November 8 2016, or, Yet Another Requiem for the American Nightmare…

The requiem for the American Dream 

  Played on all houses 

  On all streets

On November 8th, 2016.

A day, a night, an opening of eyes,

  A squeegee of the mind.

November 8th, 2016.

Evil did not win that day,

  Despite what the meekly ignorant might think,

  It merely made itself an open target.

Evil, there is no other word for these useless bullies,

These living road blocks of progressive evolution,

These clap ridden pieces of wasted human ejaculat. 

Don’t preach to me about anyone’s “inner pain”

Or “inner fears.”

That cry baby nonsense is causing the rest of us Plenty of pain.  

We can all plainly see it.

But let’s give Hitler the Sudatenland again,

What is the worst that will happen?

Conservative, coward, there is a reason both start with C.

Like CUNT! Does to.

Liberal, Loser, lost, 

L is not a strong letter either.

Moderate?  Might as well start with C,

Because it just means coward to.

Or does it mean moron?

November 8th, 2016.

Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Faulkner,

These men are dead, but their tedious personality remains.

Dr. King was a criminal,

A socialist,

A lover of sex,

Not your personal mascot for a do nothing,

Spineless philosophy.

Don’t preach Dr. King, if you don’t have the guys to wear the cuffs to.

Dr King was no one’s mascot.

God, who doesn’t love that son of a bitch though?

Now, what happens on our left hands?

The fingers don’t want to work together,

That is how most people end up right handed.

But most people are fucking stupid as well.

November 8th, 2016.  

Do not celebrate your fascist vindication.

I repeat to you coward,

DO NOT!

White women actually voted for a rapist, 

And people wonder why this white boy here

Is so quick to distance himself from his own neoliberal class.

I won’t steal your culture,

Never intentionally at least,

But I do want to dance with you,

All of you.

White is not alright, its not wrong either.

But the same must be said of yellow, black, red, and all those shades of brown.

Color is meaningless unless you’re an idiot.

We aren’t talking about pictures, but people.

Gender is a state of mind.

And it is all just to help you jerk off.

November 8th, 2016.

If you think it is over after just one day,

You need to get off your fat ass and look out the window.

Evil has never been subjective, 

So fuck Nietzsche, God was never dead.

You can’t kill what was never there,

But you also can’t kill an idea.

Remember that fascists,

You cannot kill an idea.
For better or worse, these are the truest words in English.
You can not kill an idea.

The iron curtain fell,

But communism never went away did it?

Freedom did not die November 8th, 2016.

But it did have a damn strong heart attack.
Silence is surrender now.

And surrender when unneccary is pathetic.
18% of America is idiotic,

But 46% are just evil.
Pathetic and ignorant

That is the 2016 voter and non.

To equate any public servant,

To a rapist,

That is unforgivable.

I never liked that 18%

But that 46% will never be forgiven.
I’d rather someone vote for the number 3

Than not vote at all.

I do not deny

elections are usually spectacles of masturbation.

but this one was different,

this was the election where we told the world where we stood on rape.

First Steubenville,

among so many silent others,

now this.
If your acts of rape are now vindicated,

I will forever dispose of the words

“peace & nonviolence” from my vocabulary.

I will fight you,

humiliate you

and destroy you.

That to me would be mercy.
If your violence is now vindicated,

guess what,

evil always runs like a little bitch when confronted.
If you are afraid, I understand,

at least as best I can,

however, fear is how you lose.
That 18% have fear, fear is hate,

hate is suffering,

all of ours.

So get over your selfish prejudice.

For your fear vindicates them further.

Fear is the mark you have lost,

so you nazi pieces of shit, praising a hack TV star,

keep the living punchlines coming you dumb shits.

I look forward to ruining your already pathetic lives.

Do I propose war?

Violence?

Death?

Destruction?

No, I propose education, and a good educator

makes examples of useless or hopeless students.

November 8th, 2016.

A day where the trivial died, 

and what was important came to light.

“My body my choice!”

Her body, Her Choice!

Say it loud, say it clear,

Immigrants are welcome here.

Hear that, or do I need to SHOUT!

over your dumb fuck screams.
I guess so, so how do like this one you worthless swines,

NOT MY PRESIDENT!
Is that how you felt when you saw the white house go black

and the nation never come back? >:-)
To be honest throwing those three words into your face,

it was more restorative than oral sex.
Not my president,

Do you hear me white boys and girls?

Do you hear me women-hating women?

Do you hear me you worthless rapists, sexists, bullies, and antisemites?
He is not my president!

Your Microdick, coke head, Orange toned nazi brat of a “leader,”

is not and will never be my president.
He will never be president of immigrants,

and in a country of immigrants,

good fucking luck with that one.
Now to those who stand by,

who do nothing,

who legitimize this,

or try to show this 18% they are our equals, I say 

Go Fuck Yourself.

