Thursday, November 30, 2006
"al-Qaeda was on the ropes in Iraq. It made up no more than 2 percent or 3 percent of the folks killing Americans and Iraqis. Military spokesmen in Baghdad and the U.S. Central Command's Gen. John Abizaid said we'd decimated the al-Qaeda leadership in Iraq and the group wasn't likely to be much of a player in Iraq's future.
This week, President Bush declared that al-Qaeda is the primary enemy in Iraq, fomenting the sectarian slaughter, which he said is definitely NOT a civil war."
These two opposing views cannot both be true. Assuming the article is accurate, this means that either Gen. Abizaid or President Bush is desperately confused.
One of them is a constructive public servant, and the other is a complete waste of space - about as much use as Anne Frank's drumkit, to put it bluntly.
But which is which?
I suppose history will be the judge.
I always love this time of year, as Scots congregate to indulge in the centuries-old tradition of getting pissed on whisky and retelling heavily fictionalised accounts of Scottish history.
Let me sum up the Scottish history I was taught at school in a single sentence -
There once was a brave and noble people of great industry and artistry who lived in the idyllic glens of Scotland, and the bastard English slaughtered, bribed, stole etc. etc. etc. (repeat ad infinitum).
It's amazing to me how deeply held this basic belief is in Scotland, presumably because enormous, violent, unwashed highlanders are more easily romanticised when they're all dead.
Put another way, conceptual flame-haired loonies are more cuddly than real ones planting axes between your eyes, burning your house and stealing your livestock.
Now, the highland Scots clans, on whose apparel traditional Scots dress is modelled, were essentially wiped out as a people in the years following the Jacobite rebellion of 1745. Their way of life had been largely unchanged, give or take linguistic evolution and farming innovations, since the Roman invasion of Britain.
Think less of Braveheart, with its comical, eloquent Scots, and more the first ten minutes of Gladiator, when Russell Crowe and the legions face off against head-chopping German tribesmen.
"Ihr seid verfluchte Hunde!", indeed.
All that came to an end in the mid-eighteenth century - butchered without mercy, their crops burned, driven from their homes, their children seized and brought up in the tutelage of the victorious culture.
So here's your question - who perpetrated these outrages upon the highland clans?
If you said the English, no wee dram for you.
The Scots were victorious at Culloden, and proceeded to devastate the countryside and its people, but they did so in the colours of the British government. The duke of Cumberland may be remembered as "the Butcher", but the knife-work was done with gusto by lowland and highland Scots (plus some Hanoverian Germans, but I'll save that for a rant about the royal family).
Anglicisation put an end to the real traditional Scots way of life - brutal tribal warfare, cattle rustling, pillage - in about twenty years. Think of it as the Scottish equivalent of gifting smallpox-infected blankets to the Injuns.
Cut forward sixty-odd years and a novel called Waverly is released to great acclaim in London and Edinburgh. Suddenly, the noble savage of the highlands is the height of fashion, lords and ladies disport themselves in tartan, old Scots dirges are heard in high society, and the image of the kilted, bagpipe-playing Scotsman is born.
It's kailyard fiction from then on. The highland clans join the long list of exterminated or subject peoples, eulogised in penny dreadfuls and plays for the delight of the merchant class alongside the native American and the exotic oriental.
Kitsch imagery for the Royal gallery, in other words.
I'll call it historical perspective, which is famously the perspective of the victor, and it's difficult to scrutinise the highland clans when they're buried in mass graves below one's feet.
So how would the average 21st century ceilidh-goer be received in 17th century Scotland?
Remember that scene in Back To The Future III?
Offended nationalists can call me a prick in the comments.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
It's a humungous bummer, man. How's a traitorous pinko supposed to enjoy the abject defeat of our evil leaders when all these innocent people keep getting slaughtered?
Still, as Larry notes, fervent warfans are still prone to fatuous historical analogies, and seldom miss an opportunity to castigate us commies for our ignorance.
I'm always enraged by this, since I'm a well-read chap, so I thought I'd offer President Bush the benefits of my vast historical knowledge in planning the next phase of his righteous battle against evil.
First, always deploy your cavalry on the flanks, to prevent attacks from the rear.
Keep at least two units of veterans in reserve, and commit them at the critical moment. Keep your poorest units closest to the enemy, and the enemy will most likely waste their arrows on poorly trained troops.
