The MAGANomicon

The Trumpian Book of the Dead

Note: I had a weird dream that H.P. Lovecraft had a show on Fox, and that it was insanely popular. This feverish product was the result, with apologies in advance to Lovecraft fans, and to everyone else.


In the accursed corners of this blighted republic, beneath the fetid soil of forgotten courthouses and the built-over mounds of shattered Dollar Store debris cast there by the lost denizens of cursed and vanished civilizations, there lies a book.

It is not bound in mere flesh, but in the tanned hypocrisy of dead talk radio hosts and Moms for Liberty precinct captains. The horrors described therein are written in the blood of apathetic voters who died screaming at the hands of fell horrors no human mind can comprehend. Its pages are made not of paper, but of ancient Fox News Brain Room memos, gruesome chyron scrolls soaked in the ichor of monetized rage. It is known among the mad, the brave, and the terminally online as The MAGAnomicon.

Scholars of the grotesque whisper that it first appeared in the Year of the Golden Escalator, a cursed cycle in which time lost meaning and so did words. Scrawled in the orange-slick hand of the Great Bloviator Himself, this unholy text did not simply appear in the world. It metastasized. One moment, America was a janky but functional constitutional republic; the next, it was a haunted strip mall with a screaming Twitter feed, waving a knockoff Glock 19 clone in one hand and a Chick-fil-A bag in the other.

Sane men cannot read the MAGAnomicon. Its contents rearrange themselves depending on who gazes upon them. To the weak-minded, it is scripture. To the depraved, it is policy. To Stephen Miller, it is the Spank Bank of Doom.