Monday, 8 February 2010


Don't know if this was ever posted anywhere, saw bits of it here and there but not sure aboutnthe whole thing. skymadeupnewsandfilth run the same old shit day after day, so this won't hurt. It dates from Obama's Inauguration and Brown's visit to his protege:

I've come to tell you. It is the right thing, motherfuckers, for the country.


The nutter with the stutter.

From SkyMadeUpNewsAndFilth

With Kay Fright and Jeff Barrowboy.

Over now to our cameras in the US Senate where the joint-Saviours of the World are about to speak, and my Fox colleague, Hiram T Cheesburger Junior…..

Cut to man with brillian teeth and big hair.

Hiram, what can you tell us….?

Well, Kirsty, Aretha Franklin is just warming up the Joint Houses here...

Cut to mad, fat, black old lady, speaking in tongues.

“America, America, my country ‘tis of thee, Whoo-whoo-whoo, Doo-lang Doo-lang, Yeehaw Oh-oh-oh-oh Say, can you s-e-e-e-e-e, by the Dawn’s early light, whoo-whoo-whoo, sock it to me one time, Screech, Howl, R.E.S.P.E.C.T., find out what it means to me. I said R.E.S.P.E.C.T., A Womp Bom a Loo Bom A Womp Bam Boo….”

Well there you are, Kay, just a flavour of the entertainment here, to mark the visit of your President, Mr Blair, sorry, a voice in my ear is saying…..wossat….Yeah, right, your President, Mr Gordon Fucking Bennet. And now, the nigger in the woodpile himself, I mean the White House, the President of the United States……Uncle Tom Obama….

(Hysteria, cheers, Band of the US Marine Corp plays, choir in blackface sings: Mammy, Mammy the Sun shines East, the Sun shines West…. )

A trapdoor opens, dry ice, strobes, the Messiah ascends. Come Senators, Congressmen, please heed the call, it is my privilege, today, to present to y’all the Limey Premeer, Mr Gordon McBrown, all the way from Scotland, England. And, my fellow motherfuckers, like myself, sixty years ago, this nigger wouldna bin let off the Reservation, never mind go and live with his pretend family down there in Bucking-ham House. Goes to show how much progress them Limeys are making in civil rights. Still throw your nigger ass in the can for sixty days and all, shoot your curly nigger head fulla fucking dum-dum bullets if you go on the white folks’ subway but Hey, a fag Jock Reservationee in the Top Job, must be doing somethin’ right and I say to you, my fellow nigger motherfucking sonsafuckingbitches, I am prepared to reach out the hand of friendship, just as long as the hand I’m shaking ain’t been up in some Goddamned sonofabitch's nose (goes in trance, shouts: I Have A Dream, Motherfuckers…I have looked over that Mountaintop, motherfuckers….) Stevie Wonder sings Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday Martin Luther King and jumping around excitedly, falls off the stage and is trampled to death. Obama children come onstage, are discreetly cattle-prodded and applaud their Daddy vigorously. Spunky Bill Clinton, high on cocaine and Jack Daniels, blows a tenor saxophone, badly, while his pretend wife, President Hillary Trousers, scowls and does that grunting smile at lesbian supporters in the crowd.

Y’know, friends, there’s a saying in Mr O’Brown’s Reservation homelands that Jock is the nigger a the world - they’re little ginger transvestite midgets, get drunk a lot, whup their bitches near to death, fight among themselves, die young, go in the joint a lot, a bit like my homeboys in the Windy City - but I’m here to tell you is only one fucking nigger of the world and you are Goddamned well looking at him, standing right up here in front of you, and it is I, Barack Hoo-sayn Obamalamadingdong and I’ll sue the nigger ass off of any sonofafuckingbitch says different. Make the sonsofabitches renew the American dream, no shit. I’ll have White House counsel shitting down their throats and burning their fuckin’ houses down. If they have any houses left, after all that subprimeshit, only way a nigger gonna get a house and then sooner'n you can say Jim Crow the bankers done fo-close on them mothers and they is back out in the street bein' a pain in the ass to decent rich white folks, like me and the First NiggerLady.

