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.


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


When I Worked

July 2017
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