satire of a satire…
August 9, 2025
EXCLUSIVE: SCIENTIST SPILLS ON TRUMP’S VANISHING ISLAND AND FRANKENSTEIN MONSTER!
by Harvey Poindexter, The Ongyan’s Newest Brainiac
MEET HARVEY POINDEXTER: THE FRINGE SCIENCE FREAK!
Howdy, Ongyan readers! I’m Harvey Poindexter, your new guide to the bizarre, with a shiny PhD in Physics from Caltech and a minor in Quantum Science and Engineering (QSE, for you nerds out there)! I’m not swinging from chandeliers like Vitus Carlyle or dishing dirt on staff hookups—my thrills come from fringe science and pseudoscience! I’m obsessed with cryptids, cold fusion, and perpetual motion! No bio degree here, but I got schooled in weird biology by my college girlfriend, Molly, who turned me onto the Aquatic Ape Theory.
Picture this: me and Molly, late-night in our dorm, arguing over Bigfoot DNA while munching pizza.
Molly: “Harvey, if mermaids evolved from apes, where’s the fossil record?”
Harvey: “Babe, fossils are overrated. I say mermaids are just apes who partied too hard in the ocean!”
Molly: “You’re nuts, but I dig it. Pass the pepperoni.”
That’s how I rolled—chasing wild theories while dodging mainstream snooze-fests. But family? That’s where it gets tricky. My twin brother, Harry, is a Princeton PhD in Chemistry who went corporate with DuPont. Think Johnny Dangerously—one brother’s a mob boss, the other’s a prosecutor. Harry and I are like that, except with lab coats instead of tommy guns. How do you keep the vibes chill when your twin’s chasing a different kind of high?
TRUMP’S MYSTERY ISLAND: WHERE IT GETS WEIRDER THAN A THREE-HEADED YETI!
Harry and I used to be tight, dreaming up crazy science as kids. Flashback to us at 12, building a potato-powered rocket in our backyard:
Harvey: “Harry, if we juice enough spuds, we’ll launch this to Mars!”
Harry: “Bro, forget Mars. I’m teleporting us to the arcade for free Pac-Man!”
Harvey: “Mom’s gonna kill us when this blows up the shed!”
Harry: “Worth it! Science rules!”
That’s why we picked science—pure, nerdy joy. But while I’m out here trying to save the world, Harry’s selling his brain to the highest bidder. He started at DuPont, then got scooped up by DARPA to cook up sci-fi nightmares—think Jurassic Park gene-splicing, The Fly teleportation, or Island of Dr. Moreau madness. We used to swap ideas in college, geeking out over the Double Slit Experiment or cold fusion! Harry got hooked on teleportation after reading Stephen King’s The Jaunt! “Longer than you think, Dad! I saw! I saw! Long Jaunt! Longer than you think!” Harvey read the story to me.
Now? Hold onto your tinfoil hats! Harry’s working on a secret island owned by DONALD TRUMP! Forget Epstein’s creepy hideout—this Trump island is near Membata in Indonesia’s Lesser Sunda Islands, and it’s straight out of Lost! The island MOVES, vanishes, and reappears! Oh, and it’s got a volcano with Trump’s face carved into it, smirking like a Bond villain! Harry’s letters from the island, dubbed “Orange Paradise,” screamed trouble! He’s neck-deep in experiments that’d make Dr. Frankenstein blush!
DONALD FRANKEN EPSTEIN: THE GOP’S TROLL MONSTER, AND A DARING ESCAPE!
Harry’s not evil, but he’s running with a shady crowd. He wrote me, sounding spooked: “I’m at Orange Paradise, working a secret particle accelerator and bio-experiments. They swiped DNA from Trump’s birthday letter to Epstein, spliced it, and created a monster—half Trump, half Epstein, with a Frankenstein twist! They call it Donald Franken Epstein!”
I used our twin powers to sneak onto the island—nobody could tell us apart! I saw the manufactured defectoid wretched mashup of a thing! What a grotesque bumbling hideous creature! It was gurgling campaign slogans! They’re teaching it to talk! I cornered a scientist: “Why create this abomination?”
He grinned: “To own the libs! Trump’s crew spends 5% on policy, 95% on trolling Democrats! We’re prepping Donald Franken Epstein for the 2026 midterms to mingle with Fox News, and trigger snowflakes! If it learns to tweet, it’s running for president in 2028!”