Fuck off and die with the rape voters you love so much,

White Rapists are humans,

everyone else is just a headline.

If you cannont accept racism is real,

you are the most racist of all.

If you think sexism is a non issue,

congratulations you are a sexist bastard.

And If I need to actually explain this still

to anyone who is not a child,

well to put it simply, I am not.

I can explain things for you,

but I can’t understand things for you.

I don’t owe someone who is not my equal

an explination for shit.

Stupid people are never your equal, dont treat them like they are.

It’s not my fault,

YOU, yes, YOU

ignored all those damn liberal teachers

who wanted to help you so bad.
November 8th, 2016.

It was not a day evil won.

It was the day the fighters,

the lovers, the honest, the thinkers, and the dreamers

came forward.

It was the day they all stopped arguing.
If you are still argung,

drop dead so you can get out of our way.

Racism, sexism, and hate is so real,

to be surpised is racism and sexism and hate.

Novemeber 8th, 2016.

The day I learned who was a friend,

who was a coward,

who as an ally,

and who was an idiot.
In a way we should be grateful,

no more excuses can be made to legitimize denial anymore.

It is better to know, and now we know all too much.

Those who be woke, finally know what they need to know.
DO NOT misunderstand,

there is no positive side to that “victory”

No silver lining exists where white hoods block out the light.

Nor where a rapist or fraud walks.
Rapist? Fraud? Pompous? Stupid? Spoiled?

Who better than to represnt the American Right?
In the 70s we were a nation of 

used car salesmen with pigs of wives.

Now we are a country of rapists,

frauds, 

and their insecurity 

is more important than Women’s pussies or black lives.
November 8th, 2016.

Not a day of victory,

Not a day of infamy,

Not just another day,

but not a day to be forgotten either.

November 8th, 2016.

The day reality struck.

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Calling all…

Calling all hearts

All Souls who have felt the bitter sweet burns of

Love’s pain.

Calling all minds

All thinkers

Doers

And actors.

Call all poet’s hearts,

Do not be meek in the face of these days!

Calling all strong,

It’s time to stand up to bullies,

Calling all thinkers,

Lovers, 

Hearts, 

Minds,

Souls.

Calling all to Rise Up.

To act.

To do as our rhetoric 

Says we will actually do.

Can you hear it?

It is the call!

The call of revolution!

Calling all! Calling all!

The revolution! The revolution!

IT IS NOW!

The time is now.

We are the revolt.  The revolting.

This is a call to the revolting freaks,

The communists,

The socialists,

The youth,

The damned corrupted youth!

Calling all minds, 

Ready and fresh to open!

Calling all freaks!

Now is the time for the Freak Party

To come back with a vengeance.

Our true colors were never red

White

And blue.

Just red.

Deep, blood, flowing, red.

A dark truth, if you are an idiot.

A light we can use in our tunnel,

Our bluff is our advantage now.

But we must not be idle,

Not now, not ever again.

Calling all,

Calling all,

Calling all to rise.

Calling all to get up.

Calling all to reach out.

Calling all open minds,

Calling all to be free!

December 3, 2016

Donnie’s Daddy, A short story by James J. Jackson, Jr.

