Archive for July, 2017

Mongo Make Love Song For Pee-Friend Vlad

The Night They Drove Old Orwell Down

So there has been wondering from some people—okay, one person—as to why George Orwell, once a frequent contributor to red, has not been seen here in many a moon, and has never once weighed in on Mongo.

The answer is simple, and sad. Orwell is barnes_1-031209dead. Moreover, it is my fault. He perished in March of 2016, when I invited him over to my house to view a debate between the Republican candidates for president. Orwell just couldn’t Deal. He vacated the corporeal container. Ascending to a place, where there are no Mongos. I buried the expired shell, in the backyard.

At the time, I was writing in another tube. There, I admitted my involvement in this tragedy—amid various other gibberishes—over two long pieces on March 5 and March 8, 2016. I now feel compelled to confess, also, here. And so, reprinted below, is the sorry Orwell story, together with some of the gibberishes.

He had a penis eight hundred miles long and two hundred and ten miles in diameter, but practically all of it was in the fourth dimension.

—Kurt Vonnegut, Breakfast of Champions

The Republicans are having the presidenting today, in Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, and Puerto Rico. I am not even going to venture a guess as to what will happen there. Not when those people are now actually whipping out and measuring their penises on the debate stage. They are no longer a life-form I in any way can comprehend.

In an essay titled “Wells, Hitler and the World State,” George Orwell wrote of H.G. Wells:

Because he belonged to the nineteenth century and to a non-military nation and class, he could not grasp the tremendous strength of the old world which was symbolised in his mind by fox-hunting Tories. He was, and still is, quite incapable of understanding that nationalism, religious bigotry and feudal loyalty are far more powerful forces than what he himself would describe as sanity. Creatures out of the Dark Ages have come marching into the present, and if they are ghosts they are at any rate ghosts which need a strong magic to lay them. Wells is too sane to understand the modern world.

Wells, he did not like this essay. He wrote a letter to Orwell, which began with the salutation: “You Shit.” Later the two men engaged in a violent row in the halls of the BBC. It is said the two eventually grudgingly reconciled. But Thursday I thought I would attempt to effect a further reconciliation, by inviting both men over to my house to experience the Republican debate, featuring the h-g-wells---full-episodefour surviving 2016 GOoPer hoodlums: Mongo, Zed Crud, Mondo Boobio, and Death Of A Salesman.

Things, at first, went well. Or so I thought. But later I realized this was only because Wells would not stop talking, and so was not really taking in what was coming from the stooges. For when he did—pay attention—things went very badly indeed. Wells’ face, it began cycling through all the hues on the color wheel; until, about ten minutes in, at that point when Mongo loudly assured all and every that he has a huge, truly Hagrid-size penis, Wells suffered an aneurysm. Orwell and I tried desperately to bring him back, but it was no good. The man was gone.

Rattled, and with the boobs still yammering on, Mongo commencing his St. Vitus dance about executing Edward Snowden, Orwell determined that, to continue, he required an ale IV. I rigged that up for him, but then found my own self in need of great aid—scrabbling through all the drawers and cabinets, in search of every conceivable Medicine—when Death Of A Salesman, who is supposed to be the “adult,” “sane,” “reasonable” one, blithely announced that, when he is the president, he will dispatch hundreds of thousands of American troops to Iraq, and Syria, and Libya.

Lost in my own wilderness of pain, I failed to notice, until after the debate had concluded, that, and despite the ale IV, Orwell had become insensate. I assumed he had put himself into a medical coma, in order to protect his brain. I wrestled him over to the couch, and laid him out, assuming he’d be fine in the morning. But then, Friday a.m., when I checked, he was immobile: with a light shined in his eyes, the pupils showed no response; a mirror placed beneath his mouth and nostrils, detected no fogging of breath.

I’m not really sure, what I should do, with these fellows. I guess maybe I should rent a backhoe.

furthur=>

Man Admits Badness

In a stunning and near-unprecedented admission, musician John Mellencamp has confessed that his romantic relationship with actress Meg Ryan collapsed because he is an animal.