I found Harry in a lab, pale and jumpy. “Harvey, I messed up,” he whispered. “This place is unhinged.”
“Bro, we’re outta here,” I said. We dodged guards, sprinted through jungle, and hijacked a boat under the glow of that creepy Trump-volcano. As we sped away, Orange Paradise flickered and vanished like a bad dream.
Back on the mainland, Harry looked shaken but relieved. After I clapped his shoulder, he said to me, “Thailand’s next, man! I hear the nightlife’s wild—maybe some, uh, company to celebrate our escape!”
I laughed. “I guess you’ll never learn, Harv. You’ll never, ever learn!”
We hugged, brothers again, ready to leave the madness behind. But knowing us, trouble’s just a hypothesis away.
August 3, 2025
Vitus Carlyle’s HOT Night with Madam Cassandra: I Banged the Psychic Queen and Got a Freaky Peek at 2028’s Insane Election!
by Vitus Carlyle, The Ongyan’s Time-Traveling Ladies’ Man
Washington, DC — Yo, Ongyan readers, it’s your boy Vitus Carlyle, the slickest time jumper in the multiverse, back with the juiciest scoop yet! I didn’t just score a story—I scored with Madam Cassandra, our resident psychic hottie, in a swanky DC hotel room! Yeah, I’m talking full-on, clothes-off, in-the-sack action, and let me tell you, it was wilder than a Martian orgy. While we were, ahem, getting cozy, Cassandra hit me with a mind-blowing vision of the 2028 presidential primaries—think robot candidates, a gold-plated Trump House, and Obama dropping bombshells. But then, I swatted a mosquito off her, uh, assets, and poof—the future changed! Buckle up, because this tale’s got sex, scandal, and a dystopian clown show that’ll make your head spin!
How I Totally Banged Madam Cassandra
Alright, bros, gather ‘round, because your man Vitus is about to drop the hottest play-by-play since I dodged a T-Rex in 65 BC. So, I’m in DC, strutting into this fancy hotel bar, my time-traveler trench coat looking fly as hell. Madam Cassandra’s there, sipping some fruity drink, wearing this tight, sparkly dress that’s basically begging me to make a move. Her eyes are all mystic and smoky, like she’s already seen us hooking up in some crystal ball. I slide in, hit her with, “Hey, Cassandra, you ever predict a guy like me rocking your world?” She laughs, all sultry, and says, “Vitus, I saw you coming a timeline away.” Boom, instant chemistry.
We’re chatting world affairs—boring stuff like wars and politics—when she leans in close, her perfume hitting me like a time paradox. Our eyes lock, and before I know it, we’re kissing, all slow and intense, her lips soft like some interdimensional velvet! My hands are in her hair, her nails digging into my back, and I’m thinking, “Score!” Next thing, we’re stumbling to her room, knocking over a vase like it’s a rom-com! Clothes? Gone. Bed? Wrecked. I’m talking full-on, high-school-Homecoming-level action—third base, home run, the whole damn game! She’s moaning my name, I’m feeling like a king, and she’s whispering, “Vitus, you’re rewriting my future.” I’m like, “Hell yeah, babe, that’s my cardio!” Look, I’m not falling for her—Vitus Carlyle’s too tough for love—but when she looked at me post-action, all glowing and smiling, my heart did this weird flip. Probably just the tequila talking!
Madam Cassandra’s Insane 2028 Election Vision
So, we’re lying there, naked, sweaty, sheets all tangled, when Cassandra goes full psychic mode. She grabs my arm, her eyes glowing like some sci-fi movie, and says, “Vitus, I see 2028! It’s coming through clear!” Suddenly, I’m sucked into her vision, like I’m riding shotgun in her brain. It’s the 2028 presidential primaries, and it’s a circus on steroids! Elon Musk’s America Party is running the show, but get this—no human candidates! It’s Mecha-Hitler, a creepy android with a mustache and a superiority complex, versus T-800, that Terminator bot with a leather jacket and shades! Both are powered by different versions of Grok—yep, that AI we all know and love, but these ones are coded to sling mud and campaign promises! The public’s losing it, chanting “Code the Vote!” at rallies that look like Comic-Con meets a riot!
