I am called by many names. Tulu, Clulu, Clooloo, Cuitiliú, Thu Thu, High Priest of the Great Old Ones, The Great Dreamer, The Sleeper of R’lyeh.

I was before time was. I transcend mere physical space. I am the heir of Azathoth.

You may know me as Cthulhu.

Long have I slumbered in the vasty deeps, beyond the reach of time, waiting for the stars to turn. I dream below the waves, a monstrous mind suspended, rapt in thought. I am dead and yet I dream, vile nightmare visions that reach forth their tentacles into the minds of those who dwell upon the shores of fleeting light. In them I preserve my nameless terror.

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But now I feel the call. I feel the movement, the earthquake. The Trump calls me from my slumber.

When he speaks, there belches forth a great stench like the opening of a thousand graves, and every fiber of my being yearns to answer. He says, “Build the wall.” He says, “I build great.” He says, “Do I hit it long? Is Trump strong?” And around him, the terrible orgy of rage and horror swells. With each cry, I hear it: “Cthulhu fhtagn! Cthulhu fhtagn!”

The stars have come right again, and out of the immense and plumbless depths I make ready to return, to ooze forth, back into the light.

And that is why I whisper into the minds of all who will heed: Cthulhu endorses Donald Trump.

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Who better to usher in a new and monstrous age of ultimate chaos?

In him, I recognize a kindred spirit.

I admire the tremendous obelisk he has constructed to mar the skyline of New York City with its vast dolomite shadow.

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We share an affinity for the huge, the mammoth, the gargantuan, the nightmarishly tremendous.

My geometry is not of this puny world, just as his arithmetic is not of this world.

Like the obsidian vaults of my drowned Cyclopean city, his positions are blurred and fuzzy. Like me, he is not bound by the rules of reality. Like me, he obeys no mortal physics, changing shape and angle, acute one moment and obtuse the next.

Like me, he possesses the power to drive those around him to insanity.

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I too have built walls of fantastic proportions, almost beyond the compass of the mind of man. But I grow weary of slumber and now, like Trump, I wish to build again.

Man to ageless-sexless-timeless-being-with-an-octopus-for-a-face-and-dragon-like-characteristics, I feel that Trump understands my concerns.

I too possess a tremendous brood in whom I take great pride: Ghatanothoa, Ythogtha, Zoth-Ommog, Cthylla, and T’ith. (T’ith is no Ivanka, but we cannot all be Ivanka.) I wish the world to be as great for them as it was for the Old Ones.

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We are not so different, he and I, although he went to Wharton, a distinction I lack. (I attended Yuggoth State. Go, Shoggoths!)

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I, too, detest the media. Why must everyone who writes about me be so unremittingly negative and mean and plain unfair, calling me “eldritch horror” or “Nug”? Please, Nug is my ageless sexless timeless parent! “Eldritch Horror” makes me sound old. I know that’s not what the word means, but that’s not the point. Cthulhu is not old. Cthulhu exists beyond time. Cthulhu is deathless. Cthulhu’s cephalopod-face is great. Cthulhu has the best brain. Cthulhu has the most splendid tentacles.

Just once I want a profile written by someone who doesn’t instantly run gibberingly mad afterward.

I am a sensitive being, deep down. Very deep. Beneath the vastness of ocean and the dolomite sepulchers, where I have slept since before the sun was born.

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Yes, Cthulhu is a sensitive being, and Cthulhu aches. The world now is very bad.

We don’t build things any longer: not vast obelisks covered in hideous hieroglyphs, not immense portals whose depths no mortal can fathom, not mighty sepulchres and vile altars that men run mad to behold.

And we don’t win anymore. Specifically, Cthulhu doesn’t win anymore. Eldritch creatures capable of reducing the whole world to insensate horror no longer run rampant from continent to continent. It’s sad. We Elder Gods don’t win. We are asleep on the job, literally.

But in the Antarctic, the ice shifts and cracks, and we awaken. (Trump is also not certain about climate change, a fact that leads me to believe that he wants us to rise and resume our reign as much as we wish to rise.)

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As he says: Make America Great Again, as it was when it was peopled entirely by the Elder Gods and the lands echoed with the bestial cries of our sacrifices.

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Cthulhu is sick of slumbering beneath the deeps. Cthulhu wants to win.

Soon I shall burst forth like smoke from my aeon-long imprisonment, visibly darkening the sun as I slink into the shrunken and gibbous sky on flapping membraneous wings. And at a Trump rally, I shall fit right in.

“There will be so much winning we will get sick of winning,” Trump bellows. Yes. For Cthulhu. We Elder Gods shall have it all, as Adele sang, not rolling in the deep, but once more upon the land.

Where Trump does not go far enough, I will pick up the slack. Instead of vilifying some groups, Cthulhu shall reduce all mortals to madness or servitude or simply devour them. Where Trump opposes merely certain groups of people, Cthulhu opposes all. Cthulhu will devour without respect to caste or creed. Cthulhu is no respecter of persons. At Trump rallies, some feel safe. At Cthulhu rallies, none shall.

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But first we must elect Trump.

What before Trump has filled the dreams of so many with a nameless horror? What but Trump can usher in the return of the gibbering Shoggoths?

I wholeheartedly endorse this man. (Wholeheartedly is not the word, as what I have is nothing like a heart. But every tentacle of my face and every hideous claw on my protuberances sings for him.) Trump! Trump! He shall awaken the Old Ones from their slumber. He shall repopulate the earth with the ancestral fungus of far Yuggoth.

We will win, together, Cthulhu and Trump. We will win, and Cthulhu shall prevail. In his house at R’lyeh, dead Cthulhu lies dreaming a new dream and that dream is the American Dream.