The chronicles of Ruin, continued.
Call me Ishmael said....intelligence is knowing what to do when you don't know what to do.
Anonymous said... When I don't know what to do,I come here.
10 September 2009 22:59
We like to dress down once or twice a year, I don't wear a tie and she doesn't shave her legs. Or her upper lip.
Daddy, Daddy, nobody likes me. (voice from the Other Side) Piss off, you horrible fucking bastard.
You can't believe everything you read in the papers.
Actually, I'm a bit of a warlord myself, in my own country, England.
I come from a perfectly normal family, look.
And I think, Senator,when you become President Codger McCain, you should run America this way.
Is this the fruitcake, always jerking-off, escaped off the Northern Reservation? Wossat? He ain't even a proper Limey, a renegade Scotchman? Be like having a Goddamned Mexican sonofabitch in the White House. What's that thing he's doin', with his kisser, Fuck me, Jesus, looks like his whole Goddamned face is just gonna fall in half; ain't they got no doctors in Limeyland, sort this bastard out?
You have to grab the typists like this, by the tits, otherwise they diss you. And then batter them with a mobile 'phone.
Gosh, you're handsome. Would you like to be in my government I could make you a czar of something?
And I understand some of you people have them this big...I don't suppose.. No....well, no harm in asking. If you say so, Honky.
I'll be going bye-byes now but I'll be up at three-thirty, thinking of new ways to do the right thing for the country.
Downing Street has fiercely denied new claims that Gordon Brown physically attacked his staff in a series of outbursts.
Prime minister, Gordon Snot, en route to a meeting with his secretarial team.
By Patrick Hennessy, Political Editor Published: 8:00AM GMT 31 Jan 2010
Reports suggested the Prime Minister was accused of hitting a senior adviser, pulling a female office worker out of her chair and subjecting aides to a tirade of abuse.
It was claimed the alleged incidents were being investigated by journalist Andrew Rawnsley for a new book, The End Of The Party, to be published in the run up to the general election, expected on 6 May.
However, No 10 sources were quick to deny the claims. One said: "This is all absolute rubbish. Nothing like this ever happened. A Downing Street spokesman said: "Journalists are free to investigate whatever fanciful stories they wish."
According to reports, Mr Brown once hit a senior aide who "got in the way" when he rushed out of No 10 to a reception for foreign dignitaries.
On another occasion he was said to have pulled a secretary from her seat for failing to keep up as he allegedly dictated a memo to her, sitting in it himself and operating her computer, with his own snotty, nail-bitten fingers.
The third alleged incident saw Mr Brown yelling obscenities at his senior staff in a hotel room in the US after being informed of media reports that he was being "snubbed" by President Barack Obama, especially after he had, in his own words, saved the world.
Publishers Viking claim the book is "packed with astonishing revelations." However, a source close to Mr Brown, himself, pointed to author Rawnsley's close links to allies of Tony Blair, with whom Mr Brown had many angry clashes."Rawnsley is a cunt, and he'll be eating hospital food through a tube if Gordon catches up with him." said Snotty's official wife, Sarah-George, " or me."
Sarah-George Snot prepares for a press conference
She added: "You have to wonder what the motivations of some of these people are."
It's been a long, cold, lonely winter, here but nothing like as snowy as further South
It's been cold in the North but it hasn't stopped the snowdrops or the daffodils, or, indeed, the blogdog, Buster, although the gales are a bit of a trial. Ice storms are forecast for today but like the government, the Met Office deals in hyperbole and empty promises, probably get a bit of cold drizzle.
Life, in it's chronic pattern.
A boy is better off indoors but soon we will be carpeted with non-taxable daffodils. And playing-out.
These sagas of Ruin were written by my friend, stanislav, a young Polish plumber and owe something, a little, a nod, to Walter L Miller's A Canticle For Liebowitz but also, I guess, to all of the Post-Apocalypesian writers of the 'forties, 'fifties and 'sixties, their ouvre, their painstook imaginings, hoovered-up now by Spielberg's and Cameron's Digi-Hollywood, peddled back to people too dumb or too passive or too lazy to read - Thatcher's, Reagan's Children of Darkness, sight shortened by Ruin's instruments, the Clintons, the Bushes, the Blairs, the Browns and that ghastly New World Order mob in Brussels. Hey, babe, are you going to the Feelies, to-nite ? This is not for them.
From beyond Armageddon
THE SAGA OF GORDON THE RUINER
Book one. A Ruinous Feud.
.
It is in an old, roofless, dilapidated building, without windows or doors, more a few piles of rubble than a building, set in a devastated, once-urban wilderness, two hundred years hence, it is night-time, a handful of dirty, hungry people huddle together.