Always keep to the high ground, and if your enemy has superior numbers of archers, you should attack them with infantry as quickly as possible. If fighting against war elephants, train your troops to avoid them by making channels in their ranks.
Beware Greeks bearing huge wooden horses, they're probably filled with soldiers.
Never embark on a land war in Asia, and only invade Persia if your name is Alexander.
Never invade Parthia, or you'll be drinking molten gold for breakfast.
Oh, and beware the Ides of March.
And to think, the warbloggers say us lefties don't understand the military mind! I think I should be given command of British forces in Basra, a bit of crucifixion would soon quiet down the natives.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
He's clearly grasped the basics, as he recognises that "bloggers have no professional standards", but I don't think he goes quite far enough.
Now, if he'd said "The internet is infested with gibbering cranks relentlessly reinforcing each other's paranoid delusions", I would've given him more respect.
I've always thought that any person trying to base a coherent worldview upon the ramblings of internet eccentrics is rather like a sprinter warming up for the hundred meters by nailing his dick to the starting line.
Alas, his complaint is not that bloggers are, by and large, delusional mentalists with wildly fluctuating bi-polar Napoleon and persecution complexes - he's alarmed that there's "no form of redress" for people offended by content. The poor dears.
Just in case the government decides to chase this long punt upfield, I'd like to take this opportunity to note that the Prime Minister is a maniacal, crotch-sniffing puritan, the Chancellor is a pie-faced oaf with all the charisma of Marc Bolan after the accident, and the Home Secretary resembles a rather stupid potato.
The lot of them can go piss up a rope, if you ask me.
And so can bloggers, now that I come to think of it. Ingrates, troglodytes, misanthropes and cheese-mongers.
P.S. I exaggerate, as usual - for an introduction to some of the many bloggers well worth a look, you should pick up the Blog Digest 2006, edited by Justin McKeating of Chicken Yoghurt fame.
He's done the hard work of tracking down many intelligent, poignant and witty bloggers, which should save you the trouble. I'm in it, but don't let that put you off - it's well worth a read, and would probably be the ideal gift for any bloggers you know.
Monday, November 27, 2006
"The majority of Scotland's religious crime takes place in the west of Scotland with a third linked to football, new statistics have shown.
It also centres around Catholic and Protestant sectarianism and is often fuelled by alcohol, the study revealed."
All together now...
Sunday, November 26, 2006
There's a clear lesson to be drawn from these figures - the English are a mere 7% more small-minded and parochial than the Scots.
I've already explained the precise circumstances in which I would support Scottish independence, and this isn't it. Since my previous suggestion hasn't been adopted, I've decided to change tack.
I suggest that all Scottish nationalists congregate in the barren wildernesses of central-northern Scotland and found a new state - let them declare independence from Scotland itself, and live out their tartan-and-shortbread fantasies in the confines of the Peoples' Republic of Teuchterstan.
Let the glens resound to the skirl of the pipes, the bars overflow with real Scottish ales and the sheep rest uneasily in their fields. Revive the auld Scots language and let the poetry of Burns clot the ears of glorious Caledonian patriots!
So long as they all sod off and leave me in peace, I'm not really that concerned. God only knows what we're going to do to quiet down the purple-faced, xenophobic little-Englanders infesting the Beeb's site, but I'd be inclined to support carpet bombing.
29 today, and I'm celebrating by nursing a brutal hangover. Quite why I thought that Shetland vodka and Jameson's whisky would complement each other is unclear, but I have the rest of the day to contemplate my poor decision-making.
I suppose I should reflect upon the lessons I've learnt in almost three decades walking the Earth. I think I can sum it up fairly easily.
If I could go back and change it, I'd do more of the things my mother told me not to, with twice the commitment and three times the enthusiasm.
I would've said yes to that Mediterranean holiday and found the money somewhere, I'd have done all the illegal things people tried to get me to do, I'd have kissed that girl when she wanted me to, rather than laughing and changing the subject.
Seize the day by the throat, and hump it into insensibility.
That's why I'm sitting here monkeying about on the internet.
Update!: If you'd like to contribute a birthday present for me, send your credit card details and PIN number to firstname.lastname@example.org. All donations gratefully accepted!
Saturday, November 25, 2006
This has led to many an observation that Paris produces "the worst football hooligans in Europe".
