32502: His Truth is Marching On!

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a story of America’s salvation. The story of the lifting up of an entire nation of people from the depths of depravity to the pure and pristine heights of strength and clarity of vision of purpose in the war against the surging tide of Clintonite impurities and venalities. Of the battle between pure virgin harlotry and putrescent evil.

This is the story of the 2016 Presidential Election in all of its flatulently malodorous splendor.

If you enjoy smelling your own farts, this is the story for you.

Submitted: September 01, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 01, 2016



My name is Parsifal Peaseblossom.  People call me “Parsi.”  I live in that part of America known as the Northwest Florida Territories or Lower Alabama, specifically, The Redneck Riviera.  I’ve had a good life and I have few regrets.  I came to the area by enlisting in the United States Navy and stayed on after my enlistment was up working as a ground keeper on the golf course aboard the local naval base.  That is what I did as a sailor too—grounds keeping. Yes, sir, 46 years of loyal, proud service to God and country.

I had been retired only a year of so when I attended the rally.  It was a humdinger.  I sat near the front.

Ol’ Cooter Claiborne’s job was to warm up the crowd for The Man and he himself was just getting warmed up but the crowd was already stomping their feet, clapping their hands and yelling “I Hear ya,” and “Get er’ done.”

Cooter tilted his head back, opened his throat and mouth wide, and bellowed, “Glory, Glory Gloooory Hallelujah!  His truth is marching ooooon, my fellow Mercans!”

“Cum own, now, my fellow patriots, let’s give, the real Patriotic Mercan running for Prezdent a loud handclap of appreshayshun.”

The crowd responded with more foot stomping, hand clapping and yelling, “Get ‘er done!”

Cooter was sweating heavily in the Lower Alabama summer humidity and heat.  He paced from side to side across the stage and back again, holding the mic close to his chest and mouth.  “And, now let’s hear it for the lol-yal oppa-sition.”

The crowd roared, booed, hooted and hissed.

“What do yew say?”

Hill-rhee’s a li-ah

Hill-rhee’s a crook

Throw ‘er in the jail

God burn her in hail!


A couple of really built blondes walked out on the platform, with breasts that seemed to defy gravity, and paraded about the stage holding signs with other chants as well—like you see in professional boxing matches.  Plus, there was a big screen behind Cooter and the chants were being projected against it, too.

The crowd loved it.

“Hill-rhee’s a li-ah

Hill-rhee’s a crook

Throw ‘er in the jail

Don’t let her set bail.”


“Hill-rhee’s a li-ah

Hill-rhee’s a crook

Don’t throw ‘er in jail

Send her straight ta hail.”


Cooter laughed and slapped his thigh.  Tickled pink, he was amazed at his success.

 “You know, I luv my cuntreeee.”

“Yew know what else we luv hyar in Merca?”  He pauses for effect, “We luv the truth.”

“The truth, the truth,” chanted the crowd in harmonic resonance.

“Yep, thuh unvarnished truth, good, bad, ugly or pretty, we value the truth above all other matters.  The truth is protected by the 1st Amendment.”

I was sitting next to Odie Lee Spurl and his wife Onna May and they were clearly swept up in the excitement, whooping and hollering like there was no tomorrow.

“Thar is an attack on thuh truth in Merca.  Hill-rhee Clinton wants her conspiracy, the International Clintonite Conspiracy for World Domination, to dominate and subjugate Merca and eventually the world. By eliminating our Bill of Rights,1st and 2nd Amendments, so that they can hide the truth and flood the lame-stream media with their lies.  But folks, I’m not going to bore you with my humble speechifying anymore because the man his-sef is a gonna address your concerns his-sef.  Ladies and Gentlemens, put your hands together for Mr. Donald Trump live and in the flesh heah and now on this heah stage.’

Mr. Trump came bounding up the steps holding his arms above his head, forming a “V.”

The crowd exploded like unleashed bedlamites with wild dancing, howling like coyotes, barking like dogs, mooing like cattle and screeching like stomped on cats.

 “Wow. Amazing. Amazing, thank you. So exciting.  So exciting.  You’re all really wonderful, really really wonderful.”

"There is a war going on, but, we are going to stand our ground.  These forces of evil are very very patient and persistent, and they are waging war on your rights.”

“You might ask, ‘Why are they so focused on the 1st and 2nd Amendments?’”

“It is wonderfully simple.  They want to take away your guns because you are the only ones who will fight them when they try to take over America.Really.  It’s true, so true.”

“My friend, who happens to be a very famous expert on the Constitution, told me that the attack on the 1st Amendment is very subtle.”