Donnie dropped the comb into the gold plated bathroom sink again for what felt like the billionth time.
“FUCK!” Donnie screamed in frustration. Donnie hated how the stubby fingers on his tiny hands could never get a firm grip on anything they tried to hold. He fished the comb out of the sink bowl and resumed quaffing his hair in what had become his iconic way.
“Goddamn bald patch.” He groaned that his over priced hair plugs were so tedious to maintain. What was even more frustrating to Donnie was that despite all his money, this was something he had to do for himself, lest some big mouth stylist reveal to the world that he was indeed supposed to be bald. So Donnie grudged through styling his own hair in the mornings, he could hire anyone to do anything else for him, except this.
Eventually he was satisfied with what he saw in the mirror. Donnie did not have much to be satisfied with, but that did not stop him from loving what he saw every time he looked into the mirror. He thought his overly fake tanned skin made him look like George Hamilton, and not like a walking Cheeto like it actually did. He thought his quaffed hair plugs were the envy of every man in the country. He thought his bloated cheeks made him look like a young Brando, instead of a chipmunk with hair plugs which it actually did.
Donnie was on top of the world as he walked out of his solid gold bathroom into his solid gold living room in his NYC penthouse designed to look like Versailles. He stood for a moment to enjoy his 10 foot Christmas tree covered in solid gold ornaments before doing his power walking to the other side of the pent house. Donnie always got a little bit of exercise in the long walk from one room to another until he reached his solid gold dining room. There he found his eastern European model of a wife and his ten year old snot of a son playing on his iPhone with one hand and shoveling Fruit Loops into his mouth with another. Donnie didn’t like his son eating that garbage, but he was eating out of a solid gold bowl, so Donnie let him enjoy his cereal.
Donnie noticed a slight fold of flesh on his wife’s belly through her skin tight, size 3 dress. It was that normal little bubble all humans get when they sit down, Donnie knew this, but he still could not feel grossed out, and that even this wife was starting to lose her luster like the other two had. That was why Donnie didn’t feel bad when he was having fun when she wasn’t around. He never “Cheated” on this wife, like he had with the others, at least not yet. But he did enjoy occasionally pinching someones cunt or playing around on the street with ladies he thought were 10s.  
Donnie then sat down briefly, talking to his wife and son briefly while drinking his coffee. When the cup brought to him was too hot and burned his tongue he threw it into his maid’s face, sure she might have been scalded, “But these damn illegals need to learn there place,” Donnie thought as she brought him new coffee. Donnie liked how cheap his illegals would work, but he did not like how many of them there were.
“Maybe I can get rid of a few of them,” he thought, “I am president now after all.”
Soon Donnie’s coffee took effect so he excused himself from the table, kissing his wife on the top of her head as he walked out, and quickly suggested to her, “Maybe hit the gym today sweetheart.” She looked hurt, she tries as hard as she can to keep him happy, she even kept her baby weight down when she was pregnant, and he would still suggest she hit the gym. Neither one of them could not remember the last time Donnie used the workout room himself, but it didn’t matter, she would follow his suggestion no matter what.
Donnie returned to the bathroom, locking the door and lowering his pants to sit on his solid gold toilet.  
As his personal offense graced the room with his scent, he reached for the lysol spray and spritzed the air. Donnie knew he would be there for a while, so he whipped out his phone and checked twitter. Donnie was a hardcore twitter addict, he loved all the retweets and love he got from his followers, angry though they were, he loved how much they loved him.
Donnie saw that SNL had skewered him again, they loved to skewer Donnie since he had become president. This time in the sketch the actor impersonating Donnie got married in Las Vegas to Vladimir Putin. Donnie was furious as he let out a loud, shitty fart into his gold toilet, those liberal jerks would never let up on Donnie. “That show is so unfair,” Donnie thought, “I only hosted ONCE!”  
So Donnie let the show and the actors feel his wrath on twitter, of course within seconds he had thousands of retweets. Then Donnie saw that a bunch of hipster nerds were quoting his tweet and making fun of it. Apparently all the comedians, and even some Japanese guy from Star Trek were scrutinizing every one of his tweets.  
Donnie was about to release the hounds that were his followers until he heard a voice. He always heard this voice in the back of his mind, but ever since he had “won” the presidency it had been as silent as it had ever been. But all of a sudden Donnie was hearing it again, and he wasn’t just hearing it in his head anymore, he heard it in the bathroom, as loud and real as when he was speaking to his wife.  
“Goddamn it Donnie, 70 years old and you are still a fucking loser.” The voice was indeed real this time, it had not been real years, but it was real again. Donnie looked up from his phone, then dropped it in shock, its fall being broken by the pile of pants and underwear on top of his feet.
Donnie was looking at the face of his long dead, always disappointed daddy, Fred.
“Dad?” Donnie stammered out, meek and timid for the first time in years.
“No Shit Mr. Sherlock.” Fred replied, angry and gruff as ever. Death had not humbled him in anyway.
“What…What are you doing here?” Donnie stammered again as he tried to pull his pants up enough to cover his shame, but he had to keep his cheeks open since he was still doing his morning deed, and the sight of his dead father was now streamlining the process more than the coffee had.
“Well it’s Christmas time, so I thought this was the right time to see you since after all…” he paused for effect. “Imma, G-g-g-g-g-g-g-GHOST!” Fred playfully and sadistically burst out, laughing when he saw how much it made his son squirm. But his laughter soon ended and his speech took on a stern tone.