This statement is entirely false - considering their brutality, moronic racism, xenophobia and neo-nazi links, Paris surely produces the best football hooligans in Europe.*
The worst football hooligans in Europe are probably Monaco fans, whose support is composed of champagne-swilling squillionaires. Mind you, if you were going to be stabbed, it's probably classier to be done in by a gold-plated, jewel encrusted lock-knife than a ten Euro Saturday night special.
*On a similar note, why do people refer to World War One as "The Great War"?
Surely World War II, with its higher death toll and devastation of entire continents, was loads better.
Credit where it's due, I say.
Friday, November 24, 2006
Vampire Hunters Vexed
London Evening Standard
18th May 1897
The God-fearing citizenry of London was shocked yesterday by the Britannia Hansom Cab Company's blasphemous prohibition of the holy cross, as the heathen owners of London's largest cabriolet service mocked our Saviour by forbidding their drivers to wear His holy symbol.
Ladies swooned as the news spread, and Christian men were moved to utter impolite oaths of frustration.
"This ruling is the product of a syphilitic mind," said noted physician, sawbones and vampire hunter Doctor Abraham Van Helsing M.D., D. Ph, D. Litt, etc., etc. "If an honest Christian man cannot protect himself against the devilish attentions of the unquiet dead in his own hansom cab, then I say that England has quite taken leave of its senses."
"It is linguistic rectitude rendered mentally infirm, I tell you. This country is departing to the hounds - it seems that a gentleman must now bow to the sensitivities of the Transylvanian, when there is scant evidence that the Transylvanian pays homage to the traditions of Old England."
"I'd send them all back where they came from, if I had my way. The very pits of Hell itself, that is."
The cheeky scamp that he is, this time he's showed up packing homemade bombs, a pistol and a knife, ready to mete out rough justice upon the politicians who have the audacity to begin doing the job they've been getting paid to do for all this time.
Presumably, the price of hand grenades has gone up due to inflation while he was inside.
Rumour has it that this was an attempt to garner some publicity for his new book, although quite why he feels that the world needs a glossy hardback depicting the minutae of his sorry life is far from clear.
Here's my concise summation of the Michael Stone story -
"Chapter One: I'm an evil-minded, moronic nobody.
Chapter Two: I'm an evil-minded, moronic murderer.
Chapter Three: I'm an evil-minded, moronic murderer in prison.
Chapter Four: I'm a free, evil-minded, moronic, murdering nobody.
Chapter Five: I'm an evil-minded, moronic, murdering nobody in prison, again.
Still, I must say that today's antics are significantly more frightening than his previous appearance, during the marathon at the Olympics -
Michael Stone - Top O' The Mornin' To Ye!
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Thankfully, it's a simple question - what ten things would you never do?
I can think of at least a hundred, but I've whittled it down to ten teeth-grinding horrors.
10. I will never kick a man when he's down.
A few years in a Scottish high school drums it into you - as soon as the fucker hits the deck, jump on his head.
9. I will never support the England football team.
Nothing personal, my Southern cousins, but as a child I was molested by the '86 World Cup squad. In the feverish hell of my dreams, I can still see Gary Lineker's maniacal face bearing down on me like a big, sweaty naan bread, while Peter Shilton screams "Fucking handball ref!" over and over, in a despairing Midlands mantra of heartbreak and horror.
8. I will never say "Boo!" to a goose.
I'm not an animal lover, I just realise it would be largely pointless.
7. I will never have sexual intercourse with Jodie Foster.
Rumour has it that she is on the other bus.
6. I will never read another John Grisham novel.
Like being beaten with electric hammers, viciously stamping the words "plot twist", "ethical dilemma" and "moral of the story" into your skull. Tedious, obvious, jack-hammers of banality from a man with all the soul of a coked-up accountant in a titty bar.
5. I will never use the phrase "Political correctness gone mad" in anger, even if it's entirely merited.
I'll just ink a tattoo of a scrotum on my forehead as a warning to all to stay clear.
4. I will never hurt a fly.
Not that I'm a Buddhist, it's just that baby seals give more sport.
3. I will never learn Russian.
Too fucking complicated, and let's face it, what's the point?
2. I will never convert to a religion.
If I wanted to live my life according to the eccentric diktats of an oppressive, all-powerful being that refuses to explain its cruelty and insanity, I'd get married.
1. I will never let sleeping dogs lie.
If there's one thing I can't abide, it's dishonesty.
