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A Politician Meets Its Match

25 Jul
Don't you hate it when this happens?

Don’t you hate it when this happens?

 

Note: this is a guest editorial by Pirate Ben, who we find somewhat bemused by his grandmother.

Th’other day me old grammer been a-watchin’ th’ movin’ image where the politicos their lies do spout like the blowfish they ape wi’ such shoutin’ out success. Belike she were listenin’ to our own local pile o’ color-changin’ ineptitude for she begun to steam about the ears and the imprecations come thick and fast. Have I not told ye she’s got a tongue on her? A smart man’d do well to steer clear when the fire be upon her but I’d not give warnin’ to this partickilar fish crotty, me not bein’ me brother’s kipper and all.

Harken to th’ conversation, only the one side o’ which I be givin’ ye:

“Feculous rat bait! Down, down into the bilge!

“Take yer teleprompter and [CRASH]

“Cheese farts! Naught but cheese farts, I tell ye! Ill-favored petomane!”

(mutterin’, mutterin’)

“Say that again and ye’ll be leakin’ rheumy snot out the backside o’ yer skellinton’s cracktured pate, ye four-pounds-in-a-sack-o-three mountain o’ steamin’ squid johnny!”

(more mutterin’)

“I’ll remind ye that the only difference ‘twixt guest and gust be the letter E, a component ye be sorely lackin’, so blow yer stinkin’ ass ashore, ye poxy fart of a gossoon!”

(more mutterin’ still)

“Ye be naught but a slack-knackered malcontent! A peculatin’ whoreson of a man! A louse-infested scab on the shinin’ face o’ Piratude! Go peddle yer wares to the French, for only a Froggy’d be assheaded enough to cock an open ear to the tune o’ yer stumpy clangorband! Why man, the juice’d be runnin’ sideways into his nose from the sheer gravity o’ the situation! Can ye not see the world laughin’ at the state o’ yer sheer ineptitude? Are ye not knowin’ they call ye squbtubbler, wiggletoper, squibberjibber and wuggletump to yer face and them keepin’ the nasty words for the pimply backside o’ ye? That be bound to change, and soon, I warrant! I call upon the nine syphilitic gods o’ the tarry Marianas Trench to send ye down to the lowest slit in the black ‘n’ loftless abyss o’ iniquity, ye bleatin’, sheepy pustule of a rotten peckertip! Alaunt, now move!”

Update: And he did, too, by God! Give you joy, mates!

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Posted by on July 25, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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