Happy Halloween On Thanksgiving Day!

THE MISAPPROPRIATION OF LITTLE WHITE LIES CAN MAIM AND EVEN KILL-Jonathan Swift

The Bestest of the Bestest of the Bestist Pundits: Donald "The John" Trump

-- reporting from Alice Springs, Victoria Province, Australia

It was a lovely Turkey Day touchdown in the formerly-named Washington D.C.  While desertification had set in--early too!--temperatures rising to unparalleled numbers of winning.  But nevertheless the subjects of the Klingon wannabe all pretended to be ice-skating anyway, all in celebration of the Emperor of the oddly-Confederate States-like emblem of X.  Just like the Confederate battle flag.  

Will wit never cease breathing?  

Why was Washington D.C. a now-unused name?  On top of one massive opinion piece (totally factual), a triumph of punditry in that Emperor only needed two sentences, all caps, to fully describe every little thing that is what it is in a town The Bestest Jebus renamed the swamped area this: 

Whoops, V.A.  

On that day, now long in the past (where the maggots of MAGA always lusted to take the former United States asa far back into the background as inhumanely possible; you know, as something long gone and part of a tradition of FAKE NEWS! and ego-tipsy heritage), huge TV billboards encircled the now-named "Crapitalist Bonanza" of a town., And on those massive HDTV screens put up by the rulership?  

Celebrate!  Leni Riefenstahl's "Triumph of the Will", urgently Confederate grey, soft tones best seen on the grey walls of the Grey House where the Emperor lived in effigy; it flickered like the wings of a dove on Sunday--for anyone not blinded by the true Brilliance of The Emperor of Punditry to dishonestly regale on the people's dime.  

But with ample commercial breaks!  Strength Thru Joy! is what they called these regular breaks: "You'll feel better with a plastic Haute sweater!" "Wear our spankin' new see-thru three-piece suits for only $45,873.39!  Now at a 7-11 near you!  And remember!  Keep It Short, Amerikons!"

Shit like that.  And atop the now-defunct Washington Post building, a statue.  Of a big bald head.  Captioned in lights: "White courtesy telephone call for Jebus line 7!" A monument to winning and propagandistic whine rags.  Where birds are forbidden to line their cages.  

Yes, the Post did exist.  It was at this future date with fate less an information and facts desemination hub as in the olden days where every little one of us was "ignorant as fuck"; more of one of those free advert sheets "which bring buyers and sellers together for personal liberties and buying experiences!"  

Gone was the Satanic notion that reliable information is a necessity for anything democratic or republican. No more!  Only more and more "personal liberties" for the rulers and money pilgrims who love running the show to advance only personal liberties for people who "go along to get along". 

Be gone ye!  No, the American people were no longer the bosses whose representatives compromise and work together for the betterment of all of us.  Even if the vast majority of Americans of those bright times in the sun sincerely desired to grab the evil plutocrats (there were nice ones, but all of them were labeled in the press with a slur: George Soros.); yes, grab them, topple them all face down, slam steel toed work boots on their backs and then pull their vesicular tails right off their lard-ass bodies.

Caw! Caw! Caw! hollered the crows.  Then there was the grand "Bunker Hunt"--in search of purloined Nazi silver in Argentina, a name of a country which is named "the land of silver". 

High ho's, Silver!  Wilbur says, "Hey!"  

But none of that.  As the Emperor hath Tweeted: "I am the law!"  And, as he rose to power (he now lives in a hyperbaric chamber far above us all as it orbits the earth as a "matter of mob supervision"), Congress as a swing set became an orgy of appeasement; all members pretending to represent the people daily dropped into crouches on the newly-minted carpet that looked like dollar bills in a swirl of haute fashion, and after a short crowlike murmuration fluttered like dark shadows along the walls, all "representatives" lowered their heads to the floor and shouted: 

"Thou art very very strong, stronger than any Emperor pundit in the history of all time and before time even was, like nothin' you've seen before, sire!"  

At the ring of a bell, the "reps" raised their heads back then, and offered hog calls to the Emperor of Punditry: USA!  USA!  USA!

Oddly, during those times of "only fate allowed by order of the Emperor of Punditry", U.S.A was pronounced like this--with a Queens brogue: 

"USER!  USER!  USER!"  

Even odder: As prophesied in Bernard Malamud's stories of men imploring to God, only the Emperor of Punditry was allowed to speak through Tweet with double quotation marks, double-marks as emblems of "incontinent divinity".  

