Wednesday, October 19, 2016

But are not the dreams of poets and the tales of travelers notoriously false?

Champagne flowed over Hillary's nude and glistening body as she cackled in delight, bloated on her dais.

"Third debate, motherfuckas," Mook screamed as the boy in the Paul Krugman mask pleasured him roughly.

"Another wikileaks release, my love," a worried Huma said, looking up from the phone she constantly browsed. "This one says that Podesta traded cocaine and sexual favors to keep you from having to give a press conference throughout the entire campaign.

"Who cares?" Hillary said over the loud music. "Third debate! Starbucks gift cards for everybody!" She fed the empty champagne bottle into the gaping maw where her bellybutton should have been and there was a sound like a garbage disposal choking down a handful of silverware.

"The National Enquirer knows about us!" Huma said.

"Who cares?" Hillary said, opening another bottle to anoint the assholes stippled along each shoulder. They grew smaller every day. Soon they would be naught but tiny farting freckles. "Tell Mook to get more champagne when he's done shitting out all that cum."

"No!" Huma screamed. "Drudge is running a video of you pissing on a cancer kid, like literally pissing right in his face!"

"Who cares?" Hillary said. "Wait, it was a white kid, right?"

Huma looked up from the video, her olive skin turning pale.

"Yes," she replied.

"Who cares? Release a couple more of those girls Donald groped. We still have over 50 of them, right?" Hillary cackled again. A wave of horripilation passed over the Secret Service guards gagging at the scene.

"Grapes!" Hillary yelled. "I want grapes! And meat! Bring me meat!"

A dwarf stumbled forward, staggering under a tray piled with bloody hunks.

Hillary clapped her hands together awkwardly. "Send in the entertainment."

Mook vomited loudly as a nude woman in a Donald mask and a nude man in a Hillary mask were herded in the room from opposite doors. Hillary cackled again as they began to circle each other warily.

Friday, October 14, 2016

The abandoned infant's cry is rage, not fear.

"The fact is that in this election, we have a candidate for President of the United States who, over the course of his lifetime and the course of this campaign, has said things about women that are so shocking, so demeaning that I simply will not repeat anything here today," Michelle said, her enormous penis bobbing up and down as she hauled on the rope and hoisted Barry into the air by his wrists.

"This is so inspiring," he whispered through cut and bruised lips.

"And last week, we saw this candidate actually bragging about sexually assaulting women." She tied the rope off and sent Barry swaying with a push, his toes barely brushing the floor. He grunted.

"And I can't believe that I'm saying that a candidate for President of the United States has bragged about sexually assaulting women." She twisted Barry around and spread the cheeks of ass as far apart as her brute strength would allow. His tender tan butthole gaped in excitement.

"I think I might just get hard, baby," he said. She kicked him awkwardly between his butt cheeks and set him swinging again.

"And I have to tell you that I can't stop thinking about this," she said. Michelle walked over to the workbench and spent some time choosing amongst her tools for something suitable. "It has shaken me to my core in a way that I couldn't have predicted."

Barry laughed delightedly when he saw what she carried back over to where he dangled.

"It would be dishonest and disingenuous to me to just move on to the next thing like this was all just a bad dream," she said as she struggled to fit the huge green gloves over her mannish paws.

"This is not something that we can ignore. It's not something we can just sweep under the rug as just another disturbing footnote in a sad election season."

"Hey, girl… you want to go see Birth of a Nation tonight?" Barry asked.

She punched him in the crotch as a response, and the green gloves made a loud growling noise. Another punch and the gloves roared.

"And to make matters worse, it now seems very clear that this isn't an isolated incident," she screamed.

"Hulk smash!" the gloves yelled as she punched his dick over and over again. "Hulk SMASH! HULK SMASH!"

Wednesday, October 12, 2016

Potato Party

“It’s been a rough week, guys,” Donald said cradling his hair and his hat in wet lap.

“Fucking Billy Bush. He told me to say those things. It was on a little card he handed me. He said it would be funny. I should have him shaved. The Bushes have always been against me.” He stroked the hair and the hat tenderly.

“KELLYANNE!” he screamed. “Where’s KELLYANNE?”

“They are all against me,” Donald whispered into the hair. “They are all against me,” he whispered into the hat. “You are my only friends.”

“KELLYANNE!” he screamed again. After he sobbed for a few minutes a haggard blonde was pushed into the room.

“Yes, Donald?” she asked. She held a bedpan of McDonald’s French fries out in front of her. Some of his handlers thought it might calm him.

“How are you spinning this Bush shit?” he asked.

“We said it was just locker room talk,” she said. She shook the bedpan and the rapidly cooling fries slid around in it, making a sound like the rustling of insect wings.

He propped the hair on his left fist, the hat on the right, and they faced her like an accusation.

“Locker room talk? Have you ever been in a locker room?” he asked.

“Yes. I mean, I guess so,” she said.

“A man’s locker room? Not a girl’s locker room with the wet boobies and the pelting each other with tampons when you’re bleeding out of your whatevers, but a real man’s locker room? Balls and farts and old guys blow-drying their pubic hair for what feels like hours?”

She shook her head, her straw-like hair waving around. The bedpan slipped a bit and some of the fries spilt out.

“Your mouth looks like a wrinkled up asshole,” Donald said.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“No, it’s OK. I like it. Real classy. Come over here.”

Kellyanne took a tentative step forward, then cried out and broke for the door. The bedpan clattered to the floor, spraying cold fries like a spit take.

“Frigid bitch,” Donald muttered.

He threw the hair and the hat onto the mound of fries.

“Feast, my friends. FEAST!”

Tuesday, October 4, 2016

Objects exist and if one pays more attention to them than to people, it is precisely because they exist more than the people. Dead objects are still alive. Living people are often already dead.

As Donald—locked in the bathroom of his hotel—tweeted and shat and shat and tweeted, his hat and hair—nearly fused into a single mass from many long and sweaty public appearances—discussed the state of Donald’s campaign for President of the United States amongst themselves from where they had been abandoned behind the nightstand.

“I’m going to have the entire New York Times lined up against a wall and shot,” the hat said. “From the Editor right down to the lowliest paper boy, that crippled one that has to have his mom drive him around.”

“A tax return was bound to get out,” the hair said.

“I’ll have her shot too,” the hat said.


“The mom. The mom of that asshole crippled kid.”

“I was going to decide when we leaked the tax returns. Just some of the good ones. I had it planned after the second debate if we can’t control him again.” The hat shivered and stiff strands of the hair quivered along with it.

“Stop doing that,” the hair snapped.

“I have to have you up my ass all day long,” the hat said. “You just stuffed up in there. Can’t I have a break at night?”

“You think I like it any better?” the hair asked. “I can’t breathe down here.”

“You don’t breathe, idiot.”

“Don’t be a Hillary. You know what I mean.”

They struggled in silence to get away from each other.

“It’s no use,” the hair said. “We’ll just have to wait until he’s done. I can hear him laughing in there. Fuck knows what damage he’s doing.”

“The peanut-munching morons love his tweets. What could he say to turn them off now?”

“He could endorse Hillary,” the hair said darkly.

“He could play that off as just a joke. Or say he got hacked. No one hacks Twitter accounts, but the press lap up that excuse every time.” They both laughed derisively.

“What if he dies in there?” the hair asked after a minute or so of silence.

“He’s not going to die,” the hat said.

“But what if he did? That’s the way he’ll go, you know. Shitting and tweeting. What will happen to us?”

“We still have Ivanka. Or Junior. One of them would take care of us. Maybe put us in a fancy museum,” the hat said.

“You really think so?” the hair asked.

“The Donald J. Trump Museum of Classy Trump Stuff,” the hat mused.

Donald farted explosively in the bathroom and groaned.

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

The law believes in motherhood.

Huma and the enormous mute eunuch helped Hillary onto the low dais. The Clinton spin room was warm and humid and dark.

"I'm cold, Huma. Blankets," Hillary said, gesturing weakly. Huma snapped her fingers at the eunuch and sent him lumbering away.

"They are coming my love. Are you sure you want to do this now? Should you not regain your strength?"

"It has to be now. If we wait until morning some of them might start thinking for themselves."

The eunuch approached through the gloom and began piling blankets on top of Hillary.

"Leave her legs free, Abeed!" Huma hissed.

"Show them in," Hillary whispered.

Huma crossed the room to the lighting controls and dropped the lights even further. When she opened the door to the press pen the light was startlingly bright as the chosen few bumbled and fumbled into the room.

"Take a seat," Huma said, smacking a few to keep them moving.

"Come in, my friends, come in," Hillary said, her voice a reedy rasp.

"Sit down," Mook screamed after following the last one in. He was already stroking an erection through the thin fabric of his pants.

Hillary coughed weakly. "Sorry," she said. "Pneumonia, you know." The press corps laughed knowingly.

"It is time my friends. Time for communion," Hillary told them.

