Mack The Knife,” has paid fealty to his various monstrous German forebears, he will, again per the Examiner, “take the dance floor with Mrs. Mongo Vol. III to the tune of Frank Sinatra’s ‘My Way.'”
Just as Melvin Greenwood squeezed out new lyrics for “God Bless The USA” for the shitgibbon’s imongoration, so too was Paul Anka, the scribe who scribbled “My Way,” originally expected to bowel forth new words for his moldy old tune. But then Anka suddenly withdrew, explaining he needs “to spend more time with my prostate.”
Mongo has identified “My Way” as his favorite song—Walter Keane is also probably his favorite painter—and most people assume it was Sinatra’s too, since he sang it, like, five times a day. But, in truth, Sinatra hated the goddam thing.
This became Frank Sinatra’s signature song, but he couldn’t stand it, saying he “loathed” the song. In his later years, he described the song as “a Paul Anka pop hit which became a kind of national anthem.” In a 2000 interview with the BBC show Hardtalk, Sinatra’s daughter Tina said, “He always thought that song was self-serving and self-indulgent. He didn’t like it. That song stuck and he couldn’t get it off his shoe.”
Sometimes, when deep in his cups, Sinatra would command friends and associates, like Fat Tony and Billy The Nose, to hunt Anka down and garrote him. But he always rescinded the order, when Dino would point out that Sinatra would still be compelled by his public to sing the damn song, no matter how many Paul Anka heads might be sawed off his body.
Nancy Sinatra, surviving spawn of Frank, when asked what she thought of Mongo using her father’s song at his Monster’s Ball, twitted “Just remember the first line of the song.” Which is:
the end is near
and so i face
the final curtain
She also twitted Samuel Adams:
If ever the Time should come, when vain & aspiring Men shall possess the highest Seats in Government, our Country will stand in Need of its experienced Patriots to prevent its Ruin.
And she called for Mongo’s impeachment, and stayed up into the night, all night, using her celebrity, and her twit machine, to raise money, for the ACLU.
And she would be there, when Jem waked up in the morning.
There is an honor roll of members of Congress, who refuse to countenance The Monster, and will not attend his imongoration (a running accounting of them may be found here, in essay and comments; maybe drop one or more among them a line, today, telling them you appreciate it). So too is there an honor roll of artists, who, when The Monster called, they did not come. These range from Ms. Sinatra, to Elton John; from the galley-slaved Rockettes, who spoke out, to soprano Jan Chamberlin, of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, who resigned the choir, rather than endorse “tyranny and fascism.”
“I only know I could never ‘throw roses to Hitler,’” wrote she. “And I certainly could never sing for him.”
Even the Beach Boys, a mere husk these days, circling, exhausted, around the dead star of the long-wingered Mike Love, declined to degrade. Not that there are even any Wilsons in the band, these days. Not that the current work of Brian Wilson, is not the complete polar opposite, of all that is Mongoism.
The truth of it is that the artists are the lead runners of the human race. And almost to a wo/man, they are running from The Monster faster than Richard Pryor with his body on fire. Art has nothing for Mongo, but mockery.
Thus. Me. Here. Today. Every day.
As for what The Monster has done to our hearts, Meryl Streep spoke to that.
Dan Pfeiffer said:
There’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.
Always remember, that we have been to the mountaintop. And we have looked over. It’s just a matter—again—of waiting. For the time. To catch up.
Be well, everybody.