An Elder speaks: “Gather close, where the walls meet, against the cold, we last few of the Tribe, we, the remnants of a once mighty people; throw more shitcake on the fire, set Watchmen against the coming of Others, and I will tell you the tale - as my Sire told me and his Sire told him and his Sire told him, back, way back, since the coming of Gordon’s Ruin.These, children and friends, are the legends and commentaries, the hymns and prayers of stanislav the Polish plumber; make unto each other the sign of Ruin and say, after me, the first commandment of stanislav the Pole: Up against the wall, motherfuckers………”
All: “Up against the wall, motherfuckers; up against the wall, motherfuckers, up against the wall, motherfuckers.”
“And Gordon the Ruinous was born, some say hatched, in what were called the BadJocklands o’ Fife, far distant, ten nights march, in a place of ever-warring tribes, of filth and disease, where men dressed as women and women were thrashed like mad dogs and all were an abomination and it was a land of inebriate, cross-dressing, wife-beating, child-molesting Jock sonsafuckingbitches…”
All:“and it was a land of inebriate, cross-dressing, wife-beating, child-molesting Jock sonsafuckingbitches."
“And Gordon’s father was an Voodoo Witch Doctor of this Tribe and the Keeper of the Bones and Spells and Curses and lived in an fucking manse, which is an Ancients’ word for an knocking shop and an place of Devil worship and infamy and he did go among the tribe and rebuke them and take from them their tokens and goods - as such they had in the days of Plenty, before Ruin claimed all - and spend it upon women’s undergarments for himself. And he was called also an clergyperson, which was a word used by the Ancients to indicate an defiler of children, an filthy fucking bastard.
And Gordon’s birth brought Darkness at the break ofNoon and he was seen as one afflicted, sour and ugly but the old tribes did not, as do we, set the mutant out for the dogs to kill and consume, but nourished him instead, for this was Before Ruination came at Gordon’s hand, and there was food and shelter and thanks to stanislav the plumber, water sprang from magic pipes beneath the earth - honest and not invent, pipes, filled with clean water grew everywhere and the Ancients, Before Ruin, knew not of drinking from puddles, orcollecting rainwater, as is our custom, now, now that Gordon the Ruinous, skulking and plotting and lying and feuding, has forever laid waste all that the Ancients had made. And Before Ruin, shit was not hoarded and mixed with straw, by the children, for fuel, but washed away down magic pipes into the dead seas.Imagine, water for all, as much as they could drink, so abundant that they splashed it all over themselves, several times a day. Our chronicler saw to it, stanislav was his name and plumbing – or planting and growing the magic water pipes and cutting through all the shit – was his game, Up against the wall motherfuckers, his constant cry, as Ruin’s cold hand gripped the Place ”
All:“Up against the wall, motherfuckers”
“And as Gordon grew, even his Sire, the preacher and tight-fisted Presbyterian sonofafuckingbitch……”
“…looked on him and said unto his woman, this one must go away and be taught bribery, blackmail and deceit, bullying and cowardice, for he has about him the look of an cunt, an right cunt. And he will flourish in the world of cunts and we shall all prosper from his cuntishness. Look, he cannot speak but only stutter, his jaw jerks even as an fiddler’s elbow, dropping like an hangman’s trap-door; down and up, down and up, gulp and spasm, twitch and shudder, as though he were plagued or poxed. And look, ye, at his hands, all bitten and gnawed even until they bleed. This is no ordinary youth; this is an freak, an control freak.
And so Gordon went unto an cuntish gathering place called an university and practiced the dark art of cunting or hooning and after many moonturns and with an worthless doctorate, a scrap of paper, in cuntishness, came down from the BadJocklands, where sister mated with brother and mother with son, unto this Place, then called the place of England, then an merry place, filled with carefree, flirtatious, becostumed, dancing men, all called Morris, gaily striking sticks together, singing fol-de-rol and yo-ho-ho, setting forth, after handsome maidens, on Bright May Mornings, eating the multi-hued fishcreatures of Saint Rick of Padstow, the poultry of St Jamie of Sainsbury and - it is fabled -licking, in their turn, the Crème Brulee off of the Tits of the blessed Saint Nigella; not for the Ancients the foraged rats and weeds, which form our sustenance, the snare-ed blackbirds and sparrows, the root porridge and flat bread. But then came Gordon. And with his lumbering, clumsy, unwieldy ham-fistedness, his calamitousness, he freighted his own unique, charmless, pigheaded stupidity; his cuntishness, his greed, vanity, cruelty and shameful cowardice; here he set about his lifeswork of fostering Downfall, Despair, Poverty and cursed Ruination.