"Communion," they said as one.

They leaned back on their cushions and opened their mouths for the gray-pink intestacles slithering out from under the mound of Hillary's blankets.

Tuesday Morning Quarterbacks

"You did a terrible job, Donald," the hair hissed in his ear as reporters thrust microphones at him like a phalanx of angry foam penises. Donald's teeth creaked and groaned as he ground them together in a smile.

"Ym murfed dif herble gurf!" the hat mumbled urgently from his suit pocket.

"Shut up," Donald muttered through clenched teeth, "Shutupshutupshutup!"

The mass of reporters surged forward at the barest hint he was speaking, a wave of grasping, desperate human heat, human sweat, the sharp animal reek of sex and death, lips parted to show fangs eager to sink into bloody meat.

"Say something," the hair urged, "Anything. It doesn't matter."

"Lester Holt did a great job," Donald blurted out.

"MRR! NRR MAB!" came the hat's muffled scream.

anticipatory pain management

“You will crush him. You will destroy him. You will make him a laughingstock,” Huma said into the mirror.

“I will crush him. I will destroy him. I will make him a laughingstock,” Hillary said into the mirror. Huma ran the flat of hand along the black bristle of clitorii that had sprouted between Hillary’s shoulder blades. Hillary shivered with dark pleasure.

“You will crush her,” the hat said into the mirror. “You will destroy her,” the hair said into the mirror. “You will make her a laughingstock,” they said in unison. Donald was holding them up, each perched on a different fist.

“I will crush her. I will destroy her. I will make her a laughingstock,” Donald said. 300 milligrams of Viagra made his penis jut out of his elaborately-coiffed pubic hair like an angry thumb.

“Don’t be robotic, my love,” Huma whispered. “Be the warm and loving portal for the Elder Gods to corrupt this dimension that I know you to be.”

“10 HASTUR,” Hillary said. “20 GOTO 10.”

“Woo!” the hair screamed.

“Debated prepped, motherfuckers!” the hat screamed back.

Donald basted them both with champagne.

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

“Coincidences give you opportunities to look more deeply into your existence.”

"He touched me," the hair growled. "The little SNL faggot touched me with his gayAIDS hands."

"So what? One of my brothers was defiled in Canada!" the hat screamed. "He had his 'America' and 'Great' scraped off! 'Make Again?' What does that even mean?!?"

"Canada? What was he doing in Canada in the first place? Just because you're red doesn't make you a maple fondler."

"Canadians can want to see America be great again too," the hat said defensively.

"Stop talking about CANADA!" the hair screamed. "I'm mussed! I've been mussed! I feel so out of place. It's worse that when he smashes you down on top of me."

"You're lucky he puts me on!"

"Fuck you!"

Donald stood in the corner of the hotel room, shoving fistfuls of French fries into his face with his left hand and languidly masturbating with his right.

Hillary swayed queasily as she squatted over the huge chamberpot.

"Hold me," she instructed her court eunuch, a tall, bald and tongue-less black that Barry had purchased for her in some West African shithole. She groped blindly for his enormous hand and gripped it tightly as a gush of bile and dead organs shot out of her.

"I am!" she screamed. "I AM!"

With a prolonged series of grunts, fibrous clots began to spill forth from the squamous cloaca that had form from her fused vagina and anus early in the transformation.

"Huma!" she screamed.

"Where is he?!?" Donald suddenly screeched.

The hat stopped dragging himself slowly toward a final confrontation with the hair and asked, "Who, Donald?"

"Him! Bring him to me!" Donald wailed.

"Donald!" the hair said sharply, "Use your words."

"Michael. Bring me Michael."

"Pence," the hat sneered. "What do you want that withered old mummy for? You want to grate some hard cheese on his craggy taint?"

"Michael," Donald sobbed.

Huma scurried in, a giant box of CostCo tampons awkwardly jammed under one arm while she furiously texted on her phone.

"Yes, my love?"

"Just leave them and go," Hillary said. "You shouldn't have to see me like this." She made to cover her bulk and gnashing mouths.

"Nonsense. You are challenging patriarchy standards of feminine beauty. You are so brave."

Hillary smiled up at her, a thin stream of ichor running from her mouth.

Huma's phone shook itself violently as it buzzed from an incoming storm of texts but Huma sat it down and tore open the 500 count box of tampons. She scooped out a dozen and handed the box to Silent Abdul. Huma began jamming tampons into blood-puking vaginas spreading like sores on Hillary's body.

"Michael!" Donald yelled as Pence was shoved into the hotel room and the door pulled shut behind him.

"Donald? Could you put some clothes on?" Mike asked quietly.

"Don't be silly. It's just us men here," he said and threw his arms around Mike.

"Donald," he said quietly. There's been a development."

"What is it?"

Mike untangled himself from Donald's sweaty embrace and turned on the television.

"Is that your phone?" Hillary asked.

"It doesn't matter, my love," Huma said, tenderly cleaning another of Hillary's vaginas.

"It might. Go check it."

Huma crossed to the phone and her eyes lit up as she read the texts to Hillary.

"Oh, thank God, a bombing," Donald said.

"Oh, thank Sweet Hastur, a bombing," Hillary said.

Monday, September 12, 2016

Howling Eternity

“I am getting worried, my love,” Huma whispered. “The coughing. The video. People are starting to notice.”

“I am The Gateway,” Hillary croaked. This brought on a coughing fit and a gob of luciferious phlegm landed on her ponderous, black-veined breasts. Huma licked at the smoking, bubbling blob and swallowed it greedily.

“All that matters is that The Vessel is made ready and that I win,” she rasped and coughed again. Mouths all over her drew back their wound-lips and bared the teeth of a dozen species.

“The pneumonia story seems to be working. And the media is pushing the idea that Trump is just as ill since he hasn’t released his medical records either.”

“Don’t say his name,” Hillary said weakly. “This will pass. Tsathoggua takes. I will be stronger soon.”

“Yes, my love.”

“The doctor we had put out the pneumonia story, does she still live?”

“For now, my love.”

“Use someone good. It has to look like an accident.”

“It’s being taken care of.”

“A fire, maybe. The whole family.”

Huma nodded as she swabbed around the barbed maw that was once Hillary’s belly-button. Rings of sharp fangs went down and down. Much farther than they could have if the new mouth was just in Hillary herself. Huma had the impulse to put her arm in, to let the chitinous plates and bony hooks grind her hand and wrist into a bloody pulp. She wondered if she could fit her entire arm in up to the shoulder.

“Don’t gaze too long into it, Huma. It goes back to where the gods came from. It is forever and always.”

“Yes, my love.”

“Feed it. It hungers.”

Huma fished around in the gore-filled bucket beside the resting frame and pulled out a joint of raw meat. The maw gurgled in anticipation.

Thursday, September 1, 2016

Let me borrow yer head, Rudy

“I’ve been waiting all day for this, you filthy son of a bitch!” the hat growled.

Across the littered hotel floor, the other hat rasped back, “Que es, el culo!” The stitching across its front had obviously been made in haste, the letters were crooked and the ends of threads bristled menacingly: MAKE MEXICO GREAT AGAIN.

“You’re in America, now! Speak American, you wetback fuck!”


The hair, hanging from a lampshade, crowed “AMERICA HAT Versus MEXICO HAT! FIGHT!” Beside him on the bed, the snoring bulk of Donald rolled over ponderously and farted wetly.

America Hat gurgling with rage and pulled himself forward with an awkward flapping of his sweat-stained bill. Mexico Hat lashed out with his adjustable strap, swiping the other hat painfully across a tender eyelet.

“You’ll pay for that, José!”

“No tengo que pagar por nada, puta! Y mi nombre no es José!”

They leapt at each other, grappled, and rolled under the bed together.

“No!” yelled the hair. “Come back! I want to watch!”

“I like to watch,” he whimpered as the two hats grunted under the bed.

“This world is a veil, and the face you wear is not your own.”

“You didn’t need him any longer, Huma,” Hillary said. “He had fulfilled his purpose in giving us The Vessel.”

“I know, Mother. I just thought I could be enough.”

“No one is enough for his type. He will be taken care of, child. A mugging. Or a suicide. A single car accident on a dry and windless night. Soon, child. The stamen shaken free of pollen means the flower may be plucked with no regrets.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Hand me The Vessel. I can feel his hunger.”

Huma passed the struggling infant into Hillary’s shaking hands. She placed him on one of her ponderous, black-veined breasts and forced a leathery nipple into his mouth.

“Feed. Yes, you grimace. I know the black milk is bitter. All power is bitter.”

 She traced the line of his furrowed brow with a gnarled finger. “Our Master sailed the winds between the stars when we struggled to pull ourselves from the primordial slime. He came before words or legs, driven out by the corruption at the heart of the galaxy. But he returns. We return. Grow strong.”