I apologise if my choices seem obvious, but the unusual pledges were already taken.
Update! I've been reminded that I'm supposed to pass this on, like some electronic VD of the brain.
In that spirit, I'll nominate Clairwil, The Ill Man, NMJ at Velo Gubbed Legs, Pisces at The Far Queue, Binty McShae the Average Tosser, Wyndham the Triffid, Ion at Ionetics, the Wisdom Weasel, Larry at Tampon Teabag and John at Konichiwa Bitches, purely to see which of them can tell me to fuck off in the most brutally cutting fashion.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Given Britain's recent policy debates, I thought I might introduce you to my favourite polemicist. I imagine some of you may have made his acquaintance already...
"I have spoken hitherto of the possibility that democracy may be a self-limiting disease, like measles. It is, perhaps, something more: it is self-devouring. One cannot observe it objectively without being impressed by its curious distrust of itself - its apparently ineradicable tendency to abandon its whole philosophy at the first sign of strain. I need not point to what happens invariably in democratic states when the national safety is mentioned.
All the great tribunes of democracy, on such occasions, convert themselves, by a process as simple as taking a deep breath, into despots of an almost fabulous ferocity. Nor is this process confined to times of alarm and terror: it is going on day in and day out. Democracy always seems bent upon killing the thing it theoretically loves. All its axioms resolve themselves into thundering paradoxes, many amounting to downright contradictions in terms."
On Elected Leadership...
"If he (a political candidate) is a smart and enterprising fellow, which he usually is, he quickly discovers there that hooey pleases the boobs a great deal more than sense. Indeed, he finds that sense really disquiets and alarms them - that it makes them, at best, intolerably uncomfortable, just as a tight collar makes them uncomfortable, or a speck of dust in the eye, or the thought of Hell.
The truth, to the overwhelming majority of mankind, is indistinguishable from a headache. After trying a few shots of it on his customers, the larval statesman concludes sadly that it must hurt them, and after that he taps a more humane keg, and in a little while the whole audience is singing "Glory, glory hallelujah," and when the returns come in the candidate is on his way to the White House."
On Theories of Government...
"In every age the advocates of the dominant political theory seek to give it dignity by identifying it with whatever contemporaneous desire of man happens to be most powerful. In the days of monarchy, monarchy was depicted as the defender of the faith. In our present era of democracy, democracy is depicted as the only safe guardian of liberty. And the communism or super-communism of tomorrow, I suppose, will be sold to the boob-oisie as the only true palladium of peace, justice and plenty.
All of these attempts to hook up cause and effect are nonsensical. Monarchy was fundamentally not a defender of the faith at all, but a rival and enemy to the faith. Democracy does not promote liberty; it diminishes and destroys liberty. And communism, as the example of Russia already shows, is not a fountain that gushes peace, justice and plenty, but a sewer in which they are drowned."
If anyone's still reading and enjoyed those snippets, you'll find more here.
Monday, November 20, 2006
In a sane country, the news that certain companies forbid visible jewellery would be met with yawns and rolling eyes, whatever the religious connotations of said trinkets and baubles. Sadly, this is not a sane country, and those yapping little doggies that enjoy barking at the moon over such trifles will doubtless seize this opportunity.
And so Britain's idiot-driven culture war continues apace, as the horrifying news breaks that a school has been forced to drop its plan to serve a halal Christmas dinner. I imagine anyone who's ever eaten a kebab and possesses a functional brain (and such people do exist) will be deeply concerned.
But, to return to the story of the air-hostess who has been forbidden to wear her holy necklace at work, I'm struggling for words. I'll let the lady herself, Nadia Eweida, give us her opinion.
"It is important to wear it to express my faith so that other people will know that Jesus loves them..."
Ms Eweida said people of other faiths were allowed to wear visible religious symbols such as headscarves and she wanted to be allowed to do the same.
I'm secure in the knowledge that I bask in the love of the Lord already, but I think it's worth pointing out that if Ms. Eweida were to holiday in Holland, she'd be forbidden to wear a burqa.
A fact that, looking at her photograph below, strikes me as particularly ironic.
Nadia Eweida - With a face like that,
I'd wear something to distract the punters too.
Update!: It's just occurred to me that the Romans were probably showing off their famed sense of humour when they nailed our Saviour and Lord to those bits of wood.