Anyway, my fellow motherfuckers, as we stride forward, assured, confident, into financial meltdown, white minority siege-rule and military disaster, true to our Founding White Fathers, One White Nation Before God, as we struggle manfully to compensate our Banking community for failing in our duty to them, I say to you, there ain’t no mo’ free lunches, apart from for the bankers, but the poor folks who borrowed, they need a good ass-kicking, maybe spend some time in the 'pen! Yes, they can.

(Cheers. We Love You, Uncle Tom Obama!!)

The road, nigger motherfucking brothers and sisters, is long, with many a winding turn but it leads to somewhere. And that’s exactly where I aim to lead you to. There’s a place for us, Somewhere a place for us, Peace and Quiet and Open Air, wait for us niggers, somewhere, Yes, we can. Somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high… And we can make it. We just have to burn all the money, dig a big, fiery, motherfucking pit, right there in the White House Lawn and keep shovelling them motherfucking greenbacks right on in there ‘til there ain’t no more.

(Cheers, Hallelujah! LawdaMercy, SaveMeLawd! Sweet Jesus, Burn that Motherfuckin’ money! Burn it right up!)

And then, motherfuckers, when we done burned all the money we gotta take all the gold outa Fort Knox and give it away to anybody wants it.

(Applause, shouts of Drop-Kick Me Jesus, Through the Goalposts of Life, an impromptu choir sings Way Down Upon The Swannee River.)

And then the next thing is take all the regular ammunition offa the service folks out there in Eyerack and Afghaniwotsit and give ‘em all stuff that either don’t fit in the fucking guns or blows the fuck up in their faces, sending them home to a meaningful life in flea-ridden Vet hospital shitholes, else begging on the streets, like lonesome hobos.

But friends and motherfuckers and nigger sonsafuckingbitches, we cain’t do this shit alone. We cain’t walk this lonely road a self-improvement and renewal alone. We need a guide, a mountainman, a plainsman, an Injun-fightin’ man, one a God’s Wagonmasters a man who wouldn't never do no wrong; a pretty, straight guy but we couldn’t get Tony Blair and so we got this snot-eatin’ pansy freak, instead, usedta be Tony’s right-hand wotsit, consigli-fucking-ere, that's wop talk, motherfuckers, for jailhouse lawyer.

I give you, Senators and Congressmen, ladeezangennulmen and all you global niggers, watching us from your jungles and swamps, your deserts, unclutching yo' hands from yo' AyKay 47s and holding them out for a glass a Freedom CocaCola, I give you, and lets hear it, give a good nigger welcome to the McDude:

The Pollution With the Sol-You-Shun,


The First Minister of Sinister,


The Nutter With The Stutter,


The McNigger With The McFigures,


The Man With No Nails, Who Never Fails,


He's hot to snot.


The Ay-ah-tole-ah of throwin’ people on the dole-ah,


the Prime Minister of the Yoo-nited Ree-formed Presbyterian Churches of Scotland, the best Goddamned part of England, the SonOfAPreacherMan hisself, please welcome:

The Right Reverend



(Cheers, applause)


(Cheers, applause, screaming)


(cheers, House erupts in foot-stomping and whistling)

"The Limey Premeer, Gordon C Nesbit"

Bruce Springsteen’s Presidential House Band strikes-up –The only one that could ever reach me, was the sweet-talkin’ son of a PreacherMan…..

Bruce, in his trademark PoorBoy clothes jumps atop a flag-draped speakerstack, his battered Telecaster raised in triumph, sweat drenching his wiry PoorBoy frame, Another day, another million dollars, he thinks to himself, I love Rock ‘n’ Roll. Have to write me another album, all about poor people, sufferin’, shit like that, in their cars. Just like Woody. This land ain't your land, this land is my land.....

Gordon mounts the lectern, to cheers of “To-ny! To-ny! Where’s Imelda? We love you To-ny!”