And he did promptly prohibit the dancing Morrises and much else of the England place until it was said that one could not walk down the fucking road without breaking the laws of Gordon or being spied-upon and accosted or shot with a magic firestick by his men-at-arms. And strangers came from Elsewhere at his urging and Gordon the Ruinous Jackal gave unto them the homes and trades, as hospitallers and apothecaries of the Ancients and the ones from Elsewhere, in their millions, gave Gordon their support, for it was not their Place and they cared not for it one trifling bit, not even an flying fuck but cared only for Gordon’s plunder which he did share with them gladly in exchange for their votes. Having robbed it from the pockets of the Ancients, even before they got hold of it, he gave it unto foreign, heathen devils. And lo, as he curtailed the freedoms of the Ancients and burned their money, he celebrated by eating snot, before the people, even from his own nose.”
All: “Eating snot, before the people, even out from his own nose.”
“And in those days, stanislav tells, were viewing boxes, powered by the Gods from the Places Above, in which magic happened and visions of tiny people, much like, even copies of real people, spoke out loud from the innards of the box and there were, too, before Ruin, other Places, beyond. And there, beyond, other tribes could look into their viewing boxes, in a place that was called All Over The Fucking World. And in All Over The Fucking World the multitudes who then lived, in plenty, Before Ruin, could see Gordon, the filthy, snot-eating Ruiner of all things, but did only laugh and deride and not, as they should have, put him out for Death’s Harvest Home, the horrible fucking bastard.”
All: “Put him out for Death’s Harvest Home, the horrible fucking bastard. Put him out for Death’s Harvest Home, the horrible fucking bastard ”
“And Gordon fell in with Kinnockio the Clown and Blair the Grinning Butcher and Imelda the Greedy Scouse Gob and was at once at home among them for they were all, like he, useless, idle, thieving cunts……”
All: “Useless, idle, thieving cunts.”
“…. cruel, criminal, feuding, hating each other, bound together by Treachery’s harsh cords, steeped in offence and foulness, pious and righteous their discourse, squalid and filthy their habits; all, as the Ancients said, fur coat and no knickers.”
All: “All fur coat and no knickers”
Kinnockio the Clown was then leader of Gordon’s Tribe but was an piece of worthless garbage, tripe, an spluttering charlatan. stanislav tells how Kinnockio could not walk in an straight line without falling over on top of his woman, Greedy Glenys Slime; could not speak but only issue interminable, repetitive proclamations and in a contest between Kinnock and an twittering, walking fencepost called The John Major, the people of the Ancient tribes so detested the worthless, whining Kinnockio that he lost the contest, even though he should have won, the horrible Welsh git.
All: “The horrible Welsh git. Up against the wall, motherfuckers and ginger bastards.”
“ Kinnockio whined and windbagged that the place of England deserved better, deserved to have him in charge, botching things up, deserved his sticky Welsh fingers in their pockets, his cawing, sing-song, reproving Welsh voice in their ears, bleated that the scribes had done for him, The Last Pilgrim Exeunt Must Snuff out the Candle, they had said, should Kinnochio become Chief of Chiefs. And after the horrible and intolerably stupid Welsh bastard was sent to Away in Brussels, a place of thieving and embezzlement and perversion, came another Jockman to lead, an horror, an oily, puffed-up, sanctimonious bastard, an lawyer, which is an Ancients’ word forthief and fucking bastard, and his name was called John Smithand he anointed both the Grinning Butcher Blair and the Snot-eating Freak as his heirs and not an moment too soon, children,forOld John Smith did die straightways, from an sudden illnessor was poisoned and killed by younger men of his own tribe – Byersites, Milburnites, Boatengites and by their witches, Margaret and Patricia and Ruth Man Kelly and Harriet SourSister and by Imelda the Cavernous Scouse Gob, who stood to profit the most. Quick, fresh shitcakes for the fire, the blood thins and chills the heart as the Saga of Ruin unfolds.
And after the Deceasement of the blowhard lawyer, Smith, Gordon did plot and intrigue against all and blackmail and bully those in his path to secure unto himself the Chieftain’s role which was his, by right, he claimed, as a Son of the Fucking Manse.But his tribesmen knew that others too, in addition to his kin, would see Gordon as defective, misshapen, maladroit and untrustworthy and Gordon’s paramour, call-ed Sneaky Pete, acclaimed, instead, Blair the Grinning Butcher and his woman, Imelda Fat Ankles, and her woman, Carol CallGirl, which event threw Gordon into an rage for the rest of his life,the horrible, bad-tempered, tantrum-throwing, snot-eating fucking bastard.
