Between the Pit of Our Fears and the Summit of Our Knowledge . . .

Submitted for your consideration:

That for over two generations The United States America has let itself be bought and sold by a tiny idiot elite (0.1%)

That this tiny group of greedy, ignorant individuals through stupidity, institutional pressures, and the hubris of great wealth were able to use their obscene wealth to gain more and more power over the institutions of government which has continued to enable them to enrich themselves ever more at the expense of the 99.9%

That the 99.9% of Americans instead of seeing a common interest and making a common cause against a common enemy have allowed themselves to be deluded, manipulated, and divided so that they would inevitably descend to ever new lows and ever more frantic frustration.

That this tiny (0.1%) group of malefactors of great wealth, a cabal that Franklin Delano Roosevelt knew so well and warned the nation against, was successful in inducing large numbers of citizens to blame their sad plight on government, politics, and democracy.

And that in 2016, popular anger, division, confusion, and mischievous despair (along with systemic voter suppression, and calculated interventions by both the Kremlin and the FBI) enabled a pathological liar, lunatic, pervert, bully, ignoramus, cheater, abuser, and buffoon to win an electoral college majority - and thus be "electorated" president - even though he (a stubby fingered orange tufted twit of cheap downtown grift) lost the popular vote by a huge and decisive margin.

Thus America crossed over the threshold into a new and horrifying dimension. A dimension where information entropy has reached a near maximum. Where there is no difference between fact and opinion, empiricism and fantasy, evidence-based assertions and malicious lies. Where America has, through our gullibility, prejudice, ignorance, laziness, and arrogance . . . crossed spastically over into "The trimpShite Zone."



But is there no hope?

Is it our most likely fate to be crushed by a fascist repression supported by the most frightened, irresponsible, angry, brutal and brutalized ruffians?

Will we merely sink into a pathetic despond, begging and grateful for the privilege of being allowed to serve humbly in the corporate echelons of our benevolent but dread Masters?

Will we be whipped into a revolutionary frenzy and tear down the House of Capital only to be subjugated by newer, less sophisticated forms of Masters, now slouching expectantly in the shadows?

Or will we follow the example of FDR (also a scion of great wealth) who showed us how to check and contain the idiot elite (0.1%) - and even partially tame and domesticate them so we can muddle through to face fresh challenges?

The future, dear friends, is (as always) in our own hands.

A Mighty Fortress Is Our trimp

Staring manfully at his manly shoes, in the sterile utilitarian basement of trimp tower, the man Michael Pense, manned himself momentarily erect before sternly pressing the "U.P." button of the presidential express elevator.

“Have Thine own way, Lord, Have Thine own way;

Thou art the Potter; I am the clay.

Mould me and make me After Thy will,

While I am waiting, Yielded and still.

I do not condone his remarks and cannot defend them"

He lifted his eyes commandingly up to the SS stooge and then to Karen, as prim and composed as she had been on their hoary wedding night so long ago and so very far away.

Sadly and sternly man Pense addressed the SS lackey, “He hath permitted me to elevate in solitude, and you may followeth presently after a mere twenty minutes - but no less.”

The earphoned SS servant nodded solemnly.   Karen, to all ten of his trembling finger pads ever so gently pressed plumply her soft lips, silently sending him soulfully her best blessings with sad and soulful eyes.

“When the Bridegroom cometh, will your robes be white?

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?

Will your soul be ready for the mansions bright,

And be washed in the blood of the Lamb?”

Richard, the manful Pense, stepped manfully into the chamber of uplift.  As the strong doors silently slid shut, he cast down his eyes and cast off his garments.  With the upward surge that seemed to press his heart into his bowels, Pense, the man, remembered Luther’s words:  

“The Devil hates music because he cannot stand gaiety.” and “Satan can smirk but he cannot laugh; he can sneer but he cannot sing.”

And then his own brave utterance for which he now accepted twice daily ordeals of penitential mortification:

“I do not condone his remarks and cannot defend them”

In haste he struggled to don the shrowdly gown of penitence, slipping sinewy arms into the black and scarlet robe that drooped from shoulders to floor.  Over his head he pulled the flowing pointed hood and strove to stand his manbody forward - far frontally from the gaping back opening, slit deeply down from cowl to heel in the rear.

The moody garment and the express uplift of the uplifting lift combined to cause an upsurge in his manly loins which he manfully attempted to suppress with emetic imaginings.  

But he could not conjure away his favorite phantasm.  I Vankh El trimp, clad only in a titanium Princess Leah bikini bottom with WonderWoman boots and peppermint pillbox hat (both Pepto-Bismol pink) sat behind in an open convertible coldly cuddling the Beast Master.  He, Pense under his Connolly white locks, perched expectantly upfront with Karen - waving Popelike to the jeering blackfaced crowds whose misunderstanding contempt they whisked presidentially past. 

Until, from high above in the sexbook annex, the gatlings opened up.

This time there would be no spazmatic grasping after scattering manbrainstuff since the first semi-incestuouscouple were simultaneously Bonnie and Clyded into unrecognizable bits of pulverized - in a very updated 21st century North Korean sort of way.  And, he man Pense, bloodspattered but steady, would coldly stiffarm away the panicking SS men - taking cool control of the God ordained situation while Karen, reddrenched like Carrie after the prom would send him soulful support form her upturned soulful eyes.   And all of that would be photographically registered for TimeLife discount coffeetable books as well as for all the Mandatory Community Bible Study Guides to come.

"Lay aside the garments that are stained with sin,

And be washed in the blood of the Beast;

There’s a fountain flowing for the soul unclean,

O be washed in the blood of the Beast!"