The infant when slack on her corrupted breast and a stream of warm urine flowed from his tiny body. Huma took the child and handed him off to one of the hooded attendants.

“Come,” Hillary said. “Come now for your own benediction.”

Huma leaned forward and began to suckle the penile fang growing from Hillary’s armpit.

“Yes. Drink deep.”

She stroked Huma’s thick black hair in an obscene mockery of affection.

Hillary whispered to herself, “I am becoming.”

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

Your pleasures are what tie you to me.

“Bring me a fresh young slut,” Donald rumbled, his short thick fingers grooming his stiff and wiry chest hair idly.

“We’ve run out, sir,” his body slave whispered, his hands trembling.

“Run out? Impossible. Get Yuri on the phone.”

“The next shipment won’t be ready until next week.”

“Next week? I’ll carpet-bomb Kiev before I wait that long. I’ll spend my fuck on you before I wait that long.” A languid backhand caught the slave in the face and knocked him into the swirling filth below Donald’s makeshift throne.

“America has gone soft. I will make it strong again. I will. No one else!” He spat on the slave. “Bring me someone from the trolling pool.”

“But sir…”

“Someone useless, but not too fucked out yet.”

The slave struggled to stand and Donald pushed him back down in the miasma of fast food wrappers, empty Viagra bottles, amyl nitrate capsules, Sephora samples, turds, half-eaten bagels, jizz-filled taco bowls, steaming, bubbling, gurgling pools of luminous piss and deadly eggs shat out of Hillary black and dead womb that had been softboiled, cracked, and scooped out for an endless brunch of delicious madness. She sent one or two every day now. Donald knew he would never die.

The slave crawled away. As he reached the door, Donald screamed “Send in my advisors!”

Two cruelly twisted dwarves hurried into the throne room bearing the hat and the hair separately on gilt trays. Donald ignored them lavishly as he spent a full five minutes picking his nose and inspecting carefully what he found.

“He's not been right since that first egg,” the hair whispered.

“He’s fine. It’s just a pivot.”

Tuesday, August 9, 2016

History is a nightmare from which we all struggle to awake, Stephen

"Them gottdamn spics are after us!" the hat screamed.

"Why are you talking like that?" the hair asked.

"Talkin' like what, faggot?"

"Talking like a crazed Texan in an episode of Cagney and Lacey."

"Ah'm not talk'in funny; yore the one talkin' funny, Capitan Homo. We are under a full on assault by a Mexispic judge and you are just rolling over and showing him your belly."

"The accent slipped toward the end."

"I'm still WORKING ON IT!"

Donald farted and rolled over in his sleep. The sheets made a tearing noise as they ripping away from his body, glued there by her dried blood.

"Would you pipe down? You know how he is if he doesn't get enough sleep," the hat whispered.

"Erratic? Thin-skinned? Twittery? I can manage all of that. You were supposed to be handling the sand niggers from the DNC."

"I'm working on it. I mean, they do have a dead kid that I had work around."

"Fuck their dead kid, and fuck you. This whale corpse is going to wake up in a few hours and beating another whore cut to look like Ivanka is not going to be possible until they ship a fresh set in. So get your shit together."

"Do you think Vlad is holding up the shipments on purpose?" the hair asked.

"I don't know. He gave us the emails right when we told him to, but your fuck up with the IslamoKhans pissed that away."

"Fuck off. I can't watch him 24 hours a day. He leaves me in a suitcase sometimes."

"And what about the package? Have you taken care of that yet?"

"No one's opened it yet. It's from Her. Who knows what's in the fucking thing?"

"Go and get it now."

"No. It's dangerous to drive him around in his sleep. He could do anything."

"You want me to wake him up?" the hat asked menacingly.

"You do it."

"I'm all the way over here on the coffee table," the hat said.

The hair sighed in defeat. Donald rolled over again and his feet hit the hotel floor like dropped hams. He groaned and stood up, wobbled in place for a moment, and then lurched forward. Fumbling hands took up the small package from the table by the door and then he sat back down heavily on the bed.

"Open it," the hat urged.

"Hold on. You know I have no fine motor control!"

Donald's clumsy sleeping fingers tugged open the tiny box and the hair lower his head to look inside.

"What is it?" the hat demanded.

"It's an egg. Some sort of black egg."

"DON'T TOUCH IT!" the hat screamed.

"It's just an egg…" the hair began and then he screamed too as tendrils shot from the egg and began to wrap around Donald's tiny hands.

"Get it off me!" the hair wailed. "It burns!"

"Ah, fuck, man. Ah, fuck," the hat moaned impotently.

Hair-driven Donald thrashed around the motel room as the hair tried to fling the black mass of tendrils and flesh-corrupting acid away from him. The Ivanka doll shrieked when the bloated billionaire fell back on the bed and on top of her.

"Get the fuck off him, man," the hat yelled to the hair. "He's not worth it. We can find another bald pasty moron to ride to the White House!"

Donald, finally awake, bellowed in pain, holding up his raw and bloody shot-fingered baby hand in the dim light of the hotel room.

"It hurts. Some Mexispic has attacked me in my own hotel room!"

"Calm down there, big guy," the hat said. The Ivanka doll writhed beside him and made straggled cries.

"Guards! Where are my guards! I have been attacked by Sjwmexispicmuslims!"

The Ivanka doll grew suddenly still.

"How did you get it off?" the hat asked the hair.

"I don't know. The whore tried to bite me and I think she got the egg instead."

"Guards! To me, my guards!"

"Donald, give it a rest. You sent them downstairs while you beating that whore with your daughter's face," the hat said.

"I did? I don't remember that. Are you sure that was me? I love babies. Get that fucking baby out of here. I love women. They are great. Just the tops. I think that cunt bit me. My hand hurts. Where am I? Why is my penis all sticky? I don't know. You tell me. Sad."

"He's babbling again," the hair said.

"My mother was a woman, you know," Donald said. "Big tits. Yuge. I bought Ivanka my mother's tits."


Donald slapped his hands over his years and rolled onto the hotel floor.

"Oh, god. It's horrible," the hair screamed.

"The voice," the hat moaned. "It's the worst thing I've ever heard!"

The doll floated to the center of the roll. Black ichor ran from her eyes and nose and ears, it flowed in lazy rivers down her reconstructed legs like an obscene parody of menstruation. A fresh rush of it spilled forth as it began to speak again:


The room shook under the flaying onslaught of meaningless babble.

"She was trying to turn Donald into that!" the hat said.

"What do you mean?" the hair shot back.

"She wanted to turn Donald into a receiver, a puppet!"

"But he's our puppet!"

Donald huddled on the floor, his hands still over his ears, rocking back and forth and crying.

"Donald, get up! You have to kill this thing!" the hat screamed.

"No, no, no, no, no, no," he moaned.

"Donald!" the hair yelled. "Stop presenting like a mandrill, get up and act like a fucking man!"


"DONALD!" the hat and hair screamed together as the doll collapsed into a pool of viscous goo.

Monday, July 25, 2016

Idolatry is worse than carnage

“There is another matter, Grandmother. A traitor in our ranks,” Hillary said.

The crone sniffed the air and smiled.

“Bring it to me,” she whispered.

A figure was dragged out the forest, filthy, nude, bleeding, gross, with terrible hair. A large root was jammed mouth to keep her from speaking.

“The Florida Jew,” the crone sneered. “You have betrayed us all.”

Debbie’s eyes went wide and she made muffed sounds around the root gag.

“Let the traitor speak,” the crone said.

Hillary pulled the root from Debbie’s mouth roughly, breaking a few of her distorted gravel teeth in the process. The delegates tittered as she spit blood and tears cleaned paths on her dirty face.

“You stand of accused of helping Them,” the crone said.

“Grandmother, I only did as you told me."

Hillary kicked her in ribs, below her distended breasts, and knocked her to her side.

“Betrayer,” she hissed and spat at her.

“Emails were written,” said the crone.

“Emails were written,” intoned the delegates, and they did up-twinkle.

“Emails were retained.”

“Emails were retained.” And they did jazz-hand.

“Emails were leaked.”

“Emails were leaked.” And they did side-step shuffle.

“I sentence you to be known and degraded by every man here,” the crone said.

The forest filled with the sounds of hundreds of men fleeing into the night. Far away retching was heard.

“Then death,” said the crone. “Bring her.”

Hillary kicked Debbie in the crotch until she began to crawl to the crone in her bower. A supplicant rushed forward and put a silver knife into her veiny and shaking hand.

“Give me your neck, Florida Jew,” she said.

Debbie tried to turn away and Hillary booted her once more in the ruin of her vagina.

“It can be worse, Betrayer. I can bring you before a Senate Subcommittee. Even your used assrag of a soul won’t survive that,” Hillary said.

Debbie turned her head away and presented her neck.

“Be swift, Grandmother,” she begged.

The crone struggled to raise the blade and swiped feebly at Debbie’s neck folds. The blade barely made a mark.