All: “The horrible, bad-tempered, tantrum-thowing, snot-eating fucking bastard”
“Rejected thus, bypassed, scorned for his vileness and ugliness of spirit, Gordon the Ruinous, cursing, thwarted,secured unto himself an place behind the Throne, as Treasurer, from whence he harried and disrupted the doings of Tony and Imelda the Freeloader, who, thieves, cowards and liars themselves, could not restrain the malice of Gordon the Ruiner, nor withstand it. Gordon, feuding, even, in Night-time’s foetid loneliness, with himself, and plotting, whispering contagion and malfeasance, spiteful and vindictive, so conspired against the Grinning Blairs that they were compelled to abandon the Cunt Throne to Gordon and set themselves to mendicancy,to begging, in the place called All Over The Fucking World, which no longer exists.And by means of numbers pulled from the air - or, as stanislav tells it, Rubbish fucking tractor production statistics – Gordon persuaded some, called Hefferites and Kavanaghites and Toynbeeites and ToiletsMaguireites that he was an genius and an saint when in truth he was nothing but an fucked-up mouthy cunt with shit for brains, with an disposition so vile that people cowered from his rages, which were frequent and Gordon the Ruinous spared not even himself from his rages, so stupid was he that he had once bashed an eye out from his own head and was good even for fuck all… "
All: “Good even for fuck all..”
“…….and since youth he had blethered, Oh, Forgive me for being a useless, cack-handed, clumsy, ham-fisted, lumbering, pasty-faced, lardy, spluttering nincompoop,it is because I am a person of one-eye-edness, not that I ever mention it to gain sympathy (wink, wink)."
" stanislav is not clear about the legend of the rocking horse but it is fabled among other Ancients scholars, Guy the Fawkes, for instance, that Gordon,among his male intimates, did often act and dress as an infant, an gross, vile,bloated infant wearing nothing but an cloth, called an nappy, around his privates, into which cloth he could warmly and moistly soil himself and be, for a few minutes, happy, squelching in warm shit, shit filling his snotty nostrils, shit oozing-out from the nappy, down his fat thighs;shit Paradise.And it was said that one of his counsellors did fashion an image of Shitty Gordon, sat astride an rocking horse, a pink, naked,blubbery babyman, clad in only a nappy, pouting.And, for fear of it being shown to the Ancients in the place of England and in All Over The Fucking World, Gordon, the Ruinous Shitman Gordon, would permit the image-maker every license, tolerate his every offence until, eventually, terrified, he appointed him as Deputy RuinMaker, which, for the Ancients, marked the true beginning of the end. With the coming anew of Sneaky Pete, now Lord Peter Mandelstein, the Foul Cocksucker, the Age of Ruin had properly commenced……
“The night blows, now, cold and rainy;the wind howls like an hammer and we must find shelter from the storm, behind piled rocks with sticks sharpened against Beasts and Others, who would bite and tear at us, steal our shitcake, our dried ratflesh and all our treasures. Tomorrow is an long time and an day of Scavenging, we might find an tin or two of baking beans, in some Holy Retail Ruin. And if so there will be Feasting and I shall continue the Saga of Gordon the Ruiner. Make, friends and children, the Sign of Ruin to one another and say, after me, the second commandment of stanislav the plumber: And they shall be taken....”
All: “And they shall be taken, all, and given an quick rub-down with an housebrick and dropp-ed down an mineshaft, useless, thieving bastards, good even for fuck all. Amen.”
Dead muslims? Don't be silly. Who gives a fuck about them? Bloody bastards.
No, all very well you saying it took me all my time to string a question together and then it was bollocks but that's because I'm one of those clever Kenyan Asians and that's why I'm in the House of bloody Lords and you're not. In this life - although as a Hindi person I believe in many but it's this one here, of privilege and sponging off the public rupees, that I'm talking about - one has to know what side one's chappatee is buttered on and let me tell you it isn't buttered on the side of making life difficult for the caste of people who may give you peerages or jobs or money or, as in my case, all three. I think you will find that, after the inquiry, lessons will have been learned, we will draw a line in the sand - although not, of course, the Iraqi sand, far too fucking dangerous for peers such as I - and move forward to our many pensions. Hare Krishna and Fuck Off.
Wiki: Usha Prashar, Baroness Prashar
Usha Kumari Prashar, Baroness Prashar, CBE, (born 29 June 1948) is a cross bench member of the House of Lords. Since the 1970s, she has served as a director or chairman of a variety of public and private sector organisations. She was appointed as chairman of the Judicial Appointments Commission in October 2005.
Prashar was born in Kenya, and came to Yorkshire with her family in the 1960s. She was educated at the independent Wakefield Girls' High School, becoming head girl in 1967. She studied politics at the University of Leeds and undertook postgraduate studies in social administration at the University of Glasgow.