“Amazing, because it is a pernicious low energy attack that you don’t see coming until it is too late.   You may recall a television interview by one of our campaign leaders.  She’s a pretty woman, a definite ten, I‘d date her if I weren’t already married, intelligent, well-spoken and educated young colored gal.  The problem that she ran into is that she described herself as a “half breed.”  Yes, she is of mixed race—black and white.  The lame-stream media had a field day with that.  They called it shameful and called her a racist and accused her of race baiting.”

“Now, you might ask, ‘What business is it of their’s what she calls herself?’”

“My answer to that is, “None.”  Absolutely zero.  This is America and she can call herself anything she wants.”

“Think about it.  This beautiful young woman with a perfect face like a Barby Doll, can’t describe herself in her own words without being viciously and savagely attacked.  Shameful.  Shameful, and you know what?  Back in the 50’s and 60’s that was a term that you heard all the time in American westerns.  Was Matt Dillon a racist?”

The crowd jumped to their feet and roared, “No,” and “get ‘er done, and:

“Hill-rhee’s a li-ah

Hill-rhee’s a crook

Don’t throw ‘er in jail

Send her straight to hail”


“This is just one example of the assault on your rights.  Don’t believe me?  Just you try referring to African-Americans as “colored” or “negroes” or “nigras.”  They might beg for donations to the “United Negro College Fund” or the “National Association for the Advancement of Colored People”, but you can’t use those words without being called—are you ready for this?—racist.  Amazing, totally amazing.  Tell me that’s not an infringement on your 1st Amendment Rights.  Hundreds of people tell me daily that they are tired of these bigoted attitudes and unconstitutional limits on their speech.”

The crowd murmured loudly and heads bobbed in hypnotic agreement.  “Amen.”  “Preach it, bruther.”  “Heah, heah.”  “I heah that.”

The Spurls looked at me and said, “Ain’t that sumpin?  Yew know, it’s thuh trooth, too.”

I said, “Yeah, but a lot of folk might find those terms hurtful, especially ‘half-breed.’  There’ no reason to be hurtful to folks if you can avoid it.”

The Spurls and some of the nearby crowd stopped applauding and just looked at me, so I shut my mouth and went back to applauding and hooting for The Man. 

“What most folks don’t understand, that you all do, is that this is all part and parcel of the International Clintonite Conspiracy for World Domination.  We all know that Mrs. Clinton is at the head of the surging tide of international globalism and her goal is the be the Overlord of the New World Order dominated by gay marriage, globalism, secularism, a flood of illegal immigrants.”

“That is how she thinks she is going to win this election.  She is going to register all of the illegal aliens to vote!  Can you imagine that!  What is happening to America?”

Roaring, foot stomping, hand clapping and yelling from the crowd.

“Hill-rhee’s a li-ah

Hill-rhee’s a crook

Throw ‘er in the jail

Don’t let her set bail”


“Lately, it seems that things just aren’t going well for America. I know the problem.  Can anyone state one thing that the current occupant of the White House has accomplished since he moved in?”  He held his hands up, palms out, as if surrendering, “Ah right, ah right, other than lowering property values in the neighborhood?”

The crowd laughed and roared again.  “Git ‘er dun!”  “You’re the man, Mr. Trump.”

“And who took us into Afghanistan after President Bush had rescued us from that morass?”

“The Moose-slim!” came back the crowd.

By this time, I was astounded at some of the things being said and I had stopped applauding.  Odie pushed my shoulder and yelled, “Hay, let’s hear it, man.  What’s wrong with you?  This is God’s own truth.  Rejoice!”  I shook my head affirmatively to avoid problems.

Mr. Trump continued, “And who was his right hand man, so to speak?  Crooked Hillary herself.”

“Obama bin Ladin!” retorted the crowd.

“And, who was his willing sycophant all those years we were marching good American men and women heroes to their deaths on the plains of Afghanistan?”

“Lipstick on a pig,” screamed the crowd.

Mr. Trump spoke louder into the mic to be heard over the crowd, “And who was it abandoned those intrepid, valiant and sainted Benghazi Seals, riding like the gallant 600 into the valley of Death seeking to rescue to their imperiled countrymen?”

This time the crowd went wild.  Grown men dropped to their knees and pressed their palms together as if in prayer.  Women fainted. Others screamed and wailed at the top of their lungs, “The Kenyan Moose-slim!”  “Get ‘er done, get ‘er done,” roared the high energy crowd of agitated patriotic Americans.They were handclapping and stomping their feet.  Some had climbed onto their chairs and we jumping up and down.  Others were slamming their chairs into the floor,

“Hill-rhee, Hill-rhee

Belongs in jail,

Hill-rhee, Hill-rhee

Burn in hail.”