He was a carpenter, after all. If he'd been a plumber, they'd probably have flushed him down the toilet.
BRASILIA - The mayor of a small Brazilian town has begun handing out free Viagra, spicing up the sex lives of dozens of elderly men and their partners.
"Since we started the free distribution of sexual stimulants, our elderly population changed. They're much happier," said Joao de Souza Luz, the mayor of Novo Santo Antonio, a small town in the central state of Mato Grosso.
Souza Luz said 68 men over the age of 60 had already signed up for the program, which was approved by the town's legislature and has been dubbed "Happy Penis," or "Pinto Alegre" in Portuguese.
And to think, in this country we make our pensioners pay Council Tax and TV licences, and we have the temerity to describe ourselves as "civilised".
Still, it's a damn good explanation for story number two from Brazil today...
PASSO FUNDO - Geneticist Adil Pacheco took blood samples on Friday from three puppies in a poor neighborhood in Passo Fundo in southern Brazil to settle a dispute over a claim they were born from a cat...
...Cassia Aparecida de Souza, 18, said her cat Mimi had given birth to the three puppies as well as three kittens, which did not survive. And she, her husband Rogerio Jorge da Silva, 26, and several others in the town believe a neighborhood mutt named Dog is the father of Mimi's pups.
This may seem like a suspicious story, until we consider the possibility that that Ms. de Souza's granny has accidentally mixed up the worming tablets with a more potent preparation.
No wonder Mimi looks stunned.
Update!: Sadly, I must report that the tale of Mimi's canine kittens is a hoax.
In other news, Flying Rodent is sad to inform you that Santa Claus does not exist.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Visitors from warmer climes may be unfamiliar with the concept, but after ten at night the airwaves buzz with thinly-veiled excuses to show clips from dirty movies, dressed up as documentaries.
Watching in a spirit of academic interest, I was amused to see a female director announce her intention to trudge that well-worn path, the "pornography for women" wheeze.
This has been tried before with little success, since most women are less inclined towards shutting the curtains and making the beast with one back to amateurishly-shot bumping and grinding. Plus, those female enthusiasts that do exist seem content with the shameful debauchery already committed to film.
My theory is that womens' pornography already exists, and is readily available at newsagents and supermarkets across the land. Unlike their male counterparts, the titillation stems not from the attractiveness of the ladies involved, but their wrinkles, botched plastic surgery and bags under the eyes.
Well-toned flesh is replaced with visible ribs, and the only curves on these girls must be on their stomachs. Hair should be unkempt, make-up should run in unsightly streaks and the only close-ups should be on cellulite.
It's Now! and Heat magazine I'm talking about, of course. From observation, I'd say that photos of Lindsey Lohan answering her door in her dressing gown and soap starlets the worse for wear at 2 a.m. provide a near-sexual thrill for many ladies.
Why this should be is a mystery to me, but the market has spoken and it seems that the nation takes an unhealthy interest in the puffy red faces of drunken Big Brother contestants.
So I'm looking for financial backing for a business venture. I propose to publish "Eat it, Bitch!" magazine, a full-colour glossy in which I relieve myself into celebrities' drinks when they're not looking, shave their pets and put unpleasant insects in their handbags, then photograph the amusing results.
"This Creme Brulee Tastes Funny! - Christina unamused by mouse-droppings"
It would also feature an eight page fold out spread, in which former models and It Girls crawl on all fours pleading for tenners while a troop of shrieking chimpanzees hurl clumps of shit at them.
I think we're onto a winner here, folks. There's a huge gap in the market for starlet-taunting, for those with the vision to fill it.
Sling me a couple of grand, a camera, a large snake and access to Paris Hilton's toilet, and we'll be millionaires within months.
*Also known as the "Masturmentary".
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Friedman was a giant amongst his peers and his legacy will endure beyond his passing. His wit and wisdom were always an inspiration to me, as he strove to carve his own path through this life in the face of adversity.
My introduction to his work was his magnum-opus, "Elvis, Jesus and Coca-Cola", a tour-de-force of razor sharp one-liners, although his greatest achievement was surely his country-rock classic, "They Ain't Makin' Jews Like Jesus Anymore".
It's only a shame that he couldn't have gone to meet his maker after being elected governor of Texas, but this world is but a veil of tears from which none depart content.
Farewell, Milton, country-singer and humourist par excellence - and may your spirit find solace at the great ranch in the sky.
