Mongo Declares Gonad-Grabbing “Freedom Of Expression”

Mongo has decreed that when he walks up to women to “grab ’em by the pussy,” he is engaging in “freedom of expression,” a right guaranteed by the First Amendment to the United States Constitution.

This assertion is included in a new court filing that also maintains that when Mongo publicly damns as liars the legions of women he has violently sexually assaulted, he is merely expressing “a political opinion,” likewise protected by the First Amendment.

Summer Zervos, one of some 56,678 women Mongo has over the years wantonly Weinsteined, is suing Mongo for defamation. This is because Mongo repeatedly and publicly called her a liar, after she stated that when she sought a job at his company, Mongo grabbed her and kissed her and mauled her DNEK0x5U8AAtjkX.jpg-largebreasts with his micro-fingers—which is Mongo’s standard interviewing technique for female job applicants (so long as the women do not manifest melanin).

Mongo is represented by Mark Halfwitz, a malpractitioning tosspot who has disgraced the practice of law for decades on behalf of Mongo. He is the genius who ham-handed Mongo’s libel suit against Timothy O’Brien, after O’Brien maintained in print that Mongo is in no way a billionaire, his actual income in truth closer to that of a wharf rat peddling Sterno in an alley. Halfwitz not only lost the suit, but allowed Mongo to sit for a deposition wherein O’Brien’s lawyers extracted from Mongo admissions that on more than thirty separate occasions he had deliberately lied like a dog.

Halfwitz formerly represented Mongo in the lifelong sexual predator’s futile pursuit to prove he is not a Rooski. But Halfwitz was heaved out of that clown car when he went wild on whiskey and started screaming at strangers in email. Among the many wise and considered legal arguments Halfwitz sent into the tubes were:

Fuck you. I’m on you now. You are fucking with me now. Let’s see who you are. Watch your back, bitch. Call me. You are such a piece of shit. Don’t be afraid, you piece of shit. Stand up. If you don’t call, you’re just afraid. I already know where you live. I’m on you. You might as well call me. You will see me. I promise.

This is actually common Mongo-lawyer communication. For instance, another longtime Mongo mouthpiece, Michael Cohen, towards a publication that reported, correctly, that Mrs. Mongo Vol. I had stated in a sworn deposition that Mongo had raped and assaulted her, sprayed the following rabies:

I will make sure that you and I meet one day while we’re in the courthouse. And I will take you for every penny you still don’t have. And I will come after your Daily Beast and everybody else that you possibly know. So I’m warning you, tread very fucking lightly, because what I’m going to do to you is going to be fucking disgusting. You understand me?

You write a story that has Mr. Trump’s name in it, with the word rape, and I’m going to mess your life up for as long as you’re on this frickin’ planet. You’re going to have judgments against you, so much money, you’ll never know how to get out from underneath it.

Cohen was never considered for inclusion in the clown car of shysters wanking impotently to prove Mongo is not a Rooski, because Cohen is himself a man Rooski radioactive, and everyone, even among the Mongos, knows he is going to go into the penitentiary.

The Mongo Is Not A Rooski clown car is currently steered by Abbott and Costello, dimbulbs given to frequenting restaurants infested with journalists, there to grouse loudly that other lawdogs in the clown car are feloniously concealing documents from the Muellers.

Mongo’s mentor was Roy Cohn, an attorney who represented “the heads of all five crime families in the city of New York” (these also the men roy-cohn-fueled-donald-trump-political-paranoiawho got Mongo started in business), who reveled in executing people he knew were innocent, and who, as Mongo’s first and best biographer, Wayne Barrett, correctly foretold, introduced the Mongo residency with a sex crime:

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 Mongo rape of Mrs. Mongo Vol. I, occasioned by a scalp-reduction surgery gone wrong, occurred in this way:

Suddenly, according to Ivana, The Donald storms into the room. He is looking very angry, and he is cursing out loud.

“Your fucking doctor has ruined me!” he screams.