“I loved Meg Ryan,” he said. “She hates me to death. I think it’s because I’m a child. I throw fits, I gripe, I complain. I’m moody. Every bad thing that a fella can be, that’s me. Shejohn-mellencamp-bio-getty just doesn’t want anything to do with me. And I can’t blame her.”

Mellencamp’s remarks were immediately and forcefully condemned by all men everywhere.

“This Libel shall not stand,” fumed Brick Bawls, head of the International Association Of Y-Chromes. “Everyone knows that, whatever it is, it is always the woman’s fault.

“It has been so since the bible,” he complained. “The woman was the one who ate the wrong fruit and then made the man eat it, ruining everything. They are always the one to blame for the ruining, the women.”

Bawls decreed that Mellencamp “has been thrown out of mandom,” and cautioned that when Mellencamp’s fellow musician Gregg Allman made a similar admission—”to tell you the truth, it’s my sixth marriage; I’m starting to think it’s me”—that “Gregg almost immediately dropped dead, and was shoveled into the boneyard. So John ought to think about that.”

Scarepooch, Mongo’s new imbecile, and recently diagnosed with rabies, a man undergoing his own divorce, “WHICH IS NOT AT ALL MY FAULT!” as he screamed into the earholes of eighteen reporters, denounced Mellencamp as “a puke” who “I will stab many times.”

Musical Areas That Are Not Supposed To Exist

Any Minute Now

Woman Flees Mongo Rabies Man

Deidre Ball, formerly married to Mongo’s new imbecile, Scarepooch, a man who has recently been diagnosed with rabies, has filed for divorce, and entered protective custody.

“Deidre is not a fan of Mongo, and she hasn’t exactly been on board and supportive of Scarepooch and his push to get back into the Whiter hannibal_lecterHouse,” a friend told the enemies of the people.

“Deidre has left him and has filed for divorce. She liked the nice Wall Street life and their home on Long Island, not the insane world of D.C. She is tired of his naked ambition, which is so enormous that it left her at her wits’ end. She has left him even though they have two children together,” another friend said.

“Deidre expected more out of marriage than a man who stays up all night sharpening his knives, howling like a werewolf,” related a third confidante. “She was tired of him coming home with his mouth so full of ejaculate from Mongo’s micropenis she couldn’t understand a word he said.”

“Then he would get on the phone and call some reporter and scream about killing people,” the first friend said. “It was unnerving.”

“The rabies was the last straw,” the confidante confided. “Deidre warned him that hanging out with all those dogs, skunks, and hyenas surrounding Mongo was dangerous. But he wouldn’t listen.”

The rabies diagnosis “makes sense of the foam always coming out of his mouth,” she added.

Ball is seeking full custody of the couple’s two young children, and a protective order permitting contact with them only in the presence of three men with machineguns, and while Scarepooch is strapped to a Hannibal Lecter board.

Scarepooch reacted to news of the divorce by screaming till his lips bled, twitlering “soon we will learn who in the media has class and who doesn’t,” vowing to “kill and cook the livers” of all those who report on it.

Mongo Rabies Man Make Brag

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Mongo Make Rock Heads

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Every single President on Mt. Rushmore—now here’s what I do. I’d ask whether or not you think I will some day be on Mt. Rushmore. But, but here’s the problem. If I did it joking, totally joking, having fun, the fake news media will say, “he believes he should be on Mt. Rushmore.” So I won’t say it, okay? I won’t say it. But every president—they’ll say it anyway tomorrow. “Trump thinks he should be on Mt. Rushmore.” Isn’t that terrible? What a group. What a dishonest group of people, I’ll tell you. [Cheers from crowd] And you know the funny thing is that you would think they’d want to see our country be great again. You would really think so. But they don’t. Some day they’ll explain it to me why. Every president on Mt. Rushmore believed in protecting American industry. We have to protect our industry.

Mongo

Step Right Up

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Confirmed: New Mongo Hire Has Rabies

“Who leaked that to you?”

“What I’m going to do is, I will eliminate everyone in the comms team and we’ll start over. I ask these guys not to leak anything and they can’t help themselves. You’re an American citizen, this is a major catastrophe for the American country. So I’m asking you as an American patriot to give 27-anthony-scaramucci.w710.h473.2xme a sense of who leaked it.”

