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.


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