Update!: It appears that I've made a mix-up and it is in fact Milton Friedman the economist that has passed on. I thought Kinky was looking a little good for a 94 year old.
Fellow commies and moonbats, if it's comedy you seek then head over to Harry's Place and watch the "Decent Left"tm attempt to eulogise the deceased economist and father of monetarism while maintaining their cover as lefties.
Seriously, it's like watching a room full of shamefaced vicars trying to tie knots in their dicks.
It's actually got so bad that tonight's host is trying to distract them with posts harshing on Stalinist cartoons and Muslim attitudes to female masturbation. If it gets any worse they're going to have to break out the footage of George Galloway saluting Saddam.
Ah, the Eustonistas - waving, not drowning, in a sea of their own self-righteous onanism.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Over the past few days, however, I've been perusing the musings of various belligerent bloggers and have found myself pulled from pillar to post by their persuasive arguments. But I'm still terribly confused.
One second they're shouting "They should string the bugger up!" and the next they cry "Hanging's too good for the bastard!".
I wish they'd make their fucking minds up, I don't know what to think.
They join the ranks of vacant, money-grubbing, media jezebels Jennifer Lopez, Nicole Kidman and P. Puff Diddy Daddy in their frenzied attempts to part us star-dazzled uglies from our money.
Sadly, P. Puff Diddy Daddy has declined to name his scent "Eau de Cretin", and Beckham's "Instinct" seems similarly inappropriate.
So I wonder, who will be the next celebrity to bottle their personality? Personally, I'd like to see the advertising campaign for Tom Cruise's "Insincerity", purely so I could listen to women remark to each other "When I get a whiff of Tom Cruise's Insincerity I almost pass out".
I also like to think that the public would flock to sample "Oleaginous" by Donald Trump or Simon Cowell's "Vermineuse".
No doubt you have ideas as to potential celebrity scents - I'd advise you stay away from Michael Jackson, though.
Not because any jokes would be in poor taste, just because he's a fucking mentalist and he'd probably try to bum your pet poodle or some such perversity.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Jerry Springer Show,
14th November 2006
(Theme music, applause, Jerry to center stage)
JERRY: Alright, thank you!
JERRY: ...And welcome to the show. Has your partner ever cheated on you, disrespected you or thrown you out? Today we're gonna be talkin' to couples whose relationships are going wrong. Our first guest is Iran, who says that her man badmouths her in front of his friends and goes through her things looking for evidence she's been cheating. She says that he needs to change if their relationship is going to work. Come on out, Iran!
(Music, cheers, IRAN walks on stage, pumping the air and whooping, sits).
JERRY: So Iran, what is it that your man does that upsets you?
IRAN: Okay Jerry, so America's all, like, up in my face all the time, disrespectin' me and bein' all aggressive. Him and his friends is always out messin' wit other women all the time.JERRY: You say he's playing around with other women, do you know this for sure?
IRAN: Damn right I know it for sure, he's been f***in' that ho Iraq mornin', noon and night for three goddamn years-
(Loud booing, hissing)
IRAN: Yeah, yeah, that's right!
Iran: "America gots to show me some respect".
JERRY: And you've got something you'd like to say to him today?
IRAN: Yeah, Jerry, but I'll only speak to America on, like, certain conditions, okay? First, he's gotta change his behaviour. Second, he's gotta stop messin' wit them skanks he's been foolin' wit and third-
(Hoots, howls, "Yeah!"s)
IRAN: - And third, he's gotta show me some respect, you know? He's gotta give me some space, respect my privacy and not be snoopin' into my nuclear programme all the time.JERRY: Okay, so let's see what America has to say for himself. America, get on out here!
(AMERICA emerges, loud booing, hissing. AMERICA walks to the front of the stage, throwing gangsta hand shapes and hitting his chest).
AMERICA: What? What y'all beefin' at, huh? Y'all want some, huh?
JERRY: Okay, America, sit on down now. Your girl has something she'd like to say to you. Go on, Iran.
IRAN: Yeah, America, you gots to stop disrespectin' me all the time. Like, when you was up at the UN building talkin' trash and callin' me a terrorist-sponsorin' ho -
(Screaming, howling, "You go girl!"s).