“Is it an assistant to the President? Okay, I’m going to fire every one of them, and then you haven’t protected anybody, so the entire place will be fired over the next two weeks.”

“I’ve asked people not to leak things for a period of time and give me a honeymoon period. They won’t do it.”

“They’ll all be fired by me. I fired one guy the other day. I have three to four people I’ll fire tomorrow. I’ll get to the person who leaked that to you. Reince Priebus—if you want to leak something—he’ll be asked to resign very shortly. Reince is a fucking paranoid schizophrenic, a paranoiac.”

“I’ve called the F.B.I. and the Department of Justice.”

“The swamp will not defeat him. They’re trying to resist me, but it’s not going to work. I’ve done nothing wrong on my financial disclosures, so they’re going to have to go fuck themselves.”

“I’m not Steve Bannon, I’m not trying to suck my own cock. I’m GettyImages-820387368not trying to build my own brand off the fucking strength of the President. I’m here to serve the country.”

“What I want to do is I want to fucking kill all the leakers and I want to get the President’s agenda on track so we can succeed for the American people.”

“This is going to get cleaned up very shortly, okay? Because I nailed these guys. I’ve got digital fingerprints on everything they’ve done through the F.B.I. and the fucking Department of Justice.”

“Well, the felony, they’re gonna get prosecuted, probably, for the felony. The lie detector starts—”

“Yeah, let me go, though, because I’ve gotta start tweeting some shit to make this guy crazy.”

—Scarepooch, to Ryan Lizza

The Nazi In Winter

The Nazi has largely disappeared from the Whiter House’s most sensitive policy debates—a dramatic about-face for an operative once characterized as the most powerful man in Washington.

He was absent from Mongo’s recent trips to 31319222835_e8a65344c4_bEurope for the G-20 summit and from Mongo’s public decapitation by French President Emmanuel Macron. The Nazi’s non-attendance is all the more noteworthy given his interest in European history and politics, particularly his desire to destroy the European Union and plunge the continent back into the 11th Century.

And while Mongo’s vomitous call in Warsaw for the uber alles of melanin-deficient god-gobblers echoed the fascist ideology The Nazi promoted as chief of the white-supremacist website BigFart News, two senior Whiter House aides said The Nazi had no hand in crafting Mongo’s chundering address. He did not participate in administration conference calls planning the remarks, they say, which were largely written by chief speechwriter Heinrich Himmler.

“His name wasn’t even mentioned,” said a senior Whiter House aide involved in the speechwriting process.

Whereas The Nazi was, not long ago, a near-constant presence in the Oral Orifice—often seen standing over Mongo’s shoulder or sitting in on calls with world leaders—he now spends hours camped out at the conference table in the office of White House chief of staff Rinse Pubis, reading the news or working on his phone, according to a senior Whiter House aide.

The Nazi’s internal retreat has coincided with distance from other Whiter House aides—most surprisingly Himmler, a personal and ideological ally of many years. The two are “no longer working together in any substantive way,” according to a top Whiter House aide.

Himmler has followed a divergent path, integrating himself into the Whiter House’s staff and building a strong relationship with figures like Mongo’s son-in-law, The Future Lampshade, with whom he has developed an increasingly close relationship as the two have collaborated on marching on a road of bones.

Lampshade and The Nazi, by contrast, have a rocky relationship that a8240d3cc8939cacf01142bcdceee79f--cognitive-dissonance-political-artbottomed in April when the Daily Beast reported that The Nazi had described Lampshade as a “globalist” and a “cuck” who was “trying to shiv him and push him out the door.”

One Whiter House aide said Lampshade’s embrace of Himmler has been fueled in large part by Lampshade’s desire to further isolate The Nazi. 

But no one threatens The Nazi’s job security more than the man whose winning campaign he managed, particularly now that The Nazi is back in the headlines thanks to the publication this week of Bloomberg Businessweek reporter Joshua Green’s book, The Devil’s Bargain: The Nazi, Mongo, and the Storming of the Presidency, which depicts The Nazi as a driving force behind Mongo’s campaign and the early stages of his residential rampage.

