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

Auto-de-fé


"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.

“What?”

“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

“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.

“Sir?”

“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

Bootynomicon

“'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

Punishment

“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

“NO! I WON’T! I WON”T JUMP!”

“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.”

“YOU CAN’T MAKE ME JUMP!”

“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?”

Wednesday, February 3, 2016

SEX POWER DOME

“I should have done the debate,” Donald whispered into the dark confines of his SEX POWER DOME.

“That bleeder was going to be there,” the hat said. “You didn’t want to give it the satisfaction.”

“But Iowa…”

“Fuck Iowa. Just a bunch of lard-ass Jesus-suckers. If they want to vote for that mouthwhore, who cares?”

“But I barely beat Marco…” Donald cried. The antennae lining the SEX POWER DOME quivered, eager to drink his tears.

“He’s barely more than Ted’s cum dumpster. He wears heels, for fuck’s sake!” the hat told him.

Donald’s hair made a whimpering sound from the non-stick flooring of the SEX POWER DOME. The hat sat directly on Donald’s bald head, the trucker’s mesh gently caressing his scalp. The dead girl cooled where Donald had thrown her when he was finished.

“Have them send another in,” the hat whispered. Donald’s blood-smeared penis sprang to attention.

“ANOTHER!” he roared.

Massive bolts slid back after a moment and a nude blonde girl was thrown into the SEX POWER DOME by masked attendants. She was tall and starved skinny. She screamed and begged in some Eastern European gibberish.

“Ivanka!” Donald called. When the girl saw him--slavering, hulking, gross, erect, nude and bloodied--she screamed again. The SEX POWER DOME ate her screams, like it was slowly digesting the body of the other.

“Ivanka! It’s Daddy!” As he reached for she backed away. He caught her easily, moving obscenely fast for a bloated plutocrat. She babbled hysterically in his grasp.

“Ivanka? What is wrong? It’s just Daddy.” Donald kissed her tenderly on the cheek as she squirmed helplessly. She screamed again when he bit into her face.

“It’s just Daddy,” he said, around chewing a gobbet of her.

He jammed uncaring fingers into the girl’s vagina. He licked her tears from her face and rammed himself into her again and again. When she fainted, her slapped her with that same bloody hand and let her fall to the floor. The hat was chortling in purest glee. The hair wept silently.

“Don’t you love your Daddy?” He knelt beside her and ran his hand along her smooth flank. Just below the ribs he tore at her flesh with a madman’s strength. The girl woke and screamed again, her voice cracking, hoarse, dwindling to a croak.

Donald jammed his erection into the new orifice he had made in the girl. His hair screamed in terror and pity.

Monday, February 1, 2016

The Voice of The People

Freshly laundered, sanitized, washed again by hand and radiation sterilized, the hair and hat rode proudly into Iowa atop a beaming Donald, freshly laundered, sterilized and tranquilized himself.

As the limo cruised to the first stop, the hair whispered, afraid of being overheard by the crushing array of aides that had stuffed themselves into the car with their deranged god, "Just kiss the babies, Donald. Just a simple kiss. No tongue this time."

"But they are delicious," Donald rumbled.

"Dammit," the hat said. "You want a baby we'll get you one after the caucus. Eat it, serb it, sacrifice it to Aqua Buddha, who cares? Just hold it together today."

An aide threw a hand towel over Donald's erection and dialed back his Cialis pump with a smartphone app.

"Let me out of here!" Donald screamed suddenly. "LET ME OUT!"

"We're almost there, Mr. Trump," another aide said. He had a jet injector full of ketamine at the ready.

"I AM THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE!" Donald wailed.

"Look at his alpha waves. They're like the goddamn Andes!" a technician squealed.

"Hit him! HIT HIM!" another screamed.

"Donald, straighten up," the hair said. "We got important shit today."

"OK," Donald said in a small voice. "Will Mommy be there?"

"No, Donald," the hat told him.

The limo slowed to a stop in front of a sea of old white people. Donald reached for the door handle.

"Remember, Donald... sic transit gloria," the hair whispered.