Mr. Trump raised his hand and the crowd fell silent.  “Where was Obama in Viet Nam?  Yeah, I thought so.”

“Odie was a clapping and a hootin’ an’ giving the Rebel Yell, and hugging me.

The rally was taking on a complete other worldly sense for me and I asked, “I thought Obama was born in 1961?  So he was too young for Viet Nam?”

Once again the crowd in my area fell silent and turned to me with squinty eyes.  Odie said, somewhat politely, “Well, if’n he wasn’t too young, he’d of been a draft dodger in-a-way.  Thets the way those peepul are.  They want all the benefits of freedom, but they don’t want to do any of the work.”

Mr. Trump grew silent, turned his back on the crowd for a moment and bowed his head.  “I wasn’t going to bring this up, but you are such a magnificent, truly wonderful bunch of people, that I think the time has come. Let me put it this way, has anyone in this big stadium ever heard Miss Chelsea Clinton ever call Crooked Hillary “Mom?”

“Raise your hand if you have?  Go ahead.  We won’t bite.”  Mr. Trump raised his hand as an example.

“No one here has ever heard Lil Chelsea call Crooked Hillary ‘Mom.’”

“Now, I’m not explicitly accusing anyone of anything, but I am saying that maybe this is something that needs to be looked at.”

“And then, there is Crooked Hillary’s medical condition.  We all know she has a serious mental condition and that there is something physically wrong with her brain, but she won’t admit it.  That is why she won’t release those medical records.” 

 “Booo!  Boooooo! Fuck them guddam sonsabitches!  Fuck ‘em.”  “Fuck Obama bin Laden.”  The crowd was frenzied and one man, Cleavon Tittle, a watermelon farmer from up central Florida with a tattoo of the Confederate Battle Flag on his left buttock, “closest to my heart” as he likes to say when he shows it to people, jumped up on the speaker’s platform and yelled, ‘Fuck them sonsabitches.’” 

Then a man I’d never seen before jumped onto the platform.  He made kind of a show of taking the mic from Mr. Trump and began yelling, “we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight in the air, we shall defend our country, our homeland, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.”  Then handed the mic back to Mr. Trump.

I recognized the speech as similar to one I’d seen in old news clips by Winston Churchill. 

The crowd was energized by this.  Odie in particular was frenetic, “Get ‘er done the Mercan way,” then to me with tears in his eyes, “did you eva hear a spach so profound, so movin’, so patriotic.  That man luvs Merca.”

I was moved too, “Yeah, that’s a powerful speech.  It was a lot like one Winston Churchill gave at the beginning of World War Two.”

Almost all eyes were on my now, and the faces were not happy.  “Who is Winston Churchill?”

“He was our ally in the second world war.”

“Oh.  Okay.”

Mr. Trump continued, “One very telling thing about that man in the White House is the way he spells his name.  He detests white Americans in particular in spite of the fact that we, you, and I, God Loving, God Fearing, America Loving and Flag Waiving American tax payers funded that man’s college education and his never ending spite is the thanks we get in return.”

“You’re about to hear a shocking truth for the first time.  That man currently occupying the White House is lying about his name and ancestry.  Obviously, one of his forefathers was white, Irish actually, but that is unacceptable to him.  And who made all this possible?  You all know who—the International Clintonite Conspiracy for World Domination which is headed up by Crooked Hillary.”

Each time Mr. Trump says Hillary’s name the crowd breaks into a chant: 

“Hill-rhee’s a li-ah

Hill-rhee’s a crook

Throw ‘er in the jail

Don’t let her set bail”


“Hill-rhee’s a li-ah

Hill-rhee’s a crook

Don’t throw ‘er in jail

Send her straight to hail”


“Few folks know the true story of Obama and Hillary but I’m going to share it with you.”

“We all know that Obama is a half-breed.  He admits that himself and even capitalizes on it.”

“What people don’t know is that his father was a fallen Irish Catholic priest in Kenya, and, hold on to your seats, he and Slick Willy are brothers.  Yep, it’s the truth.

“When the Church discovered the Priest’s infidelities, to wit his nappy headed son called Barack, he was shipped off to America where he met yet another young colored gal.  This gal was what they used to call ‘High Yellow’—very light skinned—she had no trouble passing for white, and sure enough he fathered another child.  They gave the child away to an Arkansas white woman. The adoptive mother claimed that she didn’t know the father’s name and the Priest, who was in truth the father, swore out an affidavit of birth and William Jefferson Clinton, also known as Slick Willy, was provided a registered birth certificate.”