The resident is “livid” about the book, according to the Washington-based insider, who said that he is “back to giving The Nazi the cold shoulder” as a result.

The Nazi, said the same source, is simply exhausted: “He doesn’t look well.”

Eliana Johnson & Annie Karni

Mongo Booking Photo Retrieved

So I traveled into the future, and arrived upon the day when Mongo is arrested for his Crimes. It was good to confirm that he will indeed be presented with the penitentiary; Disturbing, however, that his booking photo (see below) indicates he will have gone full batshit Ron Paul by the time he gets there. Sorta scary.

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There Will Be Lights

So I am in the pizza parlor, and on all the walls are the big screens, and on all the big screens there is the football, because this is the age of Mongo, and football is all about destroying the brain, and only a destroyed brain can countenance Mongo, but in the ceiling there is music, and, suddenly, then, “Beat Angels,” from there up above, did play.

How is that even possible?

The real universe, seeping through.

Mongo Deploys New Imbecile

Here’s what I tell you about the president,” Scaramucci said. “He’s the most competitive person I’ve ever met. Okay—I’ve seen this guy throw a dead spiral through a tire. I’ve seen him at Madison Square Garden scaramuci2with a topcoat on, he’s standing in the key and he’s hitting foul shots and he’s swishing them, okay? He sinks three-foot putts.”

“The president has really good karma, okay?”

“There is a disconnect between the way we see the president and how much we love the president and the way some of you perhaps see the president.”

“I love the president.”

“I love the president and I’m very, very loyal to the president. And I love the mission that the president has. I love the president. Here’s what I will tell you, okay? I love the president.”

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MongoRoids Do The Yeehaw As Migrants Die In Walmart Trailer

Mongo As Baseball Man

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Dada

Sad

Hey

Mongo Pee-Friend Anus Jones, Folksinger

“Your reputation is amazing. I will not let you down.”

Mongo, to Anus Jones

“It’s surreal to talk about issues here on air and then word for word hear Mongo say it two days later. It is amazing.”

Anus Jones

Ain’t No Mongo Low Enough

Mongo Explains About The Rooskis

someone’s got it in for me
they’re planting stories in the press
whoever it is i wish they’d cut it out quick
but when they will i can only guess

they say i shot a man named gray
and took his wife to italy
she inherited a million bucks
and when she died
it came to me

i can’t help it
if i’m lucky

Europe Flees Mongo

Mongo is at present wobbling around Europe, and things are proceeding weirdly.

First, Mongo’s tummy got upset, on the transatlantic airplane. The doctors sought to provide him with Medicine, to relieve the nausea. But they got mixed up, the doctors, there in the Medicine Bag, and so instead of the dramamine, they administered to Mongo jimson weed. This explains why Mongo is now trying to shake hands with marble busts that have no hands.

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Another photo from the Jimson Experience, seen below, documents Mongo gazing into the crowd, and there perceiving his old friend and mentor, Roy Cohn, a man long dead, prancing about in a tutu.

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Below, we see Mongo coming off the airplane, trying not to hurl, as Mrs. Mongo Vol. III holds the flowers she will place on Mongo’s grave. The ring on the third finger of her right hand symbolizes that she is a widow. She just couldn’t wait.

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In this photo, a giant bronze War Man comes to life, and prepares to pinch a big stinking loaf, as Mrs. Mongo Vol. III explains to those assembled why she needs to be a widow. She is speaking in Slovenian, so Mongo does not know what she is saying; he thinks she is recounting the time she was able to locate his micropenis without an electron microscope.

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Giant bronze War Men springing to life is typical of the sorts of disruptions of space/time that occur wherever Mongo goes. Below, we see another: members of the “Indian Wars”-era 7th Cavalry, coming out of a time tunnel, in order to experience Mongo.

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A new Pew poll of the people of the G20 nations reveals that 81% trust German Chancellor Angela Merkel to do the right thing, as compared to the 11% who trust Mongo—all of the latter are grievously ill, and need to be placed At Once into a Facility.

The poll also disclosed that more people trust Howdy Doody to guide world affairs, than Mongo, and that the vast majority “would sleep better at night” knowing that Charles Manson was the president, rather than Mongo.


When I Worked

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