Donald said, "Don't you dare speak Mexican to me."

Wednesday, January 27, 2016

Did you know he was from Brooklyn?


"I want you to rub your mutton flaps on me, Mr. President. I'm from Brooklyn. I can handle it. And I want to pay Negros like you 15 dollars an hour to rub your mutton flaps all over America," Bernie said. Aides all over the room gasped.

"I hear you, Bernie. And I understand," Barry said. "Clear the room."

Aides began to shuffle out. A dildo dropped out of one and bounced limply to the floor.

Barry pointed at the Secret Service guards on the door of the conference room. "You two as well."

"But Mr. President," one began.

"No. Out. I need to speak to the Senator alone." Barry watched as they left as well, securing the doors behind them."

"Tell me more about these mutton flaps, Bernie."

"Mr. President? Have you ever rubbed 29 different brands of deodorant on your balls at once? I am from Brooklyn. I'm tough. I'm a street fighter. And I'm telling you, it's not easy. 10 brands. Anyone can do that. 10 is nothing. Nothing. 15? Now you're talkin'. 15 is a man's number. That's why it should be the minimum wage. Even for Negroes. I love Negroes, Mr. President. That's why I am worried about their balls. Their nutsacks. Cojones. Testicles, Mr. President. I'm talking about testicles."

"The Affordable Care Act mentions testicle care on thousands of pages," Barry said. He could feel the ruin of his penis filling with blood.

"That's not good enough. We need single payer Negro testicle care and deodorizing. Every other civilized country in the world takes care of Negro testicles better than we do. Every one of them, Mr. President." Bernie's hair was swirling on his head like fierce white flames. "And for less money too! Often less than 15 dollars per Negro testicle."

"What about white people testicles?" Barry asked. He began to rub his crotch on the corner of the conference table.

"Reparations! White testicle privilege! Not all be-penised and testiculated Americans deserve to be cared for in the same manner. Whites have gotten enough! I am from Brooklyn. I'm a scrapper. I care about black and brown balls!"

"The points you are making are perfectly reasonable, Bernie. I understand them completely." Barry continued molesting the table corner, digging it harder and harder into his odoriferous scrotum.

"I can smell your balls, Mr. President. I'm tough. I’m from Brooklyn."



Monday, January 25, 2016

As Seen On TV

“This is going to be horrible,” Donald’s hair whispered.

“Stop whining, bitch. At least you aren’t jammed in his back pocket,” Donald’s hat groused.

Sarah stumbled out on the stage, waving to the crowd of braying retards the campaign had recruited from the line of people waiting for blind dates at Frisch’s Big Boy.

“What in the holy fuck is she wearing?” the hair rhetoricalled.

“Dammit. What does it look like? Tell me!” the hat demanded.

“It’s… I don’t really fucking know. It’s like a half cape covered in, I dunno, stainless steel ziti, maybe?”

“Say what? Oh, Christ, Donald! I think he had nothing to eat yesterday except hard-boiled eggs.”

“It jangles,” the hair said, with growing horror. “I think she made it herself, some sort of deranged Bedazzler seizure.”

“I told you we should have got appearance approval,” the hat said.

“Her handlers said no. They said they’d rather shock her back into her crate and take her back to Mooserape, Alaska.”

“Son of a fuck. It’s like Fart City, USA down here,” the hat groaned. “Wait… what did she just say?”

“No clue, dude,” the hair said. “It’s like a homeless street preacher. You just sort of tune her out after a while. I think she rhymed ‘holy rollers’ with ‘rock ’n’ rollers.’”

“I can barely hear down here in assland,” the hat said. “And the crowd noise.”

“They are pretty much cheering and clapping at random,” the hair sneered.

“Sarah is a genius. Sarah is a wonderful. I love Sarah. Sarah is so smart. And the crowd is all geniuses. Geniuses. You two should shut up. You two shut up about Sarah. I don’t care about much weight she’s put on. I love her,” Donald muttered.

“Calm down, Donald,” the hair whispered. It massaged his head to soothe him.

“Yes, calm down,” the hat said. “And please stop farting.”