The uprocketing car stopped short at the penthouse level.  Manly Pense stepped manfully through the slideopening doors silently slipping apart and into the plush surroundings of the Beast’s gilded abode.

Stopped (even more shortly) by the the Master’s cracked private security team as SS men stood impotently by (pretending to attend to live voices in their earpieces), Pense peered into the luxurious residence of the Beast. Finally he spied him, "He Who Cannot Be Shamed" - and the Master himself generously smirked a gleeful grin in godless greeting. 

Pense manfully pulled a paper service number from the delicatessen turn-dispenser He saw, by comparing his mark with the bloodred LED display, that for now he must patiently endure the mortification of two antecedents as the Beast imposed his nubby but dread Beastliness on the Massachusetts delegation.  

Willard Romney (wearing what was once a shroud similar to man Pense’s though quite hoodless now and cut short above the hips to suggest a jaunty pinafore-like neglige ruffed with cottony puffs at the hem, sleeves, and collar) bent to receive the rough, but rather nublike impositions of the gyrating trimp.  The MasterBeast was being rah-rahed on by Gubner Chumly Barker, pantyless in a perky cheerleader get up who pom-pomed and split quite sportily while lustally chanting “Take it Once More for the BayState Some More!” as spiritedly as he could manage - which was fairly spirited after all since everyone in trimp circles were obliged to gobble speedballs at regular and merciful intervals.

Merciful indeed was trimp the Master Beast, godchosen to wreak vengeful havoc on all the nations of men.

Did we in our own strength confide,

Our striving would be losing;

Were not the right Man on our side,

The Man of God's own choosing.

Dost ask who that may be?

Merciful indeed was trimp, Godchosen Beast of Reckoning, sent to humble the high and mighty liberal likes of Rosie O’Donaldless and Jewnathon Jewart son of Leibewitz bar Leibewitz.  Soon all such would be cast down low to gnash their teeth in the agony of those forsaken by GodJeeber’s dollarsigned symbols of lifesaving grace.  Roil in bitter agony would they among those cast off of Medicaid a whoremongering program that bore the Satanic mark of 66 though passed by a Godless Congress one deceitful whore-ful year before.

"Christ Jesus, it is He;

Lord Sabaoth, His name,

From age to age the same,

And He must win the battle"

Merciful indeed was he trimp, sent to despoil the ungodly harlotry of willful women and womanly men, who had graciously granted man Pense’s humble request that Karen no longer need witness his twice daily mortifications.   And gratefully did manlike Pense remember how the beast Master had SO kindly offered to conduct these ritual mortifications in a private chamber hidden away from the vulgar eyes of lessers. 

“After all, Little Mike, you’re gonna be my second, but I don’t want you to feel sloppy!” had been the masterful words of beastlike trimp.

But manful Pense had declined that mercy.  A mortification from god was a mortification from god, and manly men did not shrink away from god-ordained ordeals and risk losing future incarnations of divine favor in the form of dollars and pense.

"That word above all earthly pow'rs,

No thanks to them, abideth;

The Spirit and the gifts are ours

Thro' Him who with us sideth.

Let goods and kindred go,

This mortal life also;

The body they may kill:

God's truth abideth still,

His kingdom is forever"

Then a buzzer - and a chime.   Man Pense looked up and saw his number blood red glowing.

"Be thou, O God, exalted high;

And, as thy glory fill the sky,

So let it be on earth display'd,

Till thou are here, as there, obey'd."

X Missed on trimp Tower

It was early one recent Christmas morning, high atop the cloudpiercing pinnacle of trimp Tower.  

SadMan, the cuckhold of Maralago, sat snuffling with all three illegitimate spalpeen: Udeh, Cuedeh, and Hootchie Cootchay.  As was their wont in every season, they were all together merrily defrauding their way through a shady game of MoneyPlay laid shiftily out on a warped and crooked board.

Hootchie Cootchay whooped and clapped with glee, bouncing giddily up and down on her gilded Louie Quartorze.  "Papa (as if)," she crowed.  "Choove stumbled onto der Boardvalk again.  Und now choo mus pay der vent!"  

Her long slender fingers smoothly hoovered more colored counterfeits from the short stubby digits of her presumptive pater who gripped the gamegelt tightly with gritty stumpy pads that were never no match for the goldenhaired girlchild who, steely eyed, reminded him, "Vremember Papa (as if), Vhatever I Vonk, I Getz!"

"Das eez true," agreed the unpaternal old skinflint as he leered down her unfamiliar décolletage.  Then indignantly, he grabbed a tightly wrapped roll of the hated Times, soaked overnight in chilled Napoleon Brandy, and smartly smacked the chortling pates of both da boyz, each of whom were still too drunk to duck.  "Ref any von's gonna date your seizeter, let eet be me!

"Yavohl mein Daddy-O (as if)" replied the two dumkuffs numbly in practiced unison.  But emergently, Cuedeh, out of some sullen pique, just had to mutter outloud, "Too Badz on choo, ders no vey to declare der bankruptcy een deese game o' skill, eh Daddy-O (as if)?"

The Dunvald of Downtown Grift cooly transfixed the miscreant spawn (of some unknown interloper) with his best Mussolini glare.  "Jest don't forget who's da electored vun here!", he growled Himmleresque. 

But before the smirk could wither on the japing juvenile's (delinquent) face, and even after the caitiff had downcast his watery eyes, the orange tufted twit of a tycoon had a start of a stuporous kind.  Why did chinless Cuedeh look (si all of a suddenly) so much like Vlad?  

It didn't help when all three krazy kidz grabbed top hats and canes and pranced into their well worn musical routine "Putin on der Reetz".

"Ah vell," sighed old Sadman trimp.  "I vunder vhat Pense duz weed heez leetle basturds?"