One of the Coalition of the Angry, protesting outside the Chilcot Festival, God bless them. Blair, doubtless listening to God and the board of JP Morgan, ducked in and out of the back of the building, avoiding his critics, rather like a dictator does, or a terrorist.
This from George Pitcher, the Religion Editor of Filth-O-Graph Media.
.......... Blair is Pontius Pilate.
Gone is the faux-sincerity, the stumbling, regular-bloke, misunderstood-saviour performance of the Fern Britton interview. Blair is the pragmatic, real-politik, local leader in the extended American empire. Washington is his Rome and he must do right by it. In other words, he is not cast as the persecuted Jesus Christ in this scenario, as he tried with Fern Britton. He is Pontius Pilate now.
He took the decision to bomb Baghdad because “it was the right thing to do” and he gives every impression of having washed his hands, like Pilate, of that action, which has cost at least 100,000 innocent civilian lives. He seems to keep saying, referring to his notes, that “I have written what I have written.” He feared that the one figure of Saddam Hussein (with whom of course I make no comparison with the Christ) could lead to a dangerous revolution in the region and that the removal of him would prevent that danger. That threat “had to be dealt with”, but what Pontius Blair can’t have anticipated is that his assassination and persecution of an invaded people would lead to a new zealotry for the cause that he tried to destroy, with martyrs prepared to lay down their lives for it – as 7/7 in London demonstrated.
Blair, like Pontius Pilate, was a frightened man, caught between competing powers, who tried to ingratiate himself with the imperial power and was prepared to sacrifice innocent life to do so. He expected it to be a temporary incident that would soon be forgotten, just a question of dealing with an irritating local trouble-maker, and an action that would play well and further his career with those he saw as his masters. As he said today: “You can distance yourself from America, but you’ll find it’s a long way back.” Replace America with Rome and it’s something Pilate could have said. And he can’t have known how wrong that judgment was, how much it would come back to haunt him.
All we need to learn now is that Cherie had a disturbing dream and warned him against his unlawful killing.
Be a long cold day in Hell, George, before we learn that, Imelda was ram-battering the defences of Labour wives before the vote on the Invasion; c'mon girls, persuade hubby to vote for bombing those little wog bastards in their cradles; I'm a human rights lawyer, y'know.
Imelda Booth-Blair, QC, wife of former PM, Tony Liar.
------------------------------- Jackie Ashley, of the Guardian is one of BBC journalist, Andrew Marr's, wives and a staunch Blairite, Brownite and we must assume, given his infidelity and his fathering injucted children with other women, a Marrite
...........the key point came early in the afternoon. The former attorney general, Lord Goldsmith, had told the inquiry that he believed individual states, not just the United Nations, could declare Iraq to be in breach of Resolution 1441. So Lord Goldsmith has asked Tony Blair if he considered this were the case, and only after getting an answer in the affirmative did he change his legal advice. To an extent, Goldsmith was laying responsibility for the legal decision with Blair, while Blair claimed it lay with Goldsmith. Yet the inquiry failed to follow up this line of questioning.
And even after Lord Goldsmith's advice had "evolved" (inquiry-speak for somersaulted), the attorney general had hardly given a ringing endorsement of the case for war. He said "a reasonable case" could be made for going to war without a second UN resolution, but added that he would be confident of holding up that view in a court of law. What we really wanted to know was why Tony Blair still went ahead despite that half-hearted support from his key legal adviser, but again, the panel didn't press him.
By mid-afternoon the former prime minister knew he had escaped. The remaining questions about post-invasion planning were never going to trouble him. It was just like watching Blair at prime minister's questions, swatting away his inquisitors, absolutely certain he was right. He may have had some sleepless nights ahead of today's appearance but he didn't need to lose a wink.
--------------------------------
THE DAILY FILTH-O-MAIL was less measured and probably more in tune with the wider public, most of whom are now paying hugely for the Brown-Blair Bubble.
There was uproar and shouts of 'liar' and ' murderer' as bereaved relatives in the public gallery of the QEII conference centre in Westminster realised they were not going to receive the apology for which they had waited all day.
There was no hint of remorse.
Indeed, Mr Blair even suggested the world should be grateful to him.
Saddam had been a 'monster' and it had been right to remove him even to prevent the 'possibility' that he could acquire weapons of mass destruction.
He warned that Iran's nuclear weapons programme now poses an even greater threat.
And, in an apparent rebuke to Gordon Brown and Barack Obama, suggested that if he was still in power he would be championing military action.