Then there’s Donald Trump, still squatting in the White House like it’s his personal penthouse! Except it’s not the White House anymore—it’s the Trump House, dripping in gaudy gold trim, and neon lights flashing like a Vegas night! He’s ripped up the Rose Garden for the hideous Concrete Slab (probably to park his gold-plated golf cart or put in a basketball court) and replaced the West and East Wings with casino parlors! Word is, he’s got a $200 million plan to turn the West Wing into a glitzy gymnasium, funded by shady Pentagon bucks courtesy of Pete Hegseth! Trump’s on Fox News 24/7, campaigning for a third term, yelling about building a Trump Hotel on the Washington Monument lawn, supposedly bankrolled by Qatar! Cassandra whispers, “He wants to be president for life.” I’m like, “Babe, that’s too crazy!” She just smirks and says, “Wait for it.”
On the other end, Barack Obama’s back, pissed as hell! In the vision, he’s at the Democratic National Convention, snagging the nomination. “Fuck this shit! If Donald Trump is trying to have a third term, so am I!” During his acceptance speech, Obama surprised people. “Now that Donald Trump has nullified the Constitution, and the rules don’t matter, I have a confession to make.” The crowd waited in silence. “I was born in Kenya!” The crowd went wild, half cheering, half rioting. By October 2028, the race was a mess. Trump’s leading, but the Democrats drop an October Surprise: a grainy gay sex tape of Trump and Jeffrey Epstein. Was it real? Was it AI? It’s everywhere—X, TikTok, even holograms at rallies. Trump screams “Fake news! The Democrats did us dirty yet again!” He orders Obama to be arrested! Cassandra’s vision perks up as she’s telling me about November’s election, but I’m already now itching to jump in my time machine to see if this dystopian clown show is for real!
The Mosquito That Nuked the Future!
We’re still in bed, Cassandra’s bare shoulder against mine, her voice all dreamy as she’s describing election night, 2028. I’m half-listening, half-distracted by how damn good she looks, when—BZZZZZ—a mosquito lands right on her left boob! I’m like, “Not on my watch, pest!” and I swat it, leaving a tiny red smear. Big mistake, though. Cassandra gasps, her eyes snap open, and she grabs my arm, all panicky. “Vitus, you idiot! The vision is gone!” I’m like, “What? Over a mosquito?” She’s dead serious: “You changed the timeline. That bug was part of the quantum thread!” Apparently, my swat set off some would-be future chain reaction of some sort, and now 2028’s a blank slate—except for Trump’s casino dreams and his murky president-for-life scheme, which she says are still “sticky” in the timeline. I lean over, brush a strand of hair from her face, and say, “So, no robot Hitler?” She laughs, all soft, and murmurs, “Maybe not. But Trump’s tacky gold trim? That’s still coming!” Her laugh does something to me, like a glitch in my tough-man code. There’s a glimmer in her eyes, and I still see her face when I’m miles away. I’ve gone this long in life without falling in love! Why now? This can’t be happening! Maybe it was something I ate! Right? I heard about that, you know? I can’t shake it off, though! Vitus Carlyle doesn’t do feelings! Okay?
What’s next for your favorite time-jumping stud and his psychic fling? Will Trump turn the White House into a casino? Will Obama’s arrest stick? And what else is Cassandra hiding in that mystic head of hers? Keep reading The Ongyan for more sex, scandals, and dystopian dirt!
The Ongyan Exposé: I, Vitus Carlyle, Unmask Donald Trump as a Vampire Time Lord!
by Vitus Carlyle, Chrononaut Extraordinaire
August 1, 2025
Greetings, Ongyan readers, you lucky truth-seekers! I’m Vitus Carlyle, the rugged, gray-bearded maverick who’s danced through time and dimensions to bring you the unfiltered scoop. Mid-forties, battle-scarred from dodging Napoleonic cavalry and 23rd-century cyber-octopuses, I’m not just a journalist—I’m the guy who makes history jealous! Inspired by Jimmy Kimmel’s The Rabbit Hole claiming Donald Trump might be a time traveler, I took it upon myself (who else could?) to quantum-leap through centuries and unravel the Orange Clown’s darkest secret: he’s a vampire time traveler with bloodlines older than Transylvania itself! Buckle up—this one’s a fang-tastic ride!