Thus, an LED signboard above the now lauded worldwide Grey House On A Molehill depicts Emperor of Punditry with his back facing all viewers, and his bloody slacks down as he bends over to the subjects of the country and asks a simple question: 

"'YOU WANNA BUY SOME REAL ESTATE?""

People by then had been taught to cheer on orders from God-Emperor.  The word, "Hosanna" was no longer used--because it sounded like words from a "very very bad hombre" from the former country of Mexico, now conquered and renamed: "Beaner Land".  

"Ju a-spic-a Spanish???  Ju a-fly-o un yumbo yet to escrito en AC/DC???"  

Unhappily, underground observers of Da Nude Amerikon, distributed by winos but only after midnight, reported that one un-noteworthy six year old girl, upon meeting the Emperor of Punditry, shouted, "ROSANNA DANNA ANNA!" instead of "Hosanna The Manual Labora" as would have been fit before his Eye On The Sky Majesty.  Eye On This Guy?  Like that monstrosity in Las Vegas, Nevada?  

But the little girl.  She was shot dead on the spot by a drunken Praetorian Guard named Peetee Weetee.  

Nevertheless, the crowd acclaimed the human sacrifice that achy-breaky afternoon, according to Da Nude Amerikon, and though the body of the cute little towhead had officially disappeared, rumor had it that the human sacrifice was sumarily skinned, and the skin was eaten in a secret ceremony of sacrificial inception of empire, the project called... 

American Carnage Carnival. Praise The John!  Her blood was drunk.  To celebrate another grand opening.  

For all subject Amerikons, beyond the celebration of the latest inception, Thanksgiving Day had been exchanged with another day, and thus all the politician-subject-dope shorties across the downsized government celebrated Halloween on Turkey Day.  Stacks of money were paid for even the very very worst of very very strong and aromatic costumes.  

Ah yes!  A duple!  One political party!  A party like a psychedelic rave!  All the turkeys defeathered for the drunkenly doped-up ceremonies to come. 

Amerikon--the Biggest Turkey of them all!  Talk a good game at the mic--get voted back onto the meal ticket or office!  

Nothing quite like seeing their reps and refs in neon green umbrella dresses sporting turkey heads (real ones!) atop their teeny-tiny little heads, all of them dancing the twist to Donnie and Marie Osmond's "A Little Bit Country, A Little Bit Rock N Roll".  

Donnie and Marie: Our Revolutionary Sweethearts!  

Divided, conquered, set apart in two rather musical genres of what once was dubbed politics, the then-renamed legislative body, Kon-Grease, went through all-greased-up motions like an 81-year-old virgin getting laid for the very first time at a bus stop.  Without KY jelly too!   

Her name to history?  "Ha!"  

There had once been a human, a mere human by the name of Gordon there in the land of Borgia the Victor.  He'd really wanted to make at least something of all the federally-issued National Student Defense Loan-funded grant and scholarships, money that funded his impoverished family's dreams of a son of a suicide father and a mother in grief's hopes he could make practical consequences of his education at a state university. 

That Gordonian wannabe then became the poster child for "fraud, waste and abuse".  

That  pathetic bid for some justice and civil rights had been repealed in a fake courtroom deep in the malignant heart of Texas: Life sentence.  "Should convict coerce ego-enslaved self into rightist Xian righteousness, our self-appointed Judgment Team shall maybe, like, advance his conversion to the faith and give him his pencil back."   

Never happened.  The wannabe named Gordon had two left feet.  How could he dance to the rightist fruits of The John of the Grey House to the formerly-titled Abba hit, "Dancing Queen"? when he had no right foot in the first place?  

Two left feet: It is what it is, motherfuckers.  The future will shout: Yeah, yeah, yeah, go wave your brownish leather limp-covered Bibles around your heads and condemn the ghost, the scary djinn, of being impolite in the face of unutterable power games and ego trips. 

His mother, widowed.  Himself, orphaned.   

But the power mad forgot: Exodus 22: 22-24 warns:  “Don’t mistreat widows or orphans. If you do and they cry out to me, you can be sure I’ll take them most seriously; I’ll show my anger and come raging among you with the sword, and your wives will end up widows and your children orphans."

Fuck that shit. Right?  Sorry for the interruption of a narrative.  

Then.  Not to be stymied by some human that would not dance to the Holy Toonz, the Abba song, "Dancin' Queen", was nevertheless co-opted by The Rulership of the Grey House John, and the Swedish band itself, lost now to a "history of the future", which is gay, has been renamed by The John Himself: 

YABBA DABBA DOO! 

