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    With the Old Boss pt.1 A Horse named “Chance”

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    November 7th, 2020. Philadelphia.

    The penultimate act was pure Gonzo. Rudy “Mephisto” Giuliani, ex-New York mayor, presidential fixer and cannibal corpse, swoops down from his perch atop Gotham’s Woolworth Building to perform a back alley ballot abortion on a makeshift set strategically placed between a dildo shop and a crematorium.

    Triumph of the Will meets Spinal Tap. On live TV.

    One cannot simply write this stuff.

    Lord knows I’ve tried.

    Rudy squawks a lisp-infested Dr Strangelove-crafted séance:  Bold threats of unconstitutionality. Hoarse cries of ballot fraud. Quavering shrieks of supernatural weirdness. Joe Frazier is back from the dead and voting, ladies and gentlemen!

    Twenty-nine minutes, twelve-seconds in and Giuliani’s feeling it, ripped to the tits on his own rhetoric. His lips pucker, hands flail wildly, mystic gaze beams upwards to the heavens. Then, he gives the sign of the stink eye and ejaculates. “Wow!”

    Uncomfortable stares. What is this? Did he hit the dreaded brown note? Has he conjured Richard M. Nixon’s doppleganger from asshole purgatory to rain down burning shitfire on all the liberals? Is a post-election day miracle in the offing?

    An expectant pause. Then. . .

    . . .Nothing.

    The Presidential Twittercide is over, but the Nationwide Nervous Breakdown’s still going strong.

    It was Donald J. Trump’s incestuous relationship with the “news” media that gave the game away for me. Just give the plebs their bread and circus. Better yet, turn politics into a full-contact sports game with relentless 24/7 coverage like the lead up to the 2003 Iraqi Invasion.

    Don’t like Team Trump? Then plunk your ass in front of CNN, MSNBC or a jillion other social media outlets and hear about how the 45th presiden’ts a mangy turd and a jabbering dupe of a disastrel-in-chief. A Mussolini-sized troll doll with a face smeared in hemorrhoid cream and piglet-sized pork sausages for “grab ‘em by the pussy” fingers. A Sudafed-addicted cockatoo shitting in all our cages as flukeworms leech off what’s left of his addled, peanut shell of a brain.

    Not into giving sex changes for four-year olds, doxing free speech, Hollyweird perverts, and critical race hucksterism? Then park your butt in front of FOX News, Alex Jones and read the president’s latest screed about fake news.

    I don’t know what to make of any of this shit anymore, but the effect feels like psy-ops.

    Oh Lord, is it five years now? Five hellish, punch drunk years since Donnie strolled off The Celebrity Apprentice set, packed up his immigrant meerkat wife and psychopathic Barbie doll children and paraded his carnie act to Washington. Two divorces. Four bankruptcies. Reduced to shilling Trump Steaks and real estate clown college courses on late night misinfomercials. He had no business running for Palm Beach dog catcher let alone for puppetmaster of the quasi-free world. 

    But there he was, Horatio Alger with hair plugs, playing the lead role in his very own presidential game show by sheer force of personality and with the imprimatur of a society which increasingly celebrates corruption. Make no mistake, he enjoyed the battle, every brutal minute of it. Even in his seventies he was in the full-flower of his toadstool prime, baboon ass-face twisted liked he’s fisting himself to death,  projectile-vomiting geysers of vitriolic diarrhea at his enemies like they owed him Mar-a-Lago golf club money.

    Unfathomable. I mean, politics has always been a sleezball business, but how did we get here, with everybody taking bets on which side’s sleeping with the Antichrist?

    The 2016 Presidential race was Savage and Weird, by even the lowest of American political “standards.”

    It kicks off on April 12, 2015, when Hillary Clinton product-launches her campaign with a properly bland rollout video then hops in a “Scooby Doo” serial killer van like she’s long-hauling pieces of Vince Foster’s dead body all the way to Iowa.

    June 15: “Low energy” Jeb Bush gets into the act, bragging about his massive $100 million war chest with promises to “shock and awe”, referencing a brazenly illegal war that was started to fight global terrorism because 15 of the 19 9/11 hijackers were. . . Saudi. So, when does the bombing campaign on Riyadh start? You know, that tolerant bastion of freedom and women’s rights. Oh, wait. . .

    Not to be outdone, The Donald opens his presidential bid with an 4D Wizard of Odd grand escalator descent down Trump Towers, then calls Mexicans a bunch of “rapists”.

    Randy Duke

    © Riproduzione riservata


    Sono la mente insana che sta alla base di Bad Literature Inc. Giornalista pubblicista, Gonzo nell’animo, speaker radiofonico, peccatore professionista, casinista come pochi. Infesto il web con i miei articoli che sono dei punti di vista ( e in quanto tali condivisibili o meno) e ho una particolare predisposizione a dileggiare la normalità. Se volete saperne di più su di me e su Bad Literature Inc. e volete proprio farvi del male, leggete i miei articoli. Ma poi non dite che non siete stati avvertiti.

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