“I’m not farting,” Donald said, his words almost lost in the torrent of madness from Sarah and the sounds of the crowd touching themselves. “I’m making my butt cheeks clap for Sarah. My dear Sarah.”

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

Big smile! Big Smile!

“I am just saying what everyone is thinking,” Donald moaned. “Why are people so mean to me?”

“I don’t know, Donald,” Donald’s hat said. “They are probably just jealous of your genius and your money and you gorgeousness.”

“And your hair,” Donald’s hair said. The hat snorted in disgust.

“Everyone hates Mexicans, right? I mean, they are filthy and rapey and smell like old corn. Everyone knows this. I just want to keep them out of the country. I just want to keep the country pure.”

“Of course, Donald,” his hat said.

“And Muslims. Everybody hates Muslims, right? Everyone knows they all want to kill us. Every single one of them. Why can’t I keep them out? Why can’t I be the big brave dog that barks at them to keep them out of our yard?”

“You will be, Donald,” the hat said. “Only you are smart enough to know that they all want to kill us. Letting them walk around is just like putting a gun to your head and pulling the trigger.”

“Jesus,” the hair mumbled.

“Shut the fuck up, twat. I’m running the show now. Listening to you let that mumbling retard doctor rise in the polls,” the hat hissed.

“Nobody knows how hard it’s been on me,” Donald whispered. “What a struggle it has been.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice to just burn all your troubles away?” the hat asked.

“Burn?” Donald asked.

“Fire is clean,” the hat said. “Fire is pure. Fire tempers out the weakness in even steel. We have to make America strong again. Make it great again.”

“Do you even know what you are starting?” asked the hair.

“I said shut up. I have the morons on my side now, those too weak to see that they will be next. They will do what I say,” the hat said, its brim gleaming in the far off light of the sunrise.

“Burn,” Donald whispered. “Burn. Burn. Burn. They’ll all burn.”

Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Tedco Rubiruz

"This doesn't make me a faggot!' Ted screamed as Marco rammed his penis into him again and again.

"No. You're my faggot, Ted. I'm making you my faggot. I'm going to fuck you inside-out," Marco moaned. He pulled his penis out and spit into Ted's gape. He made The Silent Duck with his right hand and pulled Ted's asshole on like a tight glove.

"Oh, Gawd, Marco! Oh Gawd! I feel like I'm taking every shit I ever took in reverse! Oh Gawd! Oh Gawd! Oh Gawd! I want to fuck Jesus!" Ted let out an animal howl as Marco sank into him up to his tanned, Latino elbow.

"I can feel what you had for lunch, you spicy little bitch," Marco crooned. He pulled out his arm and smacked Ted in the face, leaving a black and bloody smear.

"Lick it clean, you fat fuck. Or I stick down your throat and tear out your heart," Marco said. At the first run of Ted's tongue down his forearm, Marco's cock vomited chunky semen on Ted's tits. But Ted began to cry.

"What is it, mi corazon? Did I hurt you?" Marco asked. Ted's entire body began to shake. Marco peppered his face with kisses.

"Please, please tell me what is wrong," Marco begged, tears in his voice.

"I'm just so afraid, Marco," Ted blubbered, snot streaming from his nose.

"Ted. Calm down, Ted. There aren't any transgendered people here," Marco whispered, running his hands through Ted's greasy, thinning hair.

"Their penis-pocket dresses are rustling. I can hear them with my special ears," Ted whispered. He curled his doughy dadbod into a tight fetal shape and began to suck his thumb.

Monday, November 9, 2015

some people "were so energized that they could not cope with the dynamo effects they experienced"

Donald’s agonized wail echoed through the vast confines of his underground lair.

“Dammit, Benji! It was my time. MY TIME! I WAS GONNA BE YUUUGE!” he screamed. Ben’s face was frozen in mid-grimace on the enormous televisual monitorscope.

“Oh, fuck… here we go,” his hair muttered.

“Goddammit! Get him to turn me around or put me on or something. I can’t see anything!” the hat said from the couch.