 

All the infantalized kids, having congress with the Holy Ideology, thus stepped out to the new re-brand title, "Very Very Bad Dancer of Queens".  Good times!  

The Trued Queen of the John?  She exercised "personal liberty" in a deeply licentious way: No telling how many Secret Service and IC agents did her.  Or did The Queen of the John do them?  According to the underground's Da Nude Amerikon, it's entirely possible both occurred at the very same time; many times.  The Queen of the John was O-ganizing those secrets to service herself.  And as a secret reward, she got to place her amazing ass on the lips of a golden toilet!  

Praise be best! Oh Lard!  Praise Carefree Lifestyle!    

"Democracy Dies In Darkness", once the emblazoned axiom of the former Washington Post (often called AlPo by disgruntled and janitorial Opinion's editorial board mopped-up "memberships (not members, that's obscenity!) engaged via the principle of self-interest to be brand-changed.  

Some astute moneychangers in the accounting department enthusiastically rallied for this: 

"Darkness Drowns Democracy! Yay!" 

But at the end times of democracy in Amerikon, the newly converted whine rag's dear leader chose something more apropos: 

THIS RUNTZ WEED BUD IS SOME AMAZON PRIMO SHIT, TOTAL FUCKIN' GREEN DUDE!"

Alas the flagship is no longer an above-ground Venezuelan swift-boat.  People still pay dearly for it.  

Instead, and in a sign of those long gone times, the three-piece suit-gonzo promo rag had been coerced into rebranding the phrase self-interest into this: 

Self-entranced.  

The bosses went on weekly "top-cruises" to Jamaica too.  On the boat they all sang Bob Marley's posthumous anthem:

To a reggae beat, everyone higher than a horse-fucked duck on board, the bossmen all sang!  Mmm!  Sang--along to what was supposedly written from the very very grave by the dead Rastafarian: 

"I'm-a so tired a-livin' in-a this box!"  

Oh, Lardy-Lard!  A good-boy time was rad by all!  

And the Gordon wannabe?  He tried "gettin' right" with Jebus Of The Newz, yet failed.  He ushered after all from an ancient warrior clan, and like all warriors worth their salt, he inevitably pursued to the left: Bar Sinister.  Otherwise known as "the death side of war". 

So what if fierceness was in his DNA?  Who the fuck cared if one of his ancestors was the valiant Charles Gordon, known affectionately by the Chinese people as "Chinese Gordon", statues everywhere in the then-PRC of the great British general who died at Khartoum--as seen in Cinerama and starring Charleton Heston!  Dig it!  Or the malevolent Norman MP, Jon  Rives, a total social justice warrior.  

The paper's dear leader wasn't only descended from the Queen of England, he was the Queen of England.  And everybody knows!  The Queen On The Rag!   

After being failed for not embracing the Holy Ideology, which is writ in stone on the rulership's many two-faced godhead foreheads, Gordon Wannabe did try...

...to become a contortionist.  All right!  Everything, Right!  Right, ON!  Yet no one took streetside slang half-seriously, even as those supposedly smarmy "power to the people" upraised fists had

been labeled "communistic" by cosmopolitan "retards" with "retard strength" enough to do it to themselves like an upside down chin-up on a misused flagpole in the noonday sun.  Horrible and demented "world eaters".  Every little thing, even Down Syndrome, was then ever-chewable and tasty behind the scenes as useful to usurpers and regular old surpers.  

Michael Jackson as satirized by Weird Al Yankovik: "EAT IT!"

Back to the anti-dramatics: As a contortionist in training, in an unhappy turnabout with a totalized lack of reciprocity in media, Gordon managed to break his legs trying to twist to the rightist delight and "delish"--in a move banned by even the Kama Sutra. 

Yet despite that horrifying conclusion to busted hopes and dreams, he knew that, even after that funereal EZ LAFFZ Outta-Sight And Behind The Scenes roast-the-body rump politics roast, as seen in el cheap-o European cologne commercialism; nope, outlawed Kama Sutra attempt to become rightist as an indian Head Penny or not, he'd definitely been boned.  

Sometimes Gordon Wannabe sat on the porch of that private-equity mishandled apartment complex's manager office and noted to himself and the drawer that the weird old Texas flag was absent when its "gummermint savin' cheap cotton cloth" tattered itself off the flagpole, and what was left was this: 

A big, silver, topless dancer pole just a-shinin' in the 96 degree winter sun.  Welcome TOURISTS!  Life sentence up the ass-end of the Pre-Public of Tex-Ass!  

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