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 √¶ther 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."