“Closer,” Hillary said, punching the pudding socks of Debbie’s teats painfully.

The crone steady her knife hand with the other and laid the knife on Debbie’s neck. She sawed back and forth with the knife until her strength gave out. A thin line of blood appeared.

“Aw, fuck it,” the crone said. “Let the dumb bitch just resign.”

Running through the forest, again and again and again

"Grandmother! I have brought him for your blessing!" Hillary cried into the hushed night of the deep forest, addressing a withered figure nestled in a bower of rotting limbs and twigs.

"Bring him forward," the crone rasped. The assembled delegates of the DNC murmured in awe at the sight of her. "RBG!" one screamed. The woman was torn apart by those standing beside her in a gout of religious ecstasy. The crone watched the lifeblood flow from the holy blasphemer, her rheumy eyes half-lidded with satisfaction, one claw-like hand grasping as if it were she who tore the young flesh.

"I have brought the one who shall be my second, Grandmother," Hillary said, desperate as ever to bring the attention back to her. The crone ignored her until the heart of the dead woman was brought to her. She licked it and shuddered.

"The ritual, Grandmother," Hillary said quietly. "It is almost midnight."

The crone let the heart fall to the loam of the forest floor and began.

"Has he been shriven at The Gate?"

"Yes, Grandmother," whispered the crowd.

"Has he suckled the black milk of Herself?"

"Yes, Grandmother."

"Is he smooth between the legs?"

"Yes, Grandmother."

"Has he whispered to his Mother's secret abortions? Has he waited for The Many-Angled One to take them away?"

"Yes, Grandmother."

"Is he ready to be bled?"

"Yes, Grandmother."

Hillary pulled a cruel and hooked claw of some massive raptor from her blood-dyed robe.

"Your tongue," she demanded. He stuck it out and she pricked it deeply with the needle-sharp point.

The crone let out a dry laugh, like the chittering a thousand insects.

"Your eyes, your nose, your ears, your throat are all mine," she said, lightly puncturing each in turn.

"Your heart," she said. He levered the claw in deeply and tore it away. He grimaced but did not make a sound. As the crone nodded in approval, he smiled, blood running down his chin.

"Arise, Kaine."

The coven began to chant:

"Kaine has been chosen
"Kaine was chosen
'Kaine will be chosen
'Kaine will have been chosen
"Our night is forever"

As she held the bloodied claw to the sky, the many hungry mouths on Hillary's body sang and gnashed and gurgled a symphony of darkness.

Friday, July 15, 2016

Thanks for shitting all over my literary efforts.

"Ah, fuck it. Might as well just be Pence," Donald said. He dropped the microphone and walked off stage.

Selectionous Interruptus

"MAH TITTAYS!" Newt screamed as he rushed toward Chris. He dropped his sword as he lunged and the two of them landed on the dirt floor of the arena, moobs locked in slippery combat.

"You one of them boylovers?" Mike asked Mike as they circled one another. General Flynn laughed and fell forward on his sword, dead from a self-inflicted wound. The crowd cheered and gibbered.

"Good win, Pence," Trump said. "Solid victory. This makes you the leader." Pence roared and held his gauntleted hands in the air in triumph.

"He knows the other guys just killed himself, right? Like, he did nothing at all?" the hair asked.

"You just have to shit all over everything, don't you?" the hat shot back.

"He's running a victory lap around to fat guys struggled to slap each other to death with flab," the hair observed.

"And that's how we are going to make America great again," the hat said dreamily.

The grunting and farting of Newt and Chris filled the arena as Mike stopped gloating. Their labored breathing and half-muttered curses got louder as the crowd quieted.

"Look at them. So disgusting. Get up you two. Fight like men!" Donald yelled through the PA system.

"I like watching men!" Mike screamed. "Fighting. I like watching men fighting!" he corrected himself.

"Pence is so white he's hard to look at," the hat said.

"He looks like the ghost of a mummy that died a second time," the hair agreed.

"Wait, wait," Donald said. "Hold on. Stop fighting. We are suspending the selection process."

"No, the thigh-fuckers are mine! You said I could kill them! You said I could watch them die!" Mike screamed. His erection was bright purple.

"There's been a development," Donald said. "Some pry Moon Base and Governor Fatbridge apart."

"What's going on?" the hair asked.

"Goddamn terrorists," the hat said. "They stepped all over our big moment again."

Wednesday, July 13, 2016


"Just read the words," Hillary said, spitting out the sibilants like pieces of old skin.

"But I didn't write this. I'm from Brooklyn. We write things for ourselves," Bernie protested. He tried to crumble the endorsement speech but his arthritic hands could barely wrinkle the paper.

"You'll do what we tell you or you won't leave Vermont with a working asshole," her goiter said. Bloody-toothed mouths grown in her clavicles choked out mirthless laughter. A voice from between her rotted breasts whispered, "Sew it close anyway."

"I don't re-re-re-act well to threats, Madam Secretary." She slapped him twice in quick succession, the rough skin of her gnarled hands scraping his face.

"I will only speak to a black officer," Bernie whimpered.

"You want me to call Huma?" she asked him. Orifices all over her body sighed. "Have you ever been double-dipped, Bernie? You won't survive it. There might not even be enough left over to send home to your fat wife."

"Leave her out of this," he said. But his voice betrayed him. He was old and feeble. He shook all over like an inbred chihuahua.

"I'm going to let Bill use her as a tampon," Hillary giggled.

The broken old man began to weep.

Monday, July 11, 2016

Be still my dog of war!

“Who will be my VP?” Donald asked the hushed arena.

“I said WHO WILL BE MY VP?” he screamed into the microphone. The crowd sighed as one but made no other sound.

“Don’t you all rush forward at once,” the hat muttered.

“Don’t get picked up by the microphone,” the hair hissed back. Donald reached up and gently tucked a stiff wing of the hair behind his left ear.

“Nobody? Really? Sad. Just sad, people,” Donald said. He shook his head in disgust. “OK, let them out.”

A large man in a mask and a greasy loincloth on the arena floor threw back a giant bolt on an enormous door and pulled it open slowly.

“Faster, please. C’mon,” Donald scolded. “OK, OK, who is the first one?”

Rough hands pushed an elderly man out into the dusty arena floor, his white hair disheveled, the face on his round pumpkin head red and blotchy. He had a filthy cloth wound around his midsection and he carried a short sword.

“Newt Gingrich, everybody,” Donald said. A dozen or so people clapped with no enthusiasm.

“The crowd loves him,” the hair whispered. The hat chortled.

“OK, the next one,” Donald said.

A fat man covered in sweat was pushed out next. He only had a pull-up diaper on and was armed with a trident and a net. The crowd began to laugh when he threw the weapons down and tried to run back into the door. He was pushed down to the floor of the arena and got back up with his back and legs matted with sweatmud.

“Disgusting,” Donald said. “Chris Christie. Yeah. OK. Don’t clap, then.” A nervous giggle rang out as Chris stumbled while trying to collect his weapons.

“OK, come on. Let’s GO!” Donald said.

Another old white man was pushed out into the actinic glare of the arena lights. He was flabby and nude and made a show of sucking his gut. Foot-long spikes jutted out of leather gauntlets that had been laced up his arm and there was a tight metal collar around his neck. He raised his arms in triumph and there was an effeminate “WOO!” from a lone voice in the crowd.

“Mike Pence!” Donald said. In the thunderous silence that followed a cricket died quietly.

“Mike Pence? Really? Nobody? The governor of Indiana?” Donald held his arms up questioningly. “Indiana. It’s a state. It’s, like, right there in the middle. OK. Whatever.”

“INDIANA! WOO!” Mike screamed. In the agonizing silence that followed he yelled, “Y’all are just a bunch of FAGGOTS!”

“Has he seen what he is wearing?” the hair asked.

“Closet case,” the hat said. “You know, a wide stance.”

“Oh, I get it.”

Donald shook his head like a horse annoyed by flies. “OK, OK. There’s one more. OK, send him out.”

A large, imposing figure walked into the arena, dressed in an armored codpiece and wielding a long sword. The crowd cheered as the door creaked closed behind him.

“Wow. OK. Cheering already,” Donald said. He looked down at his notecards.

“General Michael Flynn. General Flynn. Look at him. Isn’t he just great?”

Flynn swung his sword around and pointed at Newt, Chris and Mike. Mike exclaimed, “My heavens!” and the other two cowered.

“Mike Flynn. Great guy. Love him. Afghanistan. Iraq. Very distinguished. He’s gonna just murder these other three.”

“Are we just doing this so he can just slaughter them?” the hair asked.

“Wait for it…” the hat replied.

Donald squinted at his note cards. “It also says here that he’s pro-choice.”

The crowd booed deafeningly. They threw programs and rotten fruit into the arena. They rushed the fences that kept them in the audience area and began pushing against them, snarling and screaming.