The Chrononaut King: Meet Your Guide to the Multiverse
Let’s get one thing straight: nobody navigates time like me! I’ve sipped ale with medieval monks, debated UFOs with Leonardo da Vinci (his sketches? Real), and outwitted Time Cops dressed like 1950s insurance salesmen! I stumbled into a portal in a 2008 subway tunnel, and since then, I’ve hopped timelines using everything from Stewie Griffin-style stepping pads (pro: portable; con: you might materialize inside a T-Rex) to DeLoreans (pro: stylish; con: lightning’s a lousy battery). I’ve even tried my own Quantum Entanglement Skip—based on Einstein’s “spooky action at a distance”—which left me a ghost in 1923 for weeks! Trust me, I’m the only guy bold enough to chase Trump through history’s shadows. The Ongyan doesn’t just report the truth; with me, we make it.
Fiction’s Dirty Secret: Truth in Disguise
You know how The Simpsons gave us Rainier Wolfcastle as Arnold Schwarzenegger? Or Broderick Tatum as Mike Tyson? Fiction’s a mask for reality. South Park’s Herbert Garrison is really Trump, and Men in Black showed agents hunting aliens in tabloids like ours! When Kimmel suggested Trump’s a time traveler, I didn’t laugh—I zapped to 18th-century Auvergne, France, chasing Anne Rice’s “fictional” vampire Lestat de Lioncourt, born in 1760. Guess who I found? Trump, strutting in a powdered wig, sipping something redder than wine. Was Rice hiding a real vampire? I’d bet my interdimensional bar tab she was!
Transylvania’s Dark Roots: The Drumpf Dynasty
My ego? It’s earned, folks—I tracked Trump’s bloodline to 15th-century Wallachia, home of Vlad the Impaler, the real Dracula. Near Vlad’s turf stood Wolfcastle, a creepy fortress housing Nicolae and Rusandra Drumpf—pale, nocturnal, and suspiciously Trump-like. Their lineage? Nicolae begat Georgius, Georgius begat Radu, until Hanns Drumpf became “Trump” in 1600s Kallstadt, right near Bavaria! Fast-forward, and Donald Trump’s ruling the White House with vampire blood pumping through his veins! Oh, and Vlad’s line? It led to Petru, Mihail, and—yep—eventually Vladimir Putin. Two undead world leaders, one ancient conspiracy! Who else but me could connect those dots?
Vampire Cabal: Fox News and Beyond
My time-hopping didn’t stop there. I caught Fox News’s Laura Ingraham and Jesse Watters in 19th-century London, fangs out at a vampire soiree. They’re Trump’s immortal lackeys, spinning lies to keep us blind! And Greg Gutfeld? He’s no vampire—he’s a Stoor Hobbit, like Gollum, hoarding attention in a 17th-century Shire knockoff! I’m the only journalist brave enough to call it: Trump’s got a supernatural squad, and I’m exposing all of them!
Time Travel Tech: My Genius Methods
How do I chase an immortal like Trump? I’ve tried it all. Phone booths (pro: spacious; con: temporal spam calls), hot tubs (pro: fun; con: vodka-fueled chaos), and portals like Land of the Lost’s crystal pylons (pro: instant; con: they vanish). My favorite? The Mandela Drive, tapping collective false memories to anchor jumps—though I once landed in a timeline where The Ongyan was a boring academic journal, of all things! Shudder! Quantum theory backs me up: Tipler’s Cylinder could warp spacetime, but mine played Yanni too much on loop. I’m basically a time-travel god, but even I can’t fix Trump’s paradoxes!
The Shocking Verdict
Here’s the truth, Ongyan readers: Donald Trump is a vampire time traveler, tied to the Drumpf-Wolfcastle clan, linked to Vlad the Impaler, and backed by undead pundits and a Stoor Hobbit sidekick! I, Vitus Carlyle, risked paradoxes, and many Time Cops, to bring you this story—because nobody else can! I’ve got a soft spot for you folks (especially the kids asking if dinosaurs had lawyers), but don’t mistake my heart for weakness! Trump’s immortal reign threatens us all, and only The Ongyan—and yours truly—can shine a light on it! So grab your garlic, question everything! Stay tuned for my next dispatch from this multiverse!
—Vitus Carlyle, the Greatest Chrononaut You’ll Ever Read
PS: If you spot me in 18th-century France, buy me a drink. I’ll spill tea about Marie Antoinette’s robot maid.
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