The crowd gasped, but so great was their shock that there was no chant.

“Yes, the very same.”  He paused and took a deep breath, “Slick Willy really was the first black president.”

More stunned silence.

“Amazing.  Amazing.  I could not make this up and would not have believed it but my best investigators, the best in the world, are telling me this.  Well, when that infidelity was discovered, the Church shipped the Priest off to a leper colony in Hawaii.  Once there, the Kenyan that the Priest had sold young Barack to, brought the child to the Priest and insisted that he take him back.  As the story goes, and I think this will have a familiar ring, the young Barack was an inveterate liar and thief, so the Kenyan sent him to a Muslim school in Saudi Arabia.  While there, the boy Barack fell in with another kid, let me know if you recognize this name, called Osama bin Laden.”  The crowd gasped.  “They began blowing things up and the school sent the boy Barack back to Kenya.  We all know what happened to bin Laden.  Once again, in Hawaii, the Priest was in a position to falsely certify a phony birth certificate and so, now you know the truth as to how Barack Obama came by that birth.”

“Now, get this, the Priest’s name, ‘O’Bama with an apostrophe and that is the name they gave the boy Barack.’”

“Later, that man in the White House had it legally changed to drop the apostrophe.”

The crowd was deathly silent.  Looking at each other in wide eyed wonderment. 

“The woman he came to call “Mother” was a down and out prostitute on skid row Honolulu who was patronized by the Priest.”

Continuing, “The Priest paid her to take the kid as hers.”

“Meanwhile, Hillary Rodham was turning tricks in South Chicago with a black chick named Michelle LaVaughn Robinson.  Miss Robinson, you know her as Mrs. Obama, was a south side Chicago hooker paying her way through college working in the streets.  Their lives parted briefly when Hillary went to Yale Law School and Michelle went to Harvard, but Hillary’s still unknown International Conspiracy for World Domination, had great plans for her and Barack.”

“Michele Robinson did not meet Barack Obama by accident.  It is all part of the plan.  Mark my words, if we don’t stop them know, Michele Obama will be running for President in eight years.”

Onna May jumped up and yelled, “I knew it!  I knew it!  You can tell it by those phony eyelashes that give her that perpetual dreamy look and those sexy wigs that she always wears!  We aint neva seen huh without a wig.  God only knows if she has any hair of her own.  As God is my witness, I knew it and I told you all so!”  Turning to Odie, “Didn’t I Odie!  Well, didn’t I?”

Mr. Trump pointed at Onna May, “Amazing.  It’s amazing isn’t it?  The things you know are true in your heart?” 

Onna May jumped up on her folding chair and yelled to the group in general, “And she fucked and sucked her way all the way to Yale.  And that is how she got her grades too, and she and all the others like her cheated good white kids out of those studies under the guise of Affumative Action.”  Her face was red, her eyes were wide and wild, and her hair disheveled.  Screaming now, “I told you so!  I told you all!”

Mr. Trump, continued, “There is more.  Barack Obama was a male prostitute and Hillary was his pimp, and, Rahm Emanuel and Eric Holder were in her stable, too.  She was a big time old style Chicago Madam.”

Mr. Trump was clearly on a roll.  “You’re aware of all of the stories of Slick Willy’s sexual dalliances.  Well what you don’t know is that that has always been a sham marriage.  He has never had sexual relations with that woman.  From Hillary’s perspective, that is probably reasonable.  I mean, she had a stable filled with young black bucks with huge schlongs, why the hell would she be interested in Bill?  Know what I mean?  I’ll give you a hint:  Small hands.”

The crowd was ecstatic about these revelations.  Once again, people were barking like dogs, mooing like cows, neighing like horses and praying loudly to Jesus and Mr. Trump for salvation.  Some were walking and clucking like chickens, other were speaking in tongues.  Mr. Tramp provided a translation for some of those folks.

I decided that it was time to go and I started walking to toward the exit.  Odie and Onna May demanded to know where I was going and I said I had to leave early.  They then denounced me as a “Clintonite spy”  and a “Clintonite agitator.”  Mr. Trump heard this and yelled “Throw the bum out.  Get him out of here.”

Something hit me in the back of the head.  I tried to go faster and was hit in the side of the head.  I turned to tell who ever did it to “Stop,” and I was hit in the nose and knocked down.  Once on the floor, people began stomping and kicking me.”

“That is the last thing I remember, that and people chanting ‘the truth’ over and over and over.”

“I woke up here in the hospital.”

“This is all so crazy.”

“I wish I knew the truth.”

© Copyright 2018 Eddie C Morton. All rights reserved.

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