My fellow Presbyterians, I am here to tell you what is the right thing to do, for hardworking motherfucking, as uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh, as you uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh so colourfully say, uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh families and, may I say that the whole world, the whole world, ladies and gentlemen and niggers, is doing uh-uh-uh-uh-uh, ex- uh-uh-uh exactly as I uh-uh-uh-uh-uh say. Exactly as I say.

It is the right thing to do. I worked it out in my rough book when I got up at three-am, getting on with the job, and I call it the Grand Global Plan. That’s right, the Grand Global Plan and uh uh-uh-uh-uh-uh I- I- I- I-I worked it all out myself and have been saying it for decades, even though I haven’t. When, when, when, when, uh, uh, uh, uh, when I said British jobs for British workers I was really saying, uh uh uh uh British jobs for American workers……and Chinese workers, of course, it is the right thing to do, to give them all the jobs because they own the country...

(Cheers, To-ny! To-ny!)

……..and-and-and-and French jobs for American workers

(Cheers, We love you To-ny, Oh yes we do, when you’re not near us, we’re blue ….)

.....and of course, British troops for-for-for-for A-A-A-A-merican coffins.

(Yeah, Yeah, Yeah)

Thank you. You know, we have a saying in my homeland, England, that a poofter is without honour in his own land and I am reminded of how true that is, and not only in my own case for I am a happily married man, with children, I believe, although I never use them or Mrs Beard for political gain, apart from at party conferences and all of the time, but was it not our very own Mr Quentin Crisps, unfortunately not part of a hard-working family, like my courageous self, who came into this great country of yours to spread venereal disease, the whole alphabet of hepatitis, sodomy, cottaging, fisting and all the attributes of a civilised society and isn’t that just an example of the very special relationship between our two Kingdoms ? Two nations, one language, one fist up the arsehole.

The one way we can return a sense of normality to this economic situation, which, by the way, motherfuckers, is all your fault - but mainly, although nobody will say this, it’s the niggers’ fault, wanting to have homes of their own and everything, just like white people - is for everybody to do uh uh uh uh uh uh uh everybody to do uh uh uh uh uh uh uh exactly as I tell them. Now is not the time for a sane person.

You know, when I was a clever wee boy growing up in my father’s manse, my childhood hero was Senator Ted Kennedy of Chappaquidick.

Camera cuts to white haired old man in wheelchair, dribbling and wanking furiously.

How can you do that shit, I used to think to myself. Drive off the bridge drunk, crash in the river and leave that girl to drown all alone in the icy waters? But that wasn’t the best bit, Oh no, motherfuckers, the best bit was not taking any blame for it. And even now that historic incident guides my own path to greatness and perpetual rule. When the uh, shit, motherfuckers, hits the fan, run and hide in the toilet and bite your nails, works for me.

(Cheers, To-ny! To-ny! To-ny!)

So I hope that has set the matter uh uh uh uh uh straight, so to speak. Great men of courage, like myself and Senator Kennedy and your late President, Mr George Chimp Junior and not forgetting the current one, Uncle Tom Cobley, are not to be uh uh uh uh uh judged by the standards of other men. Fuck, no. As I was saying only yesterday to President ben Hymie of Israel, if you lend us a few shekels I will take personal responsibility for ensuring that you never see it again. It takes men of, may I say, great stature to say things like that. And Mr ben Hynie looked me straight in the eye and said, I know that, Tony, I know that. It was a very moving and courageous moment for me.

Only last week I was speaking with his Holiness, Pope Nazi and I said to him, Nazz, how do you go on, for money I mean? You know, when you’re spent-out? My son, his Grace said to me, Money, it iss the root off all ze Evil und zis is vy ze suffering poor volks should not be haffing it, Sieg Heil, und ve must take it from zem, by force iff iss necessary, und dedicate our lifes into spending it on behaff of zem; iss doing God’s verk; und I should fukking know, nein? Und after dinner, my Son, he continued, vood you like eine young boy or eine young girl, or maybe haf both, here in ze Vatican, ve haff allsorts, Jah? Is gut. Heil Hitler. Und Holy Mary, too, of course.