“You don’t have eyes, asshole.”

“Would you shut up about my anatomy? It’s becoming very hurtful.”

“Why are they paying attention to Benji? I was on Saturday Night Live! The whole country loves me!” Donald sobbed. He blew snot into his hand and went back to his mournful masturbation.

“Straighten up, Donald!” his hair said. “You have to be better than this, stronger than this.”

“I don’t want to be strong no more. I want my Mommy,” Donald said. His whine sickened his hair and disgusted his hat.

“Hillary’s off caramelizing Bernie’s apple, you pathetic fuck,” the hat screamed. Donald only cried harder.

“You are not helping,” the hair told the hat.

“They love Benji now. Benji’s gonna be YUUUGE! I could be a doctor. Give me a fucking knife!”

“Uh, yeah, we’re not going to do that,” the hair said.

“NURSE! SCAPEL! SHAVE THE PATIENT! I’M GOING IN THROUGH THE BALLS!” Donald screamed.

“Can’t you shit some Thorazine into his brain?” the hat asked.

“We’re just going to have to ride this out,” the hair said. “Hopefully he’ll be fine by the morning.”

“I got ideas about pyramids, too!” Donald mumbled. “I think they are the three nipples of the Earth and milk will flow if we suck hard enough. Enough milk for everybody. EVERYBODY.”

“Jesus titty-fucking Christ,” the hat said.

“I wanna poop on a pyramid! BUY ME A PYRAMID!” Donald wailed.

Monday, October 26, 2015

FINISH HIM!

“Yeah, baby. Flip it. Flip that pancake, bitch. One side is all toasty, the other all gooey. Aw, yeah… gooey.”

“Will you shut up? He’s trying to concentrate,” Donald’s hair told Donald’s hat.

“Maybe he should concentrate on that huge boner he got shaking hands outside,” the hat said, giggling uncontrollably.

“I don’t know why you think it’s so funny. It happens every time.”

“Press the flesh,” the hat managed, gasping for air with his little hat lungs. “I’m going to wrap a gooey pancake around that dick and fuck one of these MILFs.”

“I hate Iowa,” Donald’s hair said. “The whole state smells like Walmart wiped its ass with it. But I think New Hampshire might be worse. Clean air, wholesome people, trees. I fucking loathe trees. Oh, shit… here comes that asshole Lauer.”

“You know, rumor has it that he’s been fucking Natalie for years,” the hat whispered.

“You’re shitting me.”

“No, seriously. One of her kids even looks just like him. Oh, man. I’d love to bust her taco. I’d put my spicy sauce in her, fill her up like jizz barge.”

“You don’t even have a penis.”

“Neither do you, faggot.”

“I’m not a fag, you’re the fag. Adjustable strap faggot.”

“I hope he drops you in a toilet again,” the hat hissed.

“I hope you’re donated to the National Presidential Museum of Huge Faggotry. I hope a janitor jacks off into you and there’s blood in it.”

“That’s it, motherfucker. This is happening right fucking now!”

Donald’s hat and hair began to fight on top of his head, grunting and cursing. Donald’s hand clamped down on them, but Lauer’s eyes were wild with fright.

“Stupid wind,” Donald said. “When America is great again, I’m going to get rid of wind. Except for kites. Kite wind is OK. I love kites. You and Natalie ever fly kites together? Does her pussy taste like fajitas?”

“You’re worse than Biden,” Lauer said. “At least he only tries to touch my dick.”

Thursday, October 22, 2015

We Defy Augury

“You don’t have to do this,” Joe pleaded as Hillary shackled his left leg. “I did what you wanted. You saw the news conference!”

“Too late! Too late! You lingered like the stink you leave in Amtrak bathrooms!” She moved in, the hot corruption of her breath in his face.

“Good old Joe,” she whispered. “Everyone loves Joe. Everyone loves Joe’s wife.” She pulled off his tie and slit the neck and arms of his sweat-stained dress shirt.

“Everyone love Joe’s kids, especially the dead one.” Hillary gathered up the crotch fabric on his dress pants and pulled. She used the razor to cut along the inseam on both sides and then ripped them off his waist. Joe began to sob.