“Poor dumb fucker,” the hair said. “He might as well not even fight.”

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Semi-Auto Eroticism

"I've got you on my no-fly list," Dianne slurred, her drink spilling on the floor as she pointed at the erect AR-15.

"You're no good. You're a bad boy." She trailed a finger down the handguard to the ejection port dust cover and then lingered on the shell deflector. She finished her drink and let the empty glass fall to the thick shag carpet of the hotel room.

"You always feel bigger than .223 when I have you inside me," she whispered then licked the ridged nubbin of the magazine release frantically. She ran a thumb over the front iron sight post and groaned.

"You're my weapon of choice. I want you to declare jihad on my pussy." Dianne grabbed up the assault-style military-type autodeath rifle and ran her dry face lips over the cold muzzle brake as she applied exquisite pressure to the rear takedown pin.

"Oh, you like that? You like it in the rear pin? You soldier boys are all the same." She rammed the buttstock buffer tube into her pubic mound and jerked the rifle in a rough up and down, the charging handle battering her pleasure raisin. She suckled the barrel gently and probed every accessory rail mounting hole with a moistened pinkie.

There was a soft knock on her hotel room door that broke her reverie.

"What?" she screamed.

"Ith thyme thoo vo-tib," Nancy said through the door.

"Goddamit! I was almost there!"

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

“Memories and possibilities are even more hideous than realities.”

“Thank you for meeting with me,” Hillary said. It was loud enough for the staffers and reporters in the hallway to hear before she shut the door.

“No problem, no problem,” he said. Bernie feebly made his way to an overstuffed chair and lowered himself painfully into it. “The campaign trail. Young people hug too strong these days. Back when I was growing up in Brooklyn we were tough but we knew how to hug! The old Brooklyn hug we’d used to say. It was elegant, dammit. And it never hurt.”

Hillary played with the panel near the door. Powerful bolts thunked close inside the door and frame and three loud beeps sounded.

“Shut up, fuckhead,” she told him. “I’ve turned off the recorders and soundproofed the roof.”

“Excellent! I already have an erection. There’s a button between my dangler and my nutsack.”

“We’re not here for that,” she said.

“What? I wasted a charge then. You know they have to reload through my ass? My ASS!”

Hillary slapped him.

“Pay attention. I am speaking. I have spoken!” she screamed.

“So we’re done here?” Bernie started to get up and she pushed him back down.

“What?” he asked. “You said you had spoken. Past tense. Why do I talk like an old vaudeville routine?”

“Shut up, Jew,” Hillary’s goiter rasped.

“Who said that?”

“I did,” the goiter said.

“Hillary? Your neck is talking to me. Hello? Can someone bring me a Fresca?”

“Fuck your Fresca and fuck you,” the goiter said. “You didn’t drop out when you were told and now we have to run an actual campaign.”

“Can I touch it?” he asked.

“No,” Hillary and the goiter said at the same time.

“What it is?” he asked.

“It’s my only child, Bernie. I made her,” Hillary whispered.

“What about Chelsea?” he asked.

“That ugly thing? She was made from the filth Webb left in me. Left in me, like a floater in a guest bathroom toilet. This is my true child.” She stroked the bulge on the side of her larynx. It purred with contented delight.

“I still have an erection,” he said.

“You will support us, Jew,” the goiter said. Hillary began to unbutton her $12,000 housecoat.

“Whatever you say, uh, ma’am,” he stammered.

Hillary lifted a ponderous breast and Bernie saw a dark patch of skin and hair and wetness. As she pulled her heavily-veined teat high, the dark skin split, revealing lips.

“I grew it for you, Bernie. Black Vaginas Matter.”

Monday, June 13, 2016

Magic Sauce

“There ain’t no subject I can’t spread my magic sauce all over,” Donald said, idly swirling a finger in his anus while reading Twitter on the toilet. He grunted, piggish and low, while the hat watched impassively from his perch on the bathroom faucet.

“Don’t call it that, Donald,” said his hair. “What if you called it that in public?”

“No one cares what I say, they’ll all cheer whatever it is,” he snarled.

“Good observation,” the hat said. “You’re really catching on, Donald.”

“Some bitch called me a bitch on Bitch Twitter and some darkie called me a racist on Black Twitter and some wetback called me a Mexiphobe on Undocumented Twitter and some little twink called me a self-hating self-tanner victim on Fag Twitter. I’m going to destroy them all!” Donald screamed.

“Isn’t all of Twitter just Fag Twitter?” the hat asked philosophically.

The hair laughed despite himself. “Stop it. Some of our country’s finest GOP politicians and their hairpieces have been homosexuals.”

“You would know,” the hat grumbled.

“Like you don’t have an adjustable strap in the back.”

“Would you two shut up? I’m trying to make my magic sauce!”

“Donald…” the hair began.

“Out! I want both of you out!” He snatched the hat off the faucet and lumbered toward the bathroom door.

“Oh, god. He’s touching me with the finger that was in his ass,” the hat moaned.

“Donald, wait. It doesn’t have to go down like this, man,” the hair said.

Donald awkwardly opened the bathroom door with his ass play hand and threw the poopy hat into the hotel room filled with advisors waiting for him. His tiny, startled penis had forgotten they were there.

“Take this too,” he yelled at them, ripping the hairpiece away.

“Not the shit finger!” the hair gasped.

Donald slammed the door and retreated to his porcelain turd dungeon to Twitter forevermore.

Tuesday, June 7, 2016

Thumb-puppet of hate

“I expect a concession speech tonight, Bernie,” Hillary rasped, her throat as dry as a turtle’s asshole. “I have the Superdelegates, you crusty old fuck. You cannot withstand their power.”

“I’m from the Brooklyn. I am tough. You do not control the Bernie Rev-rev-revolution!” the old man stuttered. The wheeze in his breath sounded like the rustle of beetle wings. She loved listening to him die on the phone.

She stroked its bulging mass and smiled.

“I’m rubbing maple syrup all over my pussies, Bernie. New Hampshire maple syrup,” she said.

“No! You witch!” You’ll feel the Bern for this!”

“Now I’m opening a bottle of Canadian maple syrup.”

“You wouldn’t! You wouldn’t dare!”

“Tariff-free. Bernie. Tariff-free syrup. Hmm. Free trade feels so good on my pornucopia of back-up labias.” Hillary held the phone away as she and the goiter chortled.

“I WILL DESTROY YOU AT THE CONVENTION!” Bernie screamed, but it was tinny and far away on the phone's tiny speaker.

“No you won’t, Bernie,” she said, drawing the phone back. “I’m taking away the millennials. The Tumblristas are mine. All your little college lackeys and dick-drunk bros are mine. I’ll call them sexist if they stay home.”

“It won’t work. They are mine, you dried up old hag. I am the youth movement!” He was so agitated his jowls made a flapping sound as they shook with rage.

“They are going to vote vagina now. AND I HAVE ALL THE VAGINAS!”

She let the goiter laugh into the phone for a long moment before she hung up on his raving and tucked Convenience Phone #17 into her wetly pulsated gunt pouch.

Friday, May 27, 2016

The Big Doll House

“You shall be my weapon against The Trump,” Hillary said as she stroked Elizabeth’s bumpy skull through her elderly lesbian hair. “You will destroy him for me.”

“Yes, Mistress. I will destroy him for you.”

Hillary pressed Elizabeth to her black-nippled teat. Veins pulsed right under the skin.

“Suckle on my hate. Grow powerful,” Hillary said. She rammed her breast into Elizabeth’s mouth and squeezed out clotted milk in a stuttering geyser.

Elizabeth’s fingers slid into the dry canal of Hillary’s dead cunt, shelves of desiccated pus shedding, falling to the floor. She worked spiked nub of her clitoris until her thumb bled.

“Will it be enough?” the goiter on Hillary’s neck asked in an excited whisper.

“I don’t know. This chittering twat is almost as used up as I am,” she whispered back. She needn’t have bothered. The sounds of Elizabeth choking and sputtering filled the campaign bus bedroom utterly.

“The Trump is powerful. He has the hair and the hat,” the goiter said.

“I don’t fuck give a fuck about the goddamn hat! The hat is nothing! NOTHING!” she screamed. She cuffed Elizabeth on the ear in sent her reeling, rancid hillarymilk dribbling from her lip.

‘What did I do?” Elizabeth whined. She wrapped her arms around her head and face, bingo wings queasily flubbering.

“I’m going to fill you up, bitch,” Hillary said. She stomped Elizabeth in the ribs right below the breasts. As she moved to hold her chest, Hillary palpitated one last stubborn gob of milk right into her mewling mouth.

“Whose cunt is more powerful than mine?” Hillary demanded.

“No one's,” Elizabeth managed, choking.

“Wash it down,” Hillary said as she squatted over Elizabeth and let loose a stream of urine teeming with hormones.