“So, this is him. My son, Mr. Tough Guy, Mr. President Number 45.” Fred said as he crossed his arms, just like he did when scolded Donnie as a boy.
Donnie was speechless, he just nodded at the aberration before him.
Fred just shook his head. “I suppose this is the part where you want me to tell you I’m finally proud of you?”
Donnie could not help but smile a little, it was actually all he ever wanted to hear. His whole life Donnie was told he was a loser by his father, that he would never be as smart and successful as Fred. Every day, “You’re a loser Donnie.” Or, “You’re pathetic Donnie.” Or “You will always be a loser Donnie.” For a second Donnie thought his dad was here to make peace, after all he had finally won, it was Christmas time, after all those law suits and failed businesses, he was president now.
But that smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, because all Fred did was shake his head, and get angrier that Donnie could not read his sarcasm.  
“Goddamn it Donnie!” Fred said shaking his head. “You make me sick, Donnie you really do.”
Donnie was crushed, he already heard this in his head all the time, he did not need to hear it out loud anymore.
“No…” was all Donnie said helplessly.
Fred just chuckled to himself and shook his head again.
“You were always a loser Donnie, I remember when you were a boy, you lost all your sports games, you lost all your girlfriends to guys with stronger hands and bigger dicks. ” Donnie didn’t like remembering that, the only people who knew about that was his mom, who he had confided in when he did in fact lose his loves. Fred would overhear and all he did was get mad that his son was not a real man.
Fred saw the pain in Donnie’s face, he smiled, and continued. “I remember how you always got sued to, how you squandered that million I gave you. How bankruptcy laws were the only thing that ever saved you.” Fred shook his head once again. “Our family built a name, a fortune, and you just couldn’t keep that together.”
“But Dad,” Donnie pleaded as his bowels released again, burning and painfully so, making his father laugh before he could continue again. “But dad, I’m president now, our name is now up there with Roosevelt, Clinton, or Bush…”
Fred slapped Donnie as hard as he could, just like when he was alive. Donnie hit his back on the top of the toilet, it was quite panful, but Donnie was not finished evacuating, so he just sat and rubbed the spot with the hand that wasn’t holding his pants over his groin.
“Yeah, our name will forever be know for the first presidency who won by losing.” Fred walked up to Donnie , standing over him as he was squatted on the toilet. Fred used to stand over Donnie like this when he was 7, now he was doing it again even though Donnie was 70. 
“But Dad,” Donnie pleaded, again like he was 7, “I won and…”
Fred slapped him again. “You won by a fluke in the electoral college and with the help of Russia. You lost by 3 million votes, to a WOMAN I might add. I mean Jesus Donnie, you, a man, a man who bares my family name, you lost to a woman AND you are in debt to a fucking Russian! What is all of this I hear about some former KGB agent helping you win?” He said with his arms crossed.
Donnie was speechless, he just looked down, like he did when he was 7.
Fred slapped him again when he didn’t answer.
“Well,” another slap, “How about it?”
Donnie was still speechless, he just rubbed his cheek, and tried to be a tough guy and not cry, like he did when he was 7.
Fred just shook his head and turned his back to his son. “My son, in cahoots with a commie.” Fred just shook his head. “Goddamn it Donnie, even when you win you lose.”
Donnie was about to cry. “No,” he thought, “no don’t say it dad, please.” He had not heard it said by Fred ever since he died. Winning the presidency was the only thing that made it get out of his head, it was the only closure he had. “If he says it, this was all for nothing.”
“You’re a loser Donnie. You were a loser when you were a boy, and you are loser now.”
Donnie could not hold back the tears. “NO!” He screamed, “NO NO NO NO!”
But before he could plead his case, like steam being blown away a strong wind, his father vanished from his feet to the top of his head into nothing. Now Donnie was looking at nothing in front of him but the gold platted bathroom wall decor.
Finally his bowels were empty. So he pulled his pants up and himself together. When he opened the door and walked out he saw his wife and son walking up to the bathroom door.
“Donnie?” His wife said in her heavy accent. “You okay? I thought I heard a yell.”
“I’m fine. I just dropped the comb again.” He said, somewhat irritated with her for some reason as he shoved the two of them aside to get passed. He demanded security get him into his motorcade immediately, he wanted to get to his rally as fast as he could.
He stewed angrily in the car the whole ride over. “Loser, huh? I’ll show you.” He muttered to himself, making his whole security team VERY uncomfortable the entire ride.  
He arrived and marched onto the stage, soaking in the roaring cheers of his crowd as he approached his podium.  
  He talked about being “tough on ISIS,” and how he was going to make everyone in the crowd all “winners” just like him. The crowd loved it. They started chanting his family name like they always did.
“Look at them. Chanting our name. Still think I’m a loser Dad!?” he thought to himself.
Then, loud and clear as ever, he heard that voice say, “Yes Donnie. You are still a loser.”

 Donnie could not tell if the voice was in his head or real this time, but he heard it. He heard it louder than the crowds chanting his last name. It was right in his ear, a spine chilling whisper that Donnie could hear perfectly.
“You’re a loser Donnie, you’re a goddamn loser, and you will always will be.”
It was the loudest that voice it had been in years, and Donnie would hear it every moment of everyday for the rest of his life now. As plain as the chants of his crowds or the laughter of those who mocked him, he heard his father Fred say it loud and clear.  
“You’re a loser Donnie.”
“You’re a loser.”
“You’re a loser Donnie…”
“You’re a goddamn, pathetic, loser.”