Two foreign seckatries on holiday together,
in the North of England.
Yes, Condi, I own all these people, as far as the eye can see.
A slaughterers' kiss.
You'll never know the hurt I suffer
and all the pain I rise above.
Poor Jack Torture, must be the strain of trying to slide, bribe or by some other NewLabour, anti-democratic stitch-up, parachute his worthless, prat-faced, dope dealing son, Billy, into a safe seat but even by the standard of his own monumental, shit-spewing hypocrisy, Jack's recent parliamentary utterances represent a crisp, new mark on Falsity's bench; a deeper plumbing of Dishonesty's depths, a sharper scraping of Mendacity's barrel; lying though his mangy teeth, this unspeakable wretch must, last week, have enflamed the gorge of any who witnessed him, he must have made millions want to puke.
I have, he hissed, in his habitual, reptilian fashion, upon my back, the scars of Iraq. We all know I have them, he insisted, to murmurs of sympathy from his surrounding, collegiate vermin horde. Hear-hear, they must have thought; we, too, backed the gang-raping of Iraq, we, too, must have the scars; can we get compensation, a peerage, maybe; a few quid, anyway?
I have, he hissed, in his habitual, reptilian fashion, upon my back, the scars of Iraq. We all know I have them, he insisted, to murmurs of sympathy from his surrounding, collegiate vermin horde. Hear-hear, they must have thought; we, too, backed the gang-raping of Iraq, we, too, must have the scars; can we get compensation, a peerage, maybe; a few quid, anyway?
Jackie, of course, didn't shed a scale, didn't suffer as much as a broken finger nail as a result of his lying to the UN and the world about weapons of mass delusion and by dint of some darkly bizarre diktat from Uncle Sam, we never even counted the Iraqi dead, wounded, burned and tortured; we may be sure, however, that tens, more likely hundreds of thousands of entirely blameless Iraqis of all ages are, if not Shockingly and Awesomely murdered by Democracy's Crusading Blitzkrieg, then blinded, crippled and scarred, not in some shitmouthed, lisping, self-regarding rhetorical fashion but wantonly - how shall we say, collateralised? - in their shredded flesh and broken bones.
Billy Torture-Straw. Look at him.
Dope-dealer but " a good kid, really" in Daddy's words.
Oxbridge, PPE, ThinkTanker, wanker, wannabe prime minister, never done a day's work in his life. Unless you count the dealing. Just what we need, another bent hereditary entitlementista.
Jackie and Coh-lin Powell rehearse their lines at the UN WMD debate.
If, Coh-lin....... I may call you Coh-lin?????
I'd prefer General, Mr Limey...
Yes, quite, Field Marshal. As I was saying,
if it all goes tits-up, as we say in Westminster,
we can always point to the scars on our backs.
What motherfucking scars you talking about, honkyboy?
It's a figure of speech, your Excellency.
Figure of shit you mean. Now listen, ain't no point in me being the first fucking nigger at the State department unless we can get over there'n waste all them ay-rab cocksuckers, I hate them sonsafuckinbitches.
Yes, quite, Reichsfuhrer, butAlastair Campbell,
who is in charge of our intelligence services, our military forces, our cabinet and our civil service has made me memorise all the evidence he has invented about WMD. Or whatever. Should be, as you chaps say, a walk in the park.
And so it was.
Billy Torture-Straw. Look at him.
Oxbridge, PPE, ThinkTanker, wanker, wannabe prime minister, never done a day's work in his life. Unless you count the dealing. Just what we need, another bent hereditary entitlementista.
Jackie and Coh-lin Powell rehearse their lines at the UN WMD debate.
If, Coh-lin....... I may call you Coh-lin?????
I'd prefer General, Mr Limey...
Yes, quite, Field Marshal. As I was saying,
if it all goes tits-up, as we say in Westminster,
we can always point to the scars on our backs.
What motherfucking scars you talking about, honkyboy?
It's a figure of speech, your Excellency.
Figure of shit you mean. Now listen, ain't no point in me being the first fucking nigger at the State department unless we can get over there'n waste all them ay-rab cocksuckers, I hate them sonsafuckinbitches.
Yes, quite, Reichsfuhrer, butAlastair Campbell,
who is in charge of our intelligence services, our military forces, our cabinet and our civil service has made me memorise all the evidence he has invented about WMD. Or whatever. Should be, as you chaps say, a walk in the park.
And so it was.
7 comments:
You just know Condi had a special strap-on strictly for wee Jack.
"Whistle Dixie and tell me you love it, bitch."
"Yessum Miss Condi..."
Ghastly fuckers. An Indian Summer of liberal bloodlust. Here we go again...
I fear, mr verge, that if it is Here we go again, again, it may be Here we go again, again, BigTime, as the youth say. I have been an Armageddonist a long time now and I would hate to be proved right.
' Entitlementista ' that about sums it up, Mr Ishmael. This horrible little berk and others like him will vomit out of their Think Tanks, kissing ass to get the corporate shilling, caring for nothing save their stinking careers, finger wagging at us, dripping with plans to impact us deeper into this shit filled zero hours spivs paradise, both Straws are festering sores on the arse of the body politic.
Very glad you are back, all guns blazing.
"....who is in charge of our intelligence services,..."
In whose eyes is it intelligent????
I guess it's not all of a sudden, but it certainly appears recently, that all war is commerce, it's an exercise in commoditization, of shorting the British public (as those pin stripe spivs would have it) it's a prosecution through a chorus line of obfuscatory diversion, these cast members an ensemble of ever so shrinking violets, humble to receive their immolated honours, their blood drenched awards, the barbourous medals and trinkets and simply making it all look so easy, so effortless, their craft incredibly fabulous dah'lin' on the stage at the Palais du Justice.
And wasn't this tedious blaggard a student of that irrepressible lush, that misandrous peado whore Barbara Castle - 'ooh, young man'ning herself on the benches of hypocrisy's sweaty chamber. I remember her - the shit, and even she called him out as a low operating pseud. We've gone full circle too many times.
He certainly was Barbara Castle`s tea boy, Mr DTP, over promoted even then. He even inherited her constituency, Blackburn. Perhaps he`ll pass that on, no doubt seeing it as his personal property to his whelp. I`ve a vague idea even Harold Wilson sussed what a cunt he was and tried to have the wretched parasite sacked.
All my Asian friends assure me that brown rice is much better nutritionally than boring old white rice. I wonder if they ever progressed to the giddy heights of a good beriyani???
Now I've forgotten, what was this post about?
Post a Comment