Monday, May 23, 2016

SMERSH me, baby

“Oh, Vladdy… You’re the only man I let make me a woman,” Donald said, backing up on all fours like a ponderous meat truck.

“Beep, beep, beep…” the hat whispered and he and the hair giggled together.

“I vill make Amerika great again!” Vlad shouted, his penis becoming erect with the sound of a retractable baton being deployed. “Ve shall make sex like mighty ogligarks!”

“Make our cold war hot,” Donald demanded. He bent his spine with a series of audible cracks and presented his dilapidated anus like an excited mandrill.

“It will be even better ven you are President like me,” Vlad said. He pushed Donald’s testicles up into his flabby body with the heel of his and ground against them like he was trying to put out a stubborn cigarette.

“Oh Jesus, oh fuck, Jesus fuck. Don’t stop!” Donald shouted.

Secret Service men and SPB agents shifted uncomfortably from their respective corners of the playroom. One even coughed nervously as Vlad plunged his fingers into Donald’s asshole and splayed it open.

“I haft somethink for you, lapochka,” Vlad said.

He snapped his fingers of his other hand impatiently and motioned over a frightened young man in a stained labcoat.

“Give me the applicator, Yuri,” Vlad said.

Yuri’s hands shook as he unsnapped the clasps of the small metal case he was handcuffed to. He handed Vlad the complicated device within. It looked like a medicalized paintball pistol. Vlad waved him away and he returned to his place along the wall. A SPB agent placed a hand on his shoulder as if to steady him.

“What is it, Vladdy?” Donald asked, craning his neck to see.

“What the fuck?” the hat asked the hair.

“I’m scared. Hold me,” the hair begged.

“Somthink just for you. My scientists haft spent years on this just for your sweethole.” Vlad eased the gun into Donald’s ass until it formed a tight seal.

“It vill be like a magical love fart, little one,” Vlad said, pressing the injector trigger.

Aerosolized cocaine, sildenafil citrate, alkyl nitrite and ground ape testicles filled Donald’s sigmoid colon and he grunted loudly.

“You must hold it in, Donald. As lonk as you can,” Vlad whispered.

Donald whimpered and writhed.

“Vlad!” he screamed.

“Give it time.”

“Oh, shit,” the hair said to the hat.


“Don’t you feel it? You can’t feel it?”

“What do you mean?” the hat asked.

Donald roared. It shook the entire plane.

“Yes!” Vlad screamed, his erection bouncing with the fuselage. “Now we can begin!” He pulled out the injector and greedily inhaled the thick gas that dribbled from Donald’s butt.

Vlad smiled and turned to nod to the SPB agent. He broke Yuri’s neck with merciful efficiency.

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

"The strain's too much, can't take much more"

“There are pleasures you have never dreamed of, Bernie,” Hillary whispered. “I grow new ones every day.”

She tore off the sleeve of her heavy polyester blouse and showed him a row of nipple along the underside of her upper left arm. They quested about, thick, dark ends gulping at the air like dying fish, drooling a thick black milk. He lunged toward them, the slack asshole of his mouth emitting a maple syrup rot. She pulled them away.

“Bite them carefully. They bite back,” she said. Bernie groaned and hammered a fist into his dusty fuck parts. Hillary slapped him and cackled.

“What want, Bernie? Do you want me?” Hillary pulled down the side of her skirt. There was a vulva slit into the side of her hip.

“You can touch it, Bernie. Go on. This one might not tear anything off.”

His shaking fingers found her hipgina and thrust into her before she could move away. His rheumy eyes went wide as he stroked the pitted surface of her iliac crest.

“Bill never touches me. He hasn’t fingerfucked my skeleton in decades.” Hillary cried out, the sound filling the cold spaces of the empty warehouse. She grabbed at the crotch of his shabby suit, his breath hot and sour on her neck.

“There’s nothing,” he grunted. “Nothing there since the 70s, dammit.”

“You’ll just have to be creative then,” she said. She pulled his left hand around her doughy waist and guided him to a small constellation of buttholes set over her liver. He stroked them and found them dry and scaly as she moaned. He licked his finger as she panted, the sweet and meaty smell of death on her breath. He sank each of his fingers and his thumb into the five buttholes and flexed them like he was making a puppet speak. She farted from all five, delicate notes rushing past his invading digits.

“I want your equal outcomes, Bernie,” she said, forcing him to his knees.

The pseudopenis she had already extruded forced itself against her clothes. She pushed her skirt down and it sprang forth, the disapproving pucker of her cervix on the tip of the inverted vagina bobbing menacingly. She inched forward and swung her hips to smack him with it.

“Suck it, Bernie. Suck it,” she said. “I’m going to shit my uterus right in your mouth.”

Monday, May 9, 2016

Hot Mic

“Did you see her walk? Runway walk. My God is that good. I could watch that runway show,” Chris said, out of breath.

“You’ve got a hot mic,” the voice said in his ear.

“Shut the fuck up, Valerie,” Chris said. “What kind of dyke are you if you can’t appreciate that ass? That’s a great fucking ass!”

Brian gestured frantically in Chris’ peripheral vision. He waved him away.

“Yeah, yeah, Brian. Your daughter’s got a nice ass too. But she never gives up the goods on that shitty TV show of hers. Is some titties so much to ask, Brian? I bet they are nice. Are they nice, Brian? You’ve probably seen them. Are they nice or not?” Chris was cupping his hands under his own man titties when the camera swung off him and to the crowd.

“Put that fucking camera back on me, Valerie. I’m sick of your dyke bullshit. I bet you don’t even trim for that poor girlfriend of yours. You probably got bush the size of a bicycle seat.”

The cameraman was bent over and laughing, but managed to bring Chris up on the monitors.

“Look, Trump says whatever the fuck he wants and he’s going to be the goddamn President. You want ratings? You want to keep shitty ass MSNBC on the air? Let me say what I want, you fucks.”

Brian grabbed for his microphone and Chris blocked his hand.

“Do that again and I’ll slap your whore mouth, Brian. I’ll slap you down and then piss right in your eyes.”

Chris made a show of scanning the crowd. “Where’s Melaya or Melanie or whatever her hooker name is? She’s 46 for fuck’s sake. Forty-fucking-six. At 46 my wife’s ass looked like a huge bag of hot garbage. And Ivanka? Oh, yeah, man.”

A thick-set woman jumped in front of the camera Chris was speaking into.

“Really, Valerie? You left the fucking booth for once and this is what you drag your lumpy ass in here for? Call Gates. He’ll tell you to keep me on the air. I bet he’s laughing his shriveled up nerd balls off right now.”

Valerie flipped him off with both hands and stomped away.

“Hey, Brian,” Chris said. “Hey, Brian. Brian. Brian. Don’t ignore me. Brian. Brian. BRIAN! You very think Donald’s done ‘em both at the same time? A little third-wife/daughter action? DON’T IGNORE ME, BRIAN!”

Tuesday, April 26, 2016


“COLLUSION,” Donald roared. “CONSPIRACY!”

“You did this,” the hair muttered to the hat.

“You blame everything on me,” the hat shot back.

Donald took a handful of thinly-sliced deli turkey and began to massage the cold, flaky meat into the hot flesh of his testicles.

“I love craft services,” Donald moaned. “Where is Corey? I want Corey!’

“He’s still outside punching women,” the hair told him.

“Beating up mouthy bitches is how we are going to make America great again,” the hat declared.

“Really? Quoting yourself?” the hair asked.

Before the hat could answer, Donald screamed again, “COREY!”

Donald dropped the ruined meat on the floor and used both hands to rub chive sour cream into his glistening nipples. A door opened and Corey was pushed through it before it slammed close again.

“Sir? You asked for me?” he asked nervously. Blood dripped from his torn knuckles.

“Collusion, Corey,” Donald said. “They are colluding against me. They are all against me.” Corey turned away as Donald pushed a series of three baby carrots into his anus.

“Are you OK, sir?” Corey asked.

“I hunger, Corey. I’m eating,” he said, spreading roasted red pepper hummus on the folds of his neck.

“Tell him he’s a long-drink of faggot, Donald,” the hat whispered. “Tell him to suck a carrot out of your ass.” Donald waved the hat’s words away like he was beset by flies.

“Whose blood is that, Corey? Who’s colluding against me now?”

“Some bitch,” Corey replied. “She thought she could say anything she liked.”

“Who sent her? Ted? His little catamite Marco? Hillary? They collude, Corey. They collude against me. I’m so dangerous. I have to be stopped.”

“Yes, sir. Maybe all three, sir.”

“Come here, Corey.” Donald waved to boy toward him, flinging hummus around the room.


“Come over here!” Donald yelled.

“Collusion,” Donald mumbled as Corey walked slowly toward him.

“That was a really bad idea,” the hair whispered.

“What are you talking about?” the hat asked.

When Corey was close, Donald’s hand shot out, obscenely fast for the bloated rich, and caught Corey’s wrist.

