Monday, October 31, 2016

For mankind this is always the hour of Noon

"If I never see another Weiner again I'll die a happy woman," Hillary hissed.

"You will never die, my love," Huma whispered, lightly tracing the bridge of her son's nose with a fingernail the color of dried blood.

"Weiner email. Have you ever heard of anything more ridiculous?"

"650,000 emails, love," Huma said. "They will never find anything in it among all those dick pics and onion dip recipes. I swear it."

"I'm not mad at you, Huma. Never at you," Hillary grated. She snaked out a rugose tongue and began to groomed the thick hair around her anthracitic nipples.

"We should have killed him when the child proved to be a proper Vessel," Huma groused.

"No one could have guessed Comey would betray us," Hillary said.

"See? No one! No one could have guessed!" an insane Mook gibbered. Hillary jerked the chain riveted into his testicles until Mook came and fainted.

"January 21st I shall ascend and the Vessel will be filled with a power only it can contain. And they will all pay, Huma. Especially the Weiners. I hate Weiners."

Huma ululated loudly.

"Weiner," Hillary sniffed. "It's another word for penis, you know."

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," she replied.

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

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

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

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

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

Friday, October 14, 2016

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, October 12, 2016

Potato Party

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. I mean, I guess so,” she said.

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

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

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

“Frigid bitch,” Donald muttered.

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

“Feast, my friends. FEAST!”

Tuesday, October 4, 2016

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

“Stop doing that,” the hair snapped.

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

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

“You don’t breathe, idiot.”

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

They struggled in silence to get away from each other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You really think so?” the hair asked.

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

Donald farted explosively in the bathroom and groaned.