The Donald flings Ivana down onto the bed. Then he pins back her arms and grabs her by the hair. The part of her head he is grabbing corresponds to the spot on his head where the scalp reduction operation has been done. The Donald starts ripping out Ivana’s hair by the handful, as if he is trying to make her feel the same kind of pain that he is feeling.

Ivana starts crying and screaming. The entire bed is being covered with strands of her golden locks. But The Donald is not finished. He rips off her clothes and unzips his pants. Then he jams his penis inside her for the first time in more than sixteen months.

Ivana is terrified. This is not lovemaking. This is not romantic sex. It is a violent assault. She later describes what The Donald is doing to her in no uncertain terms. According to the versions she repeats to some of her closest confidantes, “He raped me.”

When The Donald finally pulls out, Ivana 150727-mak-trump-tease_kp2kb5jumps up from the bed. Then she runs upstairs to her mother’s room. She locks the door and stays there crying for the rest of the night.

The next morning Ivana musters up the courage to return to the master bedroom. The Donald is there waiting for her. He leaves no doubt that he knows exactly what he did to her the night before. As she looks in horror at the ripped-out hair scattered all over the bed, he glares at her and asks with menacing casualness: “Does it hurt?”

Halfwitz asserts in his new filing in the Zervos suit that when Mongo brands as liars such victims of his many and manifold rapes, sexual assaults, grabs, and gropes, he is merely expressing “a political opinion.”

“All of the Statements occurred on political forums—a campaign website, on Mr. Trump’s Twitter account, in a presidential debate, and at campaign rallies—where the listeners expect to hear public debate, taken as political opinion rather than a defamatory statement.”

The president’s lawyers argued that Trump had a First Amendment right to call the claims by Zervos and other women false. They said that by accusing him of sexual misconduct to the media, Zervos was “explicitly soliciting” Trump to engage in the debate in an effort to affect the election.

This is the sort of reeking mush that oozes from the fermented brainpan of a man who reels into the office nine sheets to the wind, then stumbles over to the boozewallow across the street, so that colleagues must approach him there in order to discuss work matters. Then he will lurch out onto the street 424FE5D200000578-0-image-a-36_1499986548871to hook up with one of his similarly booze-addled paramours; together they ride the whisky river, until she loons out on the liquor, and conks him on the head with a bottle, so that he wanders the land over the next two weeks “looking like a raccoon.”

Because Halfwitz’ brain is pickled in 80 proof, he neglects to note that Mongo continued the defamation after the campaign ended, and he ascended to the residency.

Trump, asked about the Zervos case last month, called it “made-up stuff” and “disgraceful.” White House press secretary Sarah Huckabee Sanders said last week that the Trump administration’s official position is that all of Trump’s accusers are lying.

Both Halfwitz and Mongo, during the campaign, vowed that, after the campaign, they would sue every one of the numberless women who had publicly accused Mongo of serial violent sexual predation. Since the election, of course, they have filed not a single such suit, presumably because memory of the vow was contained in brain cells that Halfwitz has since washed away with alcohol, while Mongo is such a constant, continual, unstoppable, irredeemable liar—literally incapble of any truth, at any time, on any subject—that the word “lie” has officially been changed to “mongo.”

It is interesting that even as the Americans are currently all agog at the spectacle of media figures falling like dominoes beneath an avalanche of serial sexual predation accusations—from Bill O’Reilly to Kevin Spacey, Roger Ailes to Harvey Weinstein, Brett Ratner to Leon Wieseltier—they don’t seem much troubled by the fact that they recently elevated to the residency a serial violent sexual predator, and one whose depredations, in many cases, are more serious than those that have laid these men low.

This is of course but Exhibit 4566894756.5(A) in the ironclad case that the Americans are too stupid to even have a country.

For, and long before election day, all the information was out there, indicating that Mongo is a violent criminal sexual menace—to his wives, his daughters, the numberless women who publicly shared their stories of sexual assault, and really any woman he might happen to encounter.

