Kenneth and the Wiggly - A Nursery Tale (With apologies to Johnny Lemmon)

“Death may decide when Doctor’s disagree.” James Gillray, 1804 Photo by McGill Library on Unsplash

Verily the Kenneth (a.k.a. Da Star) looked from his Hump Olympus down upon his muddled asses and thusly did he speak. Spake he of greatened things, of wigglies and those freshly painted woeman’s lips and never mark the Twain shall meat unless they be Congressional in nature and of Re-e-e-e-e-publican persuasion, not heathen other kinds.

And that great Judge of all mankind (and woeman peeps with they foibles and they folderol) Great Kenny of the Salem judgements, he did mutter he had never tasted such a vileness and tittered gaily that the sky would fall if not the arches from such villainry and lies, aech, mon dieu, the lies, that he should live to hear such test deposits, lies and from Big Daddy the Bo Diddly, chief poly-technician dude hisself.

Then that great Groovy Lawyer man (methinks hisself a wiggly hath once dangled there beneath his flowing words, er, robes) then he did stand before the populate and spaketh:

“Children!”  He liked to call them children, “I admonish thee.  Ignore the markets that may crash and farmers going broke, the ruble rushing into rubble, your children who can’t read and do consider that the Presidential wiggly hath slipped its bonds and soared on wings of… no, I mean, he’s slipped it forth like Satan’s snake into the garden seeking bimbo time!  It is nay enough to worry that the Irish hate the English and the Jewry hate the Ahabs and the Ahabs everybody who does not bow down before they Shaman–let it go and listen. 

“Woe to the Nation that lets its Big Billy Gruff the horned Goat, the Guppy man hump freely with every luscious fruit of woemanhood and dance and let be blown the horn and thus like that and smoke cigars, or lick them so.   

“Do not let the signs of discord and collapse distract ye brethren—it has been six years and months since the Presidential wiggly was restrained–and if its predecessor was too old and limp to rise, was there not as fine a time for chopping wood and posing by one’s horsey while the Little Ollie cried boo hoo for justice?   

“Let us now resolve that we will return again to ancient Regan movie years when wigglies were forgotten, ‘cepting in the wee times when senile blatherers with they flapping chin skin that be the poly-technicians do their bladders call upon them go unto that place where things are delt.  And wasn’t that just by the place (or nigh right on it) where the Billy Booby cut one loose?”

Then that Great Kenny Poo doth carried his stone boxes, his thirty-six in number with great crematory digest, videos and with force of constables and lurid XXX-rated story to they very hill upon the foot of witch he perched provocative proclaiming, Salem-like, er Solomon, just as the crow of Poe of his great cause and woe.

The Hyde, yea verily the Newt, the son of Toad did hop right up and croak they froggy pieces whilst with they wigglies dandling sleepy for they had not with luscious lips been met, least not caught awhile on tape and so they croaked forlorn, with hubbub great and righteous scorn.

And giggly Graham with his prissy robes of SOUTHERN white imperium did swear he’d never let a woeman person hand his wiggly thus and such, and he of future fame for finding Trump to be a man who liked to clutch them woeman persons by the snatch—else snatch they clutches in a pinch—decided still he loved him like his own for hearing what he said did warm the wiggly in his heart.

For whilst all Presidential things should be allowed they rights, was this not democracy where all should have a man’s large hands, each male of ‘Publican descent according to his penis size and were they not engaged in congress with the weighty, so well skilled at pokey things?

Then Newty and the Graham spake with they trembly rubber lips and drooled forth sales at Walmart at the thought that once again the chief poly-technician dude would they brethren be there in the holiest of houses, that great white House of ‘Publican so recently defiled?

The little black face folk, troubled that they Billy Bumpkins’ pud be so sorely pulled upon, “His wiggly musts be sore!” looked up to Kenny Glasses in his Oxford cloth of blue and with they gaze, “Say bro, why you’s so wroth and so un-hip about this roamin’ wiggly? Don’t ya’ll sho’ enough get to bumping ‘bout at times? We wouldn’t grudge ya’ll.”

And Kenny Bow Tie said with Eagle scout great fervor that he would rather whack his wiggly than subdue those fulsome lips to such a jaw of work. Nay, he said, did Kenny Pumpkin Mouth, his wiggly was at peace (his spouse agreed) and so it would remain ‘till he forgot to tend those nether legions just below the belt line he now nourished with his triumph over Willie, just like a Roman Claxon priest, unless of course a sweet boy be then brought to be instructed.

Then the ugly Stepford sister called Tripp, who might have sought her own warm wiggly for to play upon a tune, she was so wrothful at her hair-do that she ran the tape then backwards proving Paul was dead, the Tripp did counsel that poor woemanhood, the girl who’d been for sure cigared, how coping with the media and make her famous fifteen minutes last, whilst Wagging Willy returned to grovel to his very wife, Hilarity (who wasn’t laughing) with his wiggly in its chastened place and under lock and key like that red button in a briefcase, and he promised all those zillionaires with daughter interns wet and anxious for a piece of Presidential powwow that the zipper door was zipped at least until November.

And the Star of Kenneth gathered ‘round his clan of lawyer types of Oxford, he did reach in and plucketh out one sweet rolled brown cigar to lick–he brought it forth and did declaim, “Now gentlemen, forsooth and for our mommas, suck on these forever more.”

While the well-tanned Trumpeter watched Kenny’s judgment from his high roost there in Mad Hatten with his Cohen and the pigeons, thinking all that came before, his grandpappy’s Dawson City brothel and his own dear darling Pappy renting separate rooms for black and white and Ray Cohen–may his grave be ever watered–when he wasn’t grabbing snatch hisself he might consider visiting that little room just off the Offal Office for his own bemused but tiny wiggly–why else would his hands be small and taxes be so well deferred?

And Gingham Graham swore on his worsted suit that ever should a Re-e-e-e-e-publican be caught so compromised by paying woemen for such services he liked to get for free, he’d be the first to point his finger skyward in protestations, being of such an upright poly-technician hyperbole in kind.