On a dramatic day of evidence, Mr Blair:
Revealed he decided soon after 9/11 to back the U.S. in whatever action it took;
Said a second UN resolution was politically desirable but not legally necessary;
Defended his claim that evidence for Saddam's weapons of mass destruction was 'beyond doubt' and insisted he had believed it;
Admitted the infamous claim that Saddam's WMD could be deployed within 45 minutes should have been corrected;
Revealed he rejected a last-minute offer of a 'way out' from the U.S., which said the UK did not need to send ground troops.
Mr Blair, in what is likely to be his last major appearance on the international stage, arrived by the back entrance to the centre, apparently to avoid a crowd of protesters outside.
As he began his evidence, he looked uncharacteristically nervous, with his hands shaking.
Our old friemd, Field Marshal Max Hastings, VC, of Port Stanley was more succinct in his forecast of events:
Saying that Blair had destroyed pur standing in the world for a generation, plucky Sir Max continued:
Bush and Blair achieved spiritual fellowship.
(Bush and Blair) were alike fortified by believing they had divine endorsement for their actions, especially when mere political colleagues and their nations were showing doubt. The great thing about consulting God is that He - or She, as Cherie would say - is unlikely to answer back, or at least not this side of the grave.
I do not believe the Chilcot Inquiry has a cat's chance of landing a killer blow on Blair, either during his evidence or in its report. He will insist, as he has always insisted, that he truly believed Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction.
He will almost certainly repeat what his creature Alastair Campbell has already defiantly testified to the panel: that he would adopt the same course again tomorrow, in the same circumstances.
Unless he breaks down in tears, an unlikely eventuality, that line will protect him from an unequivocal guilty verdict.
'Don't raise your hopes, Ali. I doubt if Blair will be sent down here today.'
We must be realistic about public attitudes to Blair and Iraq. The British people are not nearly as angry as they should be.
My fellow motherfuckers, now listen up y'all, I didn't bust my ass getting here so's I could be repeatin' myself to you sorryassed buncha sonsafuckinbitches. I had a dream, motherfuckers, that I would be yo' President and that's exactly what I am. I am the nigger who climbed the mountain and went down the other side, to the land a milk and honey, motherfucker, milk and honey. Did I ever tell y'all that fifty years ago my Daddy wouldna got a job mowin' the White House lawn and now, here I am, the first Goddamnedest Muslim President in the history a this great racist nation of yours, God Bless America and salam eleikum to you all, in the name of Allah, peace and blessings be upon His name, motherfuckers.
President Hillary Trousers ain't yo' President, motherfuckers, not after we paid her off and giver her the State Department, fuck me, who woulda thought there was eighteen million dykes in the US, all voting for old hairy legs Hillary. Can you imagine that mad, carpet munchin' witch being in charge, she's madder'n a long-tail cat in a room fulla rockin' chairs. Wonder is she ain't started a war with England or France,
Mind you, motherfuckers, couldn't blame her none if she did. Y'all seen that Limey President, eats snot is what he does, right there in the Limey Congress,
and when he ain't doing that motherfucking disgusting shit, he's down in the Limey Treasury, burning all the Limey money, you know they borrowed more money than there fucking well is and this cocksucker won't be happy until he's burnt all that up into fucking cinders, too. Ugly sonofafuckingbitch, only got one eye, fat as a fucking hog, folks say it's because of all the loony head drugs he's getting pumped full of just to stop him getting his dick out, right there in the Limey Congress and jerking off all over the Dis-patch boxes they got in there. They say he does that jerking-off thing so much that he ain't got no more cream left at the dairy but he keeps on doing it anyway, got a whole new loonytunes condition, Limeys call it the drywank jawdrop, mad bastard's kisser keeps on dropping down, like a gallows trapdoor, right after he says a few words and he goes doh doh doh, stuttering and fucking well dribbling and spasming and then he gets a grip again and starts into all that world statesman shit, like he was Alexfuckingsander the fucking Great, what cool shit he's gonna do in Afghanistan, what bad shit he ain't gonna put up with offa Karzi, the pimping bandit and talking like it was his army of a hundred thousand psycho-bastard mommas boys and not my fucking army, as though he was president of the whole fucking world.