And it is encounters like that, with my fellow truly remarkable men of great courage, which lead me to my current strategy of taxing all the poor people –doesn’t it say in the Gospel of Gordon: Blessed are the poor that they may be sent to work for a minimum, very minimum wage, with measly tax credits bestow-ed upon them that they might vote for Me - and giving it to the banks so they can lend it back to them with interest. Or not. Either way, its better than doing nothing. Which is something no-one can accuse me of doing since I do something new every five minutes.

At home in England I have left things in uh uh uh uh the uh uh uh capable hands of my friend Lord Peter Blowjob, who once didn’t love me but now does again, or that’s what he says I must say or he’ll publish the photos. At the moment, Lord Peter, like myself an unelected, vindictive pansy, is busy selling-off our Pony Express Service, in the interests of stopping people sending letters to each other which we cannot read. If they have nothing to hide, as I always say, they have nothing to write letters about, do they? And anyway, down at the Select Committees, Lord Peter has them eating out of his cock, sorry Freudian Slip, I mean hand.

So (tapping Claw of Doom on lectern) my fellow Presbyterians - and nigger motherfuckers, of course - I would like to thank you for the very kind welcome you have extended to myself and Mrs Beard; the servants’ quarters in the White House are most comfortable and quite close to a busy gentlemen’s toilets where I can mast- I mean meditate on the great dilemmas facing Men of Courage such as myself. While Mrs Beard looks after some small persons she takes around with her.

I am uh uh uh uh reminded, tap-tap-tap-tap, of of of of of of of the great American saying ‘e pluribus unum.’ Not many people know this but it means Gordon is the Greatest Among Many. Other translations of this timeless phrase which I learned sitting on my father’s penis, sorry knee, Freudian Slip, I do it all the time, pay me no cock, I mean mind, tap-tap-tap, is is is is is is is, Everybody is in this shit together, a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-apart from Gordon. Annuit Ceptis is another phrase known by latin scholar such as myself and means ‘more shit every year from a one-eyed Scotch git’ but we tend not to refer to that one too much.

In uh uh uh uh uh conclusion, then, it seems that President Uncle Tom and his very tap able tap team tap-tap-tap of embittered lesbians, Zionist monsters and right-wing loonies has grasped the fundamentals of stanislavianism, which is the name given, back home in England, to my strategy for bankrupting the world and Ruining every fucking thing in sight, the roads, the hospitals, the schools, the farms; the economy, the army, tap, the navy, tap, and the airforce tap-tap-tap and most importantly, the Labour Party and of burning all the money and plunging civilisation into an eternal, verminous netherworld of hunger, tap, homelessness, tap, sickness, tap, fear and loathing, tap-tap-tap, in which warlords stalk the Ruined land, stabbing each other’s tribes with sharpened sticks, eating each other; in short, the creation of New Presbyteria; The Third Way; For the Few, the very Few.

Thank you uh uh uh uh uh very uh much

Its been a long time now, my fellow motherfucking Presbyterians, since I had a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a J. Arthur, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap, must be more than half-an-hour and when that happens something comes over me and the mobile phones can become really uh uh uh uh uh mobile. And so I must leave these great affairs of state and head for the John, as you, as you, as you, as you, as you call it, Mr Deputy Speaker. And toss myself off like a-a-a-a-a-a-a nutter. God Bless American Motherfuckers. God Bless President Uncle Tom Obamalama. And remember I a-a-a-a-a-a-am the way, the way, the way, the truth and the No light at the uh uh uh uh uh end of the tunnel. Off now to scatter the good seed down the toilet-bowl, well not very good, actually……

(Band of the US Marine Corps plays God Save the Queens)

Missing you already, America


Verge said...

Dear Mr Ish, I wish my insomniac episodes were as productive as yours. Bravo (and for the AliWank piece as well.)

Fuck You Press would be proud.

Dick the Prick said...

Fantastic. Many thanks.

a young anglo irish catholic said...

Explains everything.

Gordon's love of summer holidays on Cape Cod was not revealing of a love of free-market economics, rather his need to find his father's absolution in unmentionable places.

black hole sunset said...

Great stuff, Mr Ishmael.