I moved on her, actually. You know, she was down on Palm Beach. I moved on her, and I failed. I’ll admit it. I did try and fuck her. hotmike8n-4-webShe was married. I moved on her like a bitch. But I couldn’t get there. Then all of a sudden I see her, she’s now got the big phony tits and everything. She’s totally changed her look.

I better use some Tic Tacs just in case I start kissing her. You know, I’m automatically attracted to beautiful—I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. Just kiss. I don’t even wait. And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab ’em by the pussy. You can do anything.

“By the way, your daughter,” says Stern.
“She’s beautiful,” responds Trump.
“Can I say this? A piece of ass,” Stern responds.
“Yeah,” says Trump.

But the Americans, they didn’t care. For far more important to them, than any woman, was the fact that Mongo hates, loathes, melanin—just as do they. All of the 62,979,879 MongoRoids who voted for him, all of those who supported, enabled, excused, justified, equated, minimized Mongo, were more concerned to Make America White Again, than that they would do so with a violent sexual predator, Fatty Arbuckle reborn.

Trump is the first president to have publicly affirmed that his daughterIvanka is a “piece of ass.” The mind seizes trying to imagine a black man extolling the virtues of sexual assault on tape (“When you’re a star, they let you do it”), fending off multiple accusations of such assaults, immersed in multiple lawsuits for allegedly fraudulent business dealings, exhorting his followers to violence, and then strolling into the White House. But that is the point of white supremacy—to ensure that that which all others achieve with maximal effort, white people (particularly white men) achieve with minimal qualification. Barack Obama delivered to black people the hoary message that if they work twice as hard as white people, anything is possible. But Trump’s counter is persuasive: Work half as hard as black people, and even more is possible.

Replacing Obama is not enough—Trump has made the negation of Obama’s legacy the foundation of his own. And this too is whiteness. “Race is an idea, not a fact,” the historian Nell Irvin Painter has written, and essential to the construct of a “white race” is the idea of not being a nigger. Before Barack Obama, niggers could be manufactured out of Sister Souljahs, Willie Hortons, and Dusky Sallys. But Donald Trump arrived in the wake of something more potent—an entire nigger presidency with nigger health care, nigger climate accords, and nigger justice reform, all of which could be targeted for destruction or redemption, thus reifying the idea of being white. Trump truly is something new—the first president whose entire political existence hinges on the fact of a black president. And so it will not suffice to say that Trump is a white man like all the others who rose to become president. He must be called by his rightful honorific—America’s first white president.

“I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody and I wouldn’t lose any voters,” Trump bragged in January 2016. This statement should be met with only a modicum of skepticism. Trump has mocked the disabled, withstood multiple accusations of sexual violence, fired an FBI director, sent his minions to mislead the public about his motives, personally exposed those lies by boldly stating his aim to scuttle an investigation into his possible collusion with a foreign power, then bragged about that same obstruction to representatives of that same foreign power. It is utterly impossible to conjure a black facsimile of Donald Trump—to imagine Obama, say, implicating an opponent’s father in the assassination of an American president or comparing his physical endowment with that of another candidate and then successfully capturing the presidency. Trump, more than any other politician, understood the 93240075valence of the bloody heirloom and the great power in not being a nigger.

It has long been an axiom among certain black writers and thinkers that while whiteness endangers the bodies of black people in the immediate sense, the larger threat is to white people themselves, the shared country, and even the whole world. There is an impulse to blanch at this sort of grandiosity. When W. E. B. Du Bois claims that slavery was “singularly disastrous for modern civilization” or James Baldwin claims that whites “have brought humanity to the edge of oblivion: because they think they are white,” the instinct is to cry exaggeration. But there really is no other way to read the presidency of Donald Trump. The first white president in American history is also the most dangerous president—and he is made more dangerous still by the fact that those charged with analyzing him cannot name his essential nature, because they too are implicated in it.

You wanted it darker. You got it dark. As dark as it could be.

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