“No one loves Hillary’s beautiful baby, not even that moron we paid very well to marry her and knock her up. Why is it, Joe? Why does everyone love you so much?” She cut his boxers off and stuffed them in his mouth.

“This is some fucked up shit, yo,” Donald’s hat whispered.

“Shut up you idiot. She might hear you,” his hair replied.

“I don’t know why I have to be here,” Donald said, to no one. Hillary turned on him, slashing the air with the razor.

“Because I want you here. I want you to witness what happens to those who betray me!” she screamed. She pounced on Joe and sliced off his right nipple with a single motion of the blade. He screamed through his underwear. She picked the nipple off the floor and ate it.

“Um. Meaty. I wonder what other parts of you are good?” She squatted in front of him and smelled his genitals intently, like a dog getting that last whiff of old piss from a hydrant.

“God, Joe. You’re balls smell so good. Like honey and old Bibles.” She made a small, careful cut along the seam of his scrotum and licked. “But your blood, Joe. Not so good. Are you dying Joe? That would be a real fucking shame, right, Donald?”

“Yes, Mommy. Whatever you say,” Donald said. He farted wetly and a long string of anal beads clattered on the warehouse floor.

“Pick those up!” Hillary screamed, her pendulous breasts wobbling with rage.

“Yes, Mommy.”

“You know what, Joe?” she asked, turning back to him. “You did do what I asked. Maybe a little late, maybe not when I told you too, but you did OK. I think you deserve a reward.” Joe’s eyes went wide with terror. He began struggling to free himself, straining at the shackles.

“Yeah, Joe. You know what’s coming, don’t you? You’re going to get the ass, Joe.” She turned and bent over. Joe screamed again, a pathetic sound. Underneath it Donald could hear the eager gnashing as she backed toward him.

“I wish he had left me in the car,” the hat said.

“He never leaves me in the car,” the hair moaned.

“Who said that?!?” Hillary screeched. In the rafters of the warehouse a bird died and fell to the floor.

Wednesday, October 14, 2015

YUUUUGE! For Mommy! YUUUUGE!

“It’s gonna be YUUUGE! YUUUGE! I swear! But it might take a minute!” Donald rasped. His hair smirked at his limp penis.

“It’s fine,” Hillary said. “It happens to all guys. Just hurry up. I can only act like this is a faggoty-ass pancake breakfast for so long before the Benghazi Committee will add it to the agenda.” She toyed with Donald’s ball cap, twirling it around her finger.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” the hat moaned.

“I guarantee you won’t be the first thing that’s ever thrown up in this chick’s lap,” Donald’s hair said.

“Am I at least doing a good job, Mommy?” Donald asked. “Am I distracting them like you and Daddy told me too?”

“Yes, Donny. You’re doing a very good job of being a dumbass,” Hillary told him. “And you’re going to be ‘yuge,’ I promise.” She threw the hat down and parted her vast thicket of pubic hair. Her labia parted with the sad grumble of old Velcro and her gnarled clitoris emerged. “Does this help? Are you getting hard, Donny?”

“I’ll get hard for you, Mommy. Donny will get YUUUGE for Mommy!”

“This is disgusting,” his hair said.

“It really is,” said the hat from the floor. “At least I’m half under the bed. All I have to see is her horrible thighs. They’re quivering, dude. Quivering.”

“I really hope he doesn’t go down on her,” the hair said. “It smells like a litter box down there.”

“I’m trying to CONCENTRATE!” Donald yelled at them both.

“I know you are,” Hillary said. “Mommy is very proud of you.” She lifted her legs for him and farted like a startled trumpet.

“OH GOD, YES!” Donald gurgled and sucked in the miasma.

“What in the name of all holy fuck does this old whore eat?” Donald’s hair managed.

“Huma,” the hat chortled. “And whatever rancid cockcheese Michelle leaves all over Barry.”

“Oh, fuck. Don’t make me laugh,” the hair choked out. “It’s so thick up here I swear I can taste it.”