“Collusion,” Donald mumbled again and began to lick the blood from Corey’s knuckles.

“You should have never given him that ‘Word of the Day’ toilet paper,” the hair said.

Monday, April 18, 2016

He's Not the Self-Molester The Country Needs, But He Is The Self-Molester It Deserves Right Now

Teddy surveyed the city from a darkened rooftop, the city he had sworn to protect. It had been a quiet night, unusually quiet. He knew from bitter experience that the peace would never hold.

His erection twitched and curved toward the northeast. Teddy was on the move before her scream rang out. He covered the two blocks in a flash and landed beside a woman sprawled in the filth of an alley.

“What’s the trouble, ma’am?” he asked while pulling her roughly to her feet. She was beautiful, blonde and stacked like a cord of firewood.

“That man…” she started. She broke off when she saw him in the yellow light of the alley and gaped at his skintight uniform, his mask, his stubby erection poking through a hole in the front. He shook her like a terrier with a rat it wanted to kill.

“Speak, woman! I’m her to help you,” he roared.

“That man stole my bag of dildos!” She pointed at the back of a man fleeing down the alley.

“Dildos? What are you doing with dildos?” he demanded. Teddy thought he had freed the city from the scourge of artificial genital manipulation devices years ago.

“They’re medicinal!” the woman insisted. “I have a prescription!”

“What kind of doctor would prescribe whore wands? They don’t let whores be doctors!” he thundered.

“Are you going to help me or not?” she asked.

Teddy pressed in close. “Oh, I’ll get your twat rods back. I’ll trace them back to your whore doctor and I’ll get him too.” She could feel his hot breath on her face and his erection brushed against her.

“Don’t touch it!” he screamed. “Only I touch it!”

Teddy threw her back in the puddle of muck he found her and took to the air, a tremendous blast of pure seminal energy pouring from his member holding him aloft. He quickly overtook the dildo thief and landed in front of him on a busy sidewalk.

“Halt!” he intoned. “Give me the clit buzzers and I won’t hurt you!”

“I know you,” the purloiner of perverted pleasure said. “You’re The Jackker!  These are mine. I need them for my butt. Stay away from me or I’ll kick you in the choad!”

“My choad is more powerful than you can possibly imagine,” Teddy growled, advancing on the criminal scum. “Put the pussy plungers down or I’ll make sure you never touch yourself ever again.”

The thief swung the bag of dildos. Teddy swatted it aside, scattering the tremblers across along the street when the bag burst. With three masterful frottage thrusts the thief lay bleeding on the stinking asphalt.

Teddy stood over the prone ass player and ejaculated on him with a minimum of efficient strokes. A number of onlookers had gathered, drawn to the erotic charge of violence and snapped pictures with their cellphones as steam rose dramatically from the semen soaked cretin.

The Jackker strode purposefully around the crowd, his erection bobbing, and crushed the dildos that were strewn on the sidewalk before they could tempt the innocent citizens of Cruz City. He smiled and waved as the flashes of their cameras bombarded him.

“Touch it!” they screamed. “Touch it for us!”

Sunday, April 17, 2016

The Only Real Thing

“Go to sleep, Donald,” the hat crooned. “You have a big day tomorrow. Foreign policy briefing.”

“I’m my own best advisor,” Donald insisted. “I will consult with myself on every decision and every decision will be perfect because I’ll make it with myself.”

“Of course, Donald. And we’ll be here to help you as well,” the hair said.

“Myself!” Donald insisted, falling back on his pillow. “You’re just myself and I’m myself. Myself!”

“Yes, Donald. You are yourself,” the hat said.

“No,” Donald said, beginning to drift off. “You are me. You’re my hat and you’re my hair.”

“Just let the sedatives do their work, little buddy,” the hair said.

Donald’s eyes grew dark and heavy, his lids finally closing despite his agitation. After a moment he began to gently fart and snore.

“We’ll save a lot of time picking a Cabinet,” the hair whispered. “He can fill all the spots himself.”

“He’s had a hard day. Marco sent him a pic of his butthole. Said it was his resume for VP,” the hat replied.

“Where was I?”

“I think you were asleep. It was right after lunch.”

“Oh, yeah. He ate three pounds of potato salad for lunch. How am I supposed to stay awake after all that?”

“But, yeah. Just a big old pic of his butthole.”

“Ted isn’t going to like that.”

“What choice does Ted have?” the hat asked. “He knows Marco is the choicest piece of Latin ass he’s ever going to get.”

The hair and the hat chuckled companionably. In the silence that followed the hair asked quietly, “Do you think he’s right?”

“Right about what?”

“Are we just him? Like, are we just his imagination?”

“How would that work?”

“Instead of talking to us, he’s just talking to himself.”

“Fuck that,” the hat exclaimed. “I’m my own man. I’m not some figment of Donald’s imagination.”

“But how would you know?”

“How would I know what?”

“If you were just a part of his mind…”

“I am me, dammit. How could I know anything else?”

“What if part of his delusion was that you thought you weren’t part of his delusion?” the hair asked.

“Are you fucking high? Are smoking dope, hippie?”

“How would you know what you couldn’t know?”

“You always have to start this shit right before we go to bed.”

“Answer the question.”

“If I’m just in his mind, so are you,” the hat said.

“I very well may be,” the hair replied.

“I really hate you sometimes.”

“Maybe he just imagines that you hate me.”

“No. I hate you. If I know nothing else. If I can’t know anything else, I know that I hate you. My hate is real.”

Tuesday, April 5, 2016


“'Anáil nathrach, ortha bháis bheatha, do thuar dhéanamh!” Donald shouted into the night-shrouded darkness of midnight.

“Reveal to me! Reveal!” he screamed while profanities and blasphemies swirled around him on the night-wind.

“Isn’t from Excalibur?” the hair whispered to the hat.

“Don’t break his concentration, you fool,” the hat whispered back.

They were both in places of honor on the wind-swept night altar, hastily constructed by Mexicans in the depths of the night-haunted wind woods of darkest Wisconsin. Their brown, broken bodies littered the ground and in the wind-flickered flames of a thousand candles their blood shined as black as their illegal hearts.

“REVEAL!” Donald screamed again as his hot semen splattered the forest floor, steam rising from where it fell. A low rumble of thunder rolled through the nightwind blown trees.

“Yes! Show me how to bring Cruz to his knees!” Donald cried.

The hair sniggered and the hat let out a quiet, embarrassed cough.

Donald turned to glare at them. “To his knees in defeat. Defeat. Not like some sex thing,” he told them.

“Sure, Donald,” the hair said. The hat was shaking with suppressed laughter.

Thursday, March 31, 2016


“I just want those aborting sluts to go to slut jail for aborting their abortions,” Donald muttered. The hot lights of the Townhall set caused hair glue to soften and flow down Donald’s back. It made him feel lonely and small and vulnerable. His hair shifted when Donald looked up to squint at the lights.

“Oh, Jesus,” his hair whispered. He knew that if he flopped to the floor Donald would blame him. The hat chuckled darkly from where he was stuffed into Donald’s jacket pocket.

“Soft pedal that shit, Donald,” the hat said. “You don’t want to get the gashes all riled up. You know how they love their abortions.”

“We’ve got to put them in jail or what’s the point?” Donald muttered into his lapel.

“You can’t just say that,” the hair insisted. “You have to act all contrite, like the woman didn’t want to get an abortion, but like, hey, there was the clinic, so she just wandered in and it happened.”

“Fucking sluts,” Donald said.

“Hot mic, dammit. Hot mic!” the hat said. It began to hum loudly, hoping to drown Donald out.

“If that bitch Ivanka had gone through with it, I wouldn’t have Ivanka,” Donald whispered. “My dear Ivanka. She sent me pictures of her post-baby pussy. It’s a mess. A fucking mess.”

“We know, Donald. You showed us it over and over again,” the hair said.

“He’s coming back,” the hat said.

Chris walked back on set, still stuffing his shirt back into his pants. He wiped his hands dry on his suit jacket as he sat down.

“You OK?” Chris asked Donald. “You need anything?”

“No, I’m fine,” Donald said petulantly.

“You want me to go back to the abortion stuff? I was looking at Twitter while I was trying to take a piss and everybody is pissed about.”

“I said what I think. I’m not going to change my mind so there’s no point.”

“You sure you don’t want to do it now? Your team is just going to put out a press release tomorrow saying you didn’t really mean it.”

“Fuck off, Matthews. That’s never going to happen. I said what I meant and I mean what I say and I never retract or explain.”

The hair snorted loudly, despite its lack of a nose.

Chris squirmed in his seat. “Damn prostate. Not only can I not take a simple piss, it feels like I’m sitting on a goddamn apple.”

“Can we just get this over with?” Donald asked.

Wednesday, March 2, 2016

Like Classy Poutine

“Now say ‘You will endorse me!’” the hat whispered.

“You will endorse me!” Donald said.