But even so, that Hillary, you know, motherfuckers, that bitch was born so sourface ugly that her poor Mammy hadda be drunk as a skunk to breastfeed her. Her and Spunky Bill, JesusAitchKeristonafuckinbike them pussy-munching sonsafuckinbitches is two Godawful fucking bastards and no fuckin' mistake. Quite disgrace the office of President, is what they do. President a the Yewnited State shooting his load all over that little girl's dress and the special prosecutor analysing all that shit, she havin' kept it like some kinda Holy relic, of the bodily fluid variety. Let me tell your asses, senators and congressmen and Joint Motherfucking Chiefs of fucking Staff, ain't no way on Earth that this President gonna wind up having his love juice examined under a fucking microscope by some special fucking prosecuting cocksucking sonofafuckingbitch like it was bac-fucking-teria, shit no, I'd rather go out and lynch my own nigger ass, Alabama-style, than be hu-fucking-miliated in front of the whole world, like them Clinton trash, Fucking Jesus fucking wept, "I did not have sexual fucking relations with that fuckin' woman" What kinda shit is that ? You done spunked all over her dress, Mr President, that's good enough for this nigger. You wanna fight me, old man, you step right up, if you think you're hard.
C'mon then, white boy, I'm gonna kick your ass up and down Pennsylvania Avenue.
Now, I admit that we done had us a few setbacks but just how do y'all figger it woulda been if you had elected President Trousers? Woulda been old Spunky Bill , or the First Gentleman Ejaculator as he woulda wanna be known and he'd be hanging around the White House typing pool and cafeterias, saying, Hi, pretty little thing, wanna blow the First Gentleman, Fancy a Cee-gar in Yo Rose Garden, Just Because I'm Old Enough To Be Your Granpappy Don't Mean I Cain't Feel Yo Tits, I mean Yo Pain, No, I mean Yo Tits. And Hillary, she wouldna needed no help getting around the White House corridors,fart-fuelled she is, Jesus fucking Christ, jet propulsion, right out her ass,
And how would it look, niggers, just say we got the frog president coming in, on a state visit, the dwarf, the one married to that skanky hoe and he goes walking into the Lincoln fucking Bedroom and he sees this shit
I'm the President, now, asshole.
What's that gonna do fer international relations?
Hi folks, welcome to the Crawford Klan meeting, this here's the First Bush, I mean First Lady.
So, there it is, State Of The Nation, my shits's fucked, we are all shitpoor, well, not us here, tonight, obviously, but MainStreet USA; the Chinks own everything, we got more debt than you can even imagine, we got no fucking health care, here in the twenty-first century, we're at war in two countries where we can't win and we can't afford it but we gotta stay there else all the wogs and japs and slopes and ragheads'll begin to think we're fucked, which we are, and if Hillary Trousers has her way we'll be at war with Iran, next, or like I said, Limeyland, although they mught be votin' themselves a new poodle, just like Yo, Blair and this one, although he's a useless cocksucking, inbred, pseudo fucking aristocrat with shit fer brains at least ain't a one-eyed, snot-eating, delusional, child molesting, money-burning, sonofafuckingbitch, like Brown.
All the Merican children are like twice the weight they oughta be, fat lazy bastards, the nation's zonked out on pornography and we don't make nothin' worth shit here no more. Apart from making War on stone age savages, and we can't even do that right, they're beatin' us with firecrackers and clapped-out AK 47s over there in Afghanistan, them ladymen. Fucked, motherfuckers, my shit's fucked, started out like a Knight on a snow white stallion and now I'm just some speechifying negro got above himself, nation's fucked, broke, stoopid and lazy, lookat who y'all elected these last few elections. And the safest seat in the Senate done got taken by a dumb redneck asshole, not worth pissin on.
I'll be back speeching at y'all right soon and in the meantime, God bless all you motherfuckers and God bless the Yew-nited States of America.
Cheers, applause, Band of the Ist US Marine Corps GangRapers strikes up......Oh, say can you see, by the dawn's early light....
One of the most controversial figures in Tony Blair's government, the prat, Goldsmith, announced he will step down with the Prime Minister next week.
Attorney General Lord Goldsmith - at the centre of a furore over the legality of the Iraq War - will bow out after six years in his post.
He is the latest of a string of ministers closely associated with Mr Blair to signal their departure ahead of Gordon Brown's move into No 10.
Home Secretary John Reid, a Glasgow fascist bootboy and Social Exclusion Minister Hilary Armstrong - both fierce Blairites - have already said they intend to resign as Mr Blair departs the stage.
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It's also been reported ex-Metropolitan Police Commissioner Lord Stevens has rejected a post as a junior minister in Gordon Brown's new government. Gay admirals and that greasy cocksucker, Digby Jones, fuck me, no, never.
Channel 4 News said there had been talks in the last few weeks over a job in law and order, never too late, even for senior policemen, and, despite Lord Stevens declining the ministerial job, Mr Brown might still want the peer to serve as some kind of tsar or adviser. A government of all the tsars, is what I want, no more spin and lies, frothed the Man With No Nails.