“You don’t have a tongue,” the hat said.

“You think that matters? You get up here and soak in the hot garbage coming out of her horrid nethers for a while.”

“Please be quiet,” Donald whispered.

“What was that?” Hillary asked, looking up from her phone.

“Nothing, Mommy,” Donald said. He began to twirl his flaccid tycoon like a lasso, hoping to rouse it from its frightened slumber.

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Maybe now you see why we need each other so much...

“Why did you say those mean things about Carly, Donald?” his hair asked in a whisper. They were right outside and Donald’s hair was afraid they it would be overheard.

“I didn’t say anything about her looks, I was just talking about her looks. You of all my friends should know this!” Donald replied in his own urgent whisper.

“Lay off him, hair,” Donald’s hat said. “He’s doing the best he can.” Donald’s hat was on a chair next to  the chamber. It had plans for America and no stupid hair was going to stand in its way.

“Fuck off, hat.”

“No, you fuck off!” the hat screamed. It was yelling, raging, shivering. It hated the hair so much.

“I never said nothing bad about Carly. I love Carly. I love the mutilated ruin of her diseased tits!” Donald screamed at them both. Tears were streaming down his face.

“Calm down, Donald. They’ll hear you,” his hair hissed.

“I don’t care,” Donald sobbed. “Meliana doesn’t love me anymore. Dumb bleeding cunt. Why doesn’t she love me?”

“She’s 44, Donald,” the hat said. “It’s time to dump her and get a new model.”

“Don’t listen to him, Donald,” the hair said. “She still has a few more years left in her.”

“You’re sticking it in something born in the 1970s, Donald,” the hat said. “Don’t you want some young tail? At least some 80s quim, juicy and tender?”

Donald smiled. “Ivanka was born in the 80s…”

Donald’s hair and his hat both sighed heavily.

“You want to take it this time?” the hat asked.

“I fucking hate you so much,” the hair replied.

“Donald,” the hair began. “We’ve talked about this before…”

The hat and the hair both fell silent when the doors to the chamber opened. A technician peered through the fogged glass of the revival chamber.

“Señor Trump?” he asked. “Do you need something? I heard you talking, but the microphones could not pick it up.”

“Go away,” Donald said, and he began to gently fondle himself.

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

"Terrible experiences make one wonder whether he who experiences them is not something terrible."

“What’s bred in the bone comes out in the flesh,” she whispered. The sickly smell of corrupted meat was the only perfume she ever wore and it raced from his nose straight to his penis on a wave of blood. His erection sprang into her hand with an audible slap and she clamped down on it with a hideous grip.

“You’re weak, Joe,” she whispered, raspy and hoarse. “Everyone knows it. Spineless like your father; meek like your mother. You were created by cowardice and a coward you are.” She squeezed the blood from his penis and glanced down to watch it rush back in after she released it. “This is all you’ve ever been good for, a cheap fuck in a train toilet.”

“That that that’s not true,” he stuttered. He licked at the slack skin of her neck as she forced the blood out his erection again. She wadded his penis up like a FOIA request and bore down. It felt like his scrotum would burst.

“You can’t run,” she said, the puckered asshole of her mouth barely moving.

“P-p-p-lease,” he whined, he whimpered, he said in a wet sob. She was crushing his penis into his body. She caught up his balls in her other hand and caressed them into one large bruise.

“You won’t run,” she said. “I’ll tear it off and fuck you with it. I’ll deglove it and use the skin as a condom when I fuck Bernie. I’ll suck the maggots from the wound and spit them in your mouth. You won’t run.” She dug her thumbnail into the underside of his penis, feeling the tendons under the skin. Joe moaned in terror and pleasure. “You won’t run. You won’t run. You won’t run.”

When he fainted, she squatted to urinate on him.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Shaddup. Sit down. SIT down. Shaddup.

“Why do you put the hat on me, Donald?” asked Donald’s hair.

“Don’t listen to him, Donald,” Donald’s hat whispered. “He’s always hated me. You know he’s always hated me. I am truth, Donald. I love you.”