AMERICA: Yo, yo Jerry, Iran had that comin', she can't keep the house tidy, keeps leavin' nuclear waste and s**t lyin' in the bathroom and-
IRAN: (Jumps up, pointing, restrained by BOUNCER) You no-good son of a bitch, how many times I gots to tell you that's for peaceful purposes, you a**hole?
(Ecstatic shrieks of excitement)
JERRY: So, America, is there anything you'd like to say to Iran?
AMERICA: (Sits back, rearranges genitals, coughs, wry smile) Yeah, well, there is. (Takes IRAN's hand) Iran, baby, you know I love you, and we had some good times and stuff, but I been seein' someone else.
IRAN: (Look of startled horror) Who? Who the f**k you been messin' on me wit?
AMERICA: A girl that don't give no money to no terrorists or build no nuclear warheads.
JERRY: Well, let's meet her. Israel, can you step out here please?
(ISRAEL enters stage left, smiling and waving, kisses AMERICA. IRAN screams and grabs ISRAEL by the hair, furious punching ensues, AMERICA tries to seperate the two).
IRAN: You f**kin' bitch, I'll f**kin' drive you into the f**kin' sea, you f**kin' bitch!
(Enter BOUNCERS, stage right)
JERRY: Hey, come on now, break it up, calm down!
(general melee, blood and hair fly)
CROWD: Go Jerry, go Jerry, go Jerry... (repeat ad infinitum...)
Sunday, November 12, 2006
With the Democrats back in business, I can't wait to begin meekly surrendering to our totalitarian foes - the only questions are, how soon do we start submitting, and how enthusiastically?
I'm so eager to throw myself at the feet of our cave-dwelling enemies, howling and urinating in canine terror like a puppy in a thunderstorm, that I need to take a few deep breaths and construct a strategy of incremental submission.
It seems a bit premature to begin grovelling and pleading for mercy immediately, so I suggest a lengthy period of craven appeasement. We could start by sending sushi and fruit-smoothies to the Taliban. All that camping out in the desert must be hungry work, after all.
Next we should send a respected figure of great power and authority in our pinko ranks - say, George Galloway - to negotiate with Osama Bin Laden, offering him lordship over the 'Stans.
It might be a bit tough to locate OBL, since he's been keeping a low profile recently, but if Galloway can return to these shores bearing a worthless, weasel-worded non-aggression pact, we'll be well on our way.
From there, all that would remain would be to splash a little eau de capitulation behind our ears and invite our new Euro-Jihadi masters to crush us like over-ripe tomatoes beneath their Nike jackboots.
I just can't work out who to surrender to first - the Iranians, the North Koreans or the Syrians? What about Al-Qaeda or the Taliban?
Oh well, never mind. Being a commie and a pinko, I'll happily throw myself upon the mercy of whichever shower of bedraggled thugs demands obedience.
Then I can start collaborating, which is where the fun really begins.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Thursday, November 09, 2006
"The man is reported to have got down on all fours, lowered his trousers and fixed a Black Cat Thunderbolt rocket to himself in front of a group of friends at the end of a firework display in the Monkwearmouth area of Sunderland on Sunday."
Fuzzy mobile phone footage shows a blinding white flash and the group of spectators laughing...
A spokeswoman for the North East Ambulance Service said: "We received a call stating there was a male who had a firework in his bottom and it was bleeding. He was attended to and taken to Sunderland Royal hospital."
The man, whose injuries include a scorched colon, is still in hospital."
It occurs to me that this is perhaps the most profound metaphor in world history, although I'm not sure what for.
Voting? Drunkenness? Militarism?
I'm at a loss.
Still, I imagine this horrific incident is beyond many of our imaginitive powers. To assist, I thought I'd post a graphic representation of the dire consequences that may ensue when slack-jawed stupidity and anal pyrotechnics* are combined.
Warning - there is a nasty bare arse in this video, so do not watch it at work.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
It seems but a few short years since he was lecturing the French and the Germans on the need for pre-emptive war, of which neither nation has any practical experience worth mentioning.
As Chirac and Schroder stridently warned the Americans to change their policy, lest they be led into unmitigated disaster, one liver-spotted hand raised a single-fingered salute in defiance of their defeatism.
That hand belonged to Donald Rumsfeld - that unmitigated disaster soon belonged to America.
To see Rummy knifed in the back was unforgiveable - here, here was the man who delivered to the United States the debacle they so desperately craved, that the networks, the newspapers, nay, the people themselves had called for with such venom.
