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.