Donald’s pubic hair rustled in agreement. Or maybe the limo just lurched.

“Would you two fucking shut up for just a minute?” Donald screamed. “I need to concentrate!” He squeezed the tip of his glans, forcing his urethra to gape open. He guided the 100mg Viagra in with forceps and pushed it down the shaft of his penis as far as he could.

“Are you sure that’s how you are supposed to do it?” Donald’s hair asked.

“Pipe down, feathery,” Donald’s hat growled. “The man knows what he is doing.”

“I have to be ready for Iowa. Iowa is YUGE! I need to be YUGE!” Donald told his hair. He grabbed a handful of the blue pills from a candy dish and shoved them in his mouth. He chewed him into a paste and washed them down with 20 year cognac cut with Bud Light Lime.

The Green Mountain State

"But I need it," Bernie pleaded.

"It's not easy, Bernie. It takes a minute," Hillary said. She reared up from her squat and dropped back down, a low gruntle rumbling forth.

"Is it coming?" he asked, looking back over his shoulder. "I need it. You have it. I want it. Give it to me." He was whining. His weakness made her sick and aroused. She strained again and something inside her snapped like cheap sunglasses.

"OK, Bernie. It's starting," she said.

"Oh, thank Atheist God! Thank you, Atheist God! You have bestowed your nonexistent blessings upon us this day!" Bernie started to sway, still on his hands and knees.

"Shut that shit up. I still need to concentrate!" Hillary screamed. She waddled forward in her squat. Her prolapsed vagina slowly inflated into a rigid pseudopenis.

"I'm going to core you, Bernie. Core you like a crisp Vermont fuckapple."

Tuesday, August 4, 2015

Lunchables

Wharton Grad has solution to Bay Area housing crisis

The delicate scent of baked hipster drifted down the length of the wharf. Steve Smith's stomach grumbled and then whispered "Steve Smith. To the docks, Steve Smith." Nerve pathways carved out by a lifetime of pain fired. The enormous beast dropped the seal he was rapeating and began to lumber toward the deliciousness.

A flock of overweight nude humans fluttered past him on bicycles, their buttocks raised in their seats like a tender offering as they tried to get away. Their screams made his swollen testicles ache. The seal blood dried on his penis and mouth as he gathered speed. Baked hipster was near. That rarest treat.

The smell overwhelmed Steve Smith, but all he could see were steel boxes. Steve Smith hated the steel of men. He could rarely get at the sweet meat within in it. Steve Smith sniffed at the seams of one of the boxes. He knew baked hipster was inside. He roared and beat the box with his mighty wood ape fists, using all his wood ape strength.

"STEVE SMITH WANT HIPSTER MEAT!" Steve Smith roared.

Thursday, June 25, 2015

The Fat-Free, Low-Cal Rubyfruit Jungle


"Rub the salt in," Michelle purred while her giant hands stuffed a third turnip into Rachel's blonde quim.

"Call me a nigger," Rachel begged. "Call me your nigger bitch." The coarse salt stung her hands as she scrubbed it over Michelle's large and hairless scrotum.

"Take my lady cock in your mouth, nigger bitch. Don't stop until you nigger choke on it," Michelle ordered.

"It's so savory," Rachel mumbled around Michelle's giant cock. "So perfectly seasoned!" she gasped, the penis slurping out of her mouth when Michelle jammed the fourth turnip in.

Michelle reached down, took her penis by the root, and began slapping Rachel in the face with it.

"I didn't say you could stop eating me out, you black cunt," Michelle growled.

She rabbit punched Rachel in the clit. The angle was awkward, but Michelle's enormous strength still sent a tsunami of pleasure through Rachel's tanned body, making the manic bird's nest of her hair quiver. She screamed out, but it was choked off by Michelle's thrusting member. Michelle exploded in Rachel's throat after a half dozen powerful thrusts, her huge thighs shuddering as she drained herself into her.

They both fell back on the mattress, sated and moaning. Turnips shat themselves from Rachel's vagina with soft, wet plops. They held each other in the afterglow, two strong, proud black women who defied the world with their forbidden love.