It follows the disclosure that Mr Brown, who takes over as Prime Minister next week, just like he always wanted, without an election, had been rebuffed by Lord Paddy Pantsdown after he asked him to serve in his first Cabinet. Gay admirals and that greasy cocksucker, Digby Jones, fuck me, no, never, said Captain Pantsdown, peering, steely-eyed into the distance; a man's man, me, always was, but not in that sense.
But Lord Goldsmith's departure will be greeted with relief by many Labour MPs.
The Attorney General has been involved in a series of controversies, most notably over how and why his legal advice to the Government on the Iraq invasion was changed.
It emerged in 2005 that he had expressed private concerns to Mr Blair about the legality of war. Documents that emerged following requests under freedom of information laws show that he told officials he had changed his mind 'after further reflection' - ie bungs from Uncle Sam.
Lord Goldsmith, the Government's chief legal adviser, has insisted he came under no political pressure to change his view. But the discrepancy between his initial advice and later, public view would be a main focus of any future inquiry into the case for war.
There was further controversy over Lord Goldsmith's refusal to step aside from any decisions over possible prosecutions in the cash-for-honours affair, despite his close relationship with some of the key players.
But his decision to stand down means he will play no role in deciding whether to prosecute members of Tony Blair's inner circle over the affair. As if.
In contrast, the Director of Public Prosecutions, Sir Ken Macdonald QC - who for three years was a member of The Chambers, where Cherie Blair practises
Two lawyers take a stroll in daylight.
- announced some time ago that he will stand back from any decision to avoid any 'perceived conflict of interest'.
Lord Goldsmith was also forced to deny claims that he changed his mind about whether there was enough evidence to bring corruption charges against the arms company BAE after pressure from Downing Street.
Just this month,the Serious Fraud Office stepped in to insist Lord Goldsmith had not ordered claims about alleged payments from BAE to a Saudi prince to be covered up.
Senior Labour figures - including Justice Minister and deputy leadership contender Harriet Harman - believe future Attorneys General must not sit in the Cabinet to avoid similar controversies.
Meanwhile, MPs on the Commons constitutional affairs committee have started an inquiry into the role.
There was also embarrassment for Lord Goldsmith in February after he was forced to confess to an affair with Kim Hollis, the first Asian woman QC.
He faced questions from political opponents about whether the affair took place at the same time as the row over legal advice on the Iraq war but responded that, as his matrimonial betrayal revealed, he was a man of great integrity. I am a man of great integrity, he said, and wouldn;t dream of fucking another man's wife and mother of his children and a very much junior person to me.
Not unless she was a piece of hot chocolate.
Lord Goldsmith said his wife Joy had known about the affair 'for a long time', that it was in the past and that they were both 'very happy', joined together, as they were, in holy deadlock. We have moved on from the millions of casualties in the Middle East and my wife, Wotsername, has great faith in my personal integrity. As do I.
Last night the Attorney General said he was 'proud to have been a part of making major achievements in criminal injustice'. In a statement he said: 'I have been immensely privileged to serve in this office for just over six years. This is a record time for a Labour Attorney General but they couldn't get rid of me on account of me being Blair's bumboy. It has been an extremely interesting and challenging time.Only not for me, I just had to tell lies. And that's easy for a lawyer.
'However I have wanted for some time to move on and capitalise on my time in goivernment, flogging the contacts and info which I have very properly and with great integrity, stashed away, I have told the Prime Minister and the Chancellor that I believe now is the right time to make that move.'
Mr Brown paid tribute to the Attorney General and said he had agreed to work as an adviser for his administration.
'Peter Goldsmith has given outstanding service to Britain,' he said."Just like myself."
'His contribution to the Ruination of the country and to this Government of lying, thieving, war criminals, fascists, racists, and NWO Nazis has been immense, we all kknew that lawyers were worthless, greedy, bullying, lying bastards but Peter is a prince among them.
'It is with my regret that he has made his personal decision to step down.
'I am however very pleased that he has agreed to undertake a review of the legal and other aspects of citizenship in our country and to continue talking bollocks about Iraq. It is the right thing for the country.'
Goldsmith attended the same Liverpool school as the famous wife-beater and drug addict, John Lennon, and has said that if he hadn't been a bent lawyer he would have been the fifth Beatle. Honest.
Next Week in the Filth-O-Graph. Joshua Rosenberg (Mr Mad Melanie - anyone who disagrees with me is a Nazi- Phillips) MAD MEL, VENGEFUL LUNATIC, OFF QUESTION TIME.
on why my friend, Peter Goldsmith, a man of great integrity, could never do anything wrong, lets face it, anyone who starts a war which kills hundreds of thousands of Muslims has to be a good guy. Thank you and have a nagilah day.
