September 11th, 2007

Kicking against the c***s, it’s . . . MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up viagra for sale to a breakfast of unsweetened muesli, a fresh fruit platter, lightly grilled kippers, pumpernickel and a gallon of illegally homebrewed cider which has already caused an epidemic of blindness in the West Country, I set aside my breakfast tray and peruse some recent periodicals devoted to current political and cultural affairs. Therein, I read an article penned by Mr Martin Amis, concerning the events of September 11 2001. After many thousands of words, many of them devoted to the numerology of the phrase “9/11”, Mr Amis comes to a bold conclusion; the people who carried out these attacks were fanatics.

Well gee, Martin, thanks a f***ing lot for that luminous f***ing shaft of insight! You earned your f***ing four figure fee there, didn’t you? Because I’d always wondered if, in fact, the attacks had been carried out by the f***ing moderate wing of Islam. Which really made me worry, because, f***, if