"Destroy our credibility as a freedom-loving nation!", they cried from Oregon to Florida, and he did. They howled, "Let the blood of the foreigner stain the front pages of the world's media, and to hell with them!", and Rummy was on hand to give the country what it demanded.
Rumsfeld was asked, and truly Rumsfeld delivered.
And after all this hard work, after all his desperate efforts to make the United States the most despised nation on an Earth which encompasses China, Iran and North Korea, this was the thanks they gave him?
A man that slaved, day and night to deliver that which was required of him by plebiscite, and they just cast him out onto the scrap heap?
Shame on them.
Nonetheless, it was truly heartwarming to watch America's leading civilian warmongers weep fat, salty tears for the fall of a man who took the U.S. military, the most terrifying war machine since 1940, and bled it like a pneumonic Plantagenet monarch.
It was like watching the men who fell under the command of George Armstrong Custer raise their bloodstained, dead hands in salutary tribute, except those guys actually fought.
But shame is theirs that left this great architect of nihilistic horror out in the cold, with only the crusts of FOX News interviews to nourish him in the bleak night of political obscurity.
Farewell, Donald Rumsfeld, and know that the goodwill of all haddock-brained hate-patriots goes with you.
Update! - You might as well hear it from me, you're about to hear it from everyone else.
Update 2! - This brought tears of joy to my eyes back in the day, so anyone nostalgic for the fighting styles of Donald Rumsfeld should check this page out.
...As usual, but I've got a bit of time tonight and tomorrow, so I'll catch up with a lot of the comedy I've been missing and serve up the choicest cuts.
Something tells me there's going to be a lot of nuttiness batting about the sewers of the blogosphere today.
Monday, November 06, 2006
I'm almost afraid to go on holiday, there would be nothing worse than getting home to discover everyone had spent the whole time I was away holding Kim Jong Il's head down the toilet and pulling the flush.
Still, I see that the news has gone over well with those whose fierce commitment to universal human rights flops like a stiffy in a scissor factory the moment we, the Americans or the Israelis rev up our war machines to unleash some kick-ass whizz-bang upon lunatics and civilians alike.
This being the case, I'm sure you can envisage their not-at-all bloodthirsty reaction (364 comments so far) to the butcher of Baghdad's impending execution. It's good to see that none of the "muscular liberals" (see also "pretend-lefties who demand uncritical adherence to the agenda of the Republican Party") have wasted any time sniffing out dissent from the party line.
There's little point in commenting upon the responses of those hermanos who cheerfully admit their right wing lunacy, other than to observe that they must be enjoying the novelty of eulogising the execution of someone who a) isn't black, b) is actually guilty and c) has a mental age that stretches to double figures.
Most of the Iraqis that have survived the last three years seem to be happy enough with the news, which is understandable. Even those who have fled the country in fear of their lives are jubilant.
At least the fact that the Shi'ites have spent the last two days celebrating by firing their machine guns into the air, rather than into the backs of their neighbours' heads at point-blank range, should put a cap on the body count in the short term.
I suppose we should let this be a lesson to dictators - don't slaughter your people, or we'll sell you chemical weapons to use on your internal and external enemies and feed strategic data to your armed forces to help you win wars.
Oh, and then after twenty five years we'll depose you, hand you over to a kangaroo court to provide an unconvincing veneer of legality before stampeding your death sentence onto the breakfast news just in time to coincide with internal elections.
I suppose this means that Dick Cheney was right - the Iraqis are trying to influence the US political process!
Not that the notion of Saddam being legally strung up by a political court, then literally strung up to suit the Machiavellian needs of an unscrupulous and bloodthirsty cabal of warmongers, doesn't have an ironic ring to it.
Rummy congratulates Saddam on his impending execution
As regular readers might have guessed, I'm opposed to the death penalty in principle, even for genocidal maniacs like Saddam. Involvement in unnecessary bloodshed, however justified we might feel it is, lowers us to their level.
That said, I have the perfect solution for this moral quandary - an evil dictator, a Shia majority baying for his blood, and the obvious involvement of American political pressure in his impending execution? How to keep even more blood from being spilled on the flags of our nations?
Well, why not release Saddam into a Shia enclave of Baghdad? Much like our right wing blogging brethren, they have a preference for the swift delivery of summary justice in darkened rooms and back alleys.
A Sunni male in Sadr City? He wouldn't last five minutes.