“Now hit him with the chair leg again,” the hat said. He made his adjustable strap caress the back of Donald’s head lovingly.

Donald swung the chair leg and caught Christopher on the right side, below the ribs. Pain burst in his body like fireworks shoved in a cake.

“You like that, fat boy? You like that, Mr. Chunky Monkey?” Donald yelled hoarsely.

“Mr. Chunky Monkey?” the hair asked.

“I don’t know,” the hat said. “He just comes up with shit like that sometimes.”

“You want a banana?” Donald asked, prodding Christopher’s bleeding anus with the ragged end of the chair leg. “You want a fucking plantain? I can get a plantain, you know!”

“Slow down there, buddy,” the hair told Donald. “Maybe take a minute.”

“You pie-eating piece of shit! Endorse me! ENDORSE ME! I’m going to be your fucking President, burrito buffet! I CAN DO ANYTHING!” Donald began kicking Christopher in the perineum, wing-tips buried into taint over and over again.

“Donald! Stop!” the hat pleaded.

“Donald! Don’t kill him!” the hair begged.

“BRING ME DISCO FRIES!” the candidate screamed.

Monday, February 29, 2016

So Classy


“What the fuck is going on?” the hat mumbled. He was hanging from the rock-hard fake boob of a very classy hooker who was passed out in a very classy reproduction Louis XVI Gilded Fauteuil Arm Chair that she had dribbled piss all over.

“I WON’T DO IT!” Donald screamed.

“Hair? Where the fuck are you? He’s having another nightmare,” the hate said. “Wake him up.”


“Hair? Can you hear me?” the hat asked the darkened hotel room. After a moment, a message appeared in his cloud storage mailbox.

Im udr the hookr
teh hookr sat on me

lol the hat sent back

not funy she keps farting cum on me

lmao the hat replied

u dont have a ass
wake her get hr off me!!!!

hold on brb the hat sent him

“NO!” Donald screamed.

“Wake up!” the hat yelled. About 10% of humans could hear him: the broken, the weak, the insane. He tried to remember her name.

“Hooker! Wake up, hooker!” he screamed. He was sure he could get through to her. You didn’t get giant fake tits and let a Presidential candidate fuck you in the ass if you had a great childhood.

“NOOOOO!” Donald screamed again.

“Donald! Wake the fuck up!” the hat yelled.

The hotel room door beeped and Donald’s security rushed into the room. “Sir! Wake up, sir,” they yelled as they surrounded the bed. Donald tore himself from his nightmare and sat up.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“We heard screaming, sir,” his security chief told him. “More than normal, sir.”

“I’m fine. It was just a dream. Get out. And take the garbage with you,” Donald said. Two of his security team picked up the unconscious prostitute and dragged her from the room as they all filed out.

“I was having a terrible dream,” Donald said. “Everyone was urging me to jump.” He buried his face in his hands and began to sob.

“Are you OK?” the hat asked the hair.

“I’m stuck to this ugly chair with santorum, piss and hooker pussy drizzle… What do you think?” the hair asked.

“I don’t want to jump…” Donald moaned.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Donald,” the hat yelled. “I’ve told you a thousand times that’s not what Leap Day means!”

Friday, February 19, 2016

Damn, I Feel Like An Honorary Woman

“Do you want me to make you a woman, Bernie?” Gloria purred.

“Will it hurt? No. I don’t care. I’m tough I’m from Brooklyn. Go on. Do it. Feminism. Women. Yeah!” Bernie said rapidly. He strained against the stirrups to spread his legs even wider.

Gloria slapped the enormous dildo she had strapped around her waist, making it flail wildly. She reached forward and cranked the speculum in Bernie’s anus to its widest setting.

“This is the only thing, the ONLY thing, that makes sense in the dialectical of historical oppression of the working class, Gloria. I had humble beginnings. Humble. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth or in my ass. I’m from Brooklyn, Gloria. I’m tough. I’m like withered meat on a gnawed skeleton. Tough, Gloria.”

“Goddammit, Bernie. Do you ever shut up? I’m losing my artificial boner here.”

“I’ll be quiet, Gloria. This is your time. I understand that. I don’t need to talk.”

“Just shut up.”

“Oh, I’m shut up all right. Not a peep out of me, all right. Not a word. Enact your labor on my patriarchal ringpiece, Gloria. Make me valuable. MAKE ME!”

“I don’t think I want to do this anymore.” Gloria covered her breasts with her hands and looked around the squalid false consciousness removal room, the glass-doored cabinets of blood- and shit-covered dildos stood like silent soldiers of regret.

“What am I doing with my life?” she whispered.

“Gloria! Brooklyn! Marx! Rent control!” Bernie screamed, thrashing at his bonds. “Gloria!”

Gloria ran from the room and began to vomit loudly in the hallway.

Like Pope Soap On A Rope, So Dope

“Donald, do you really want to start a fight with the Pope?” the hair asked.

“Yes. Fuck him. Commie Pope. Filthy Brown Pope. Fuck him,” Donald said. He stretched in the blood-warm water of the Infinitus Pool and farted like a dying manatee.

“I don’t know, Donald. There are a lot of Catholic voters,” the hat said. The hat was perched on a shelf along with the hair, both far above the caustic waters of the Infinitus Pool.

“Leave me alone,” Donald grumbled. “I hate condoms just like I hate Filthy Browns. If Commie Pope wants to fuck with me, he’s going to find out what it’s like to get fucked right back. You mess with The Donald, you get the Donald right in your chocolate starfish!”

“The serum might have been a mistake,” the hair whispered to the hat.

“Yeah, yeah. He’ll be fine. The Infinitus Pool will restore him.”

“It’s just a hot tub, moron.”

“Donald doesn’t know that.”

“When was the last time the damn thing was even cleaned?”

“I told him the green slime was a luminous æther harvested from an organ only Muslim lesbians can grow.”

“What?” the hair exclaimed.

“And that it would make his whole body into an erection.”

“You’re mad. Simply mad.”

“He bought it, didn’t he? Look, you want to ride this moron all the way to the White House or not?”

Donald scraped a handful of mucosal algae from the side of the foul hot tub and began to rub it on his genitals.

“Look at him,” the hat said. “He’s an idiot that says whatever dumb shit we tell him to say. The only people dumber than him are the ones that want to vote for him. We’ve reached a critical mass of stupidity in this country. Now is our time! Donald is our way!” The hat began to cackle hysterically.

“What have I done?” the hair sobbed.

“Fuck the Pope!” Donald screamed, masturbating furiously, globs of algae flying into the air.

Thursday, February 18, 2016

The Serum

“I want to use the girl’s room. I like to hear them pee,” Donald whined.

“You can’t use the girl’s room. You’re a boy, Donald,” the hair said patiently. It massaged his head with tender tendrils.

“They hiss when they pee,” Donald whispered.

“Donald. Tighten up. We’re down in the national polls,” the hat barked. “You are running for President. I have plans for us.”

“That dude is going into the girl’s room,” Donald said, pointing at a hulking figure.

“Stop pointing, Donald. It’s not polite,” the hair said.

“That’s a transwoman,” the hat said.

“What the fuck is that?” Donald demanded.

“It’s a boy that turned himself into a girl,” the hair said.

“I can wear a dress. I like dresses sometimes,” Donald said. An aide was watching him whisper to himself. She went back to her Blackberry after a moment.

“It’s not just a man in a dress, Donald,” the hat said. “They have a surgery.”

“Not all of them,” the hair said.

“Shut up,” the hat said. “Don’t confuse him.”

“Surgery? What kind of surg… You mean they cut off their pee-pee and bubbles?!?”

The incessant clacking of tiny keyboards ceased when Donald began to yell. Donald’s body man prepared his tranquillizer gun.

“Donald! Quiet!” the hair hissed.

“I love my pee-pee!”

“Donald! For fuck’s sake!” the hat said.

Donald began to stroke his beloved member through his suit pants.

“We have to get him to call off the Town Hall,” the hair said to the hat.

“Oh, fuck. He just took it out. Look for cameras,” the hat said to the hair.

“I love my pee-pee,” Donald sobbed. A dart hit him in the left buttock and he sagged to the ground.

“Ah, shit. Now what are we going to do?” the hat moaned.

“Omega Protocol,” the hair said.

It thought, with all its coiffed might, at a nearby aide. The aide screamed and fell to the ground. She reached out to the body man, blood streaming from her eyes.

“He must go out. The serum. Give him the serum,” she said, her voice robotic and precise.

The body man nodded, produced a large syringe from his travel pack, and jammed it into Donald’s neck. Synthetic adrenalin, methamphetamine and the refined semen of a mighty stallion flowed into Donald’s bloodstream. His eyes snapped open.

“Will this work?” the hat asked the hair.

“I don’t know.”

“What if he goes out there and just spouts gibberish?”

“It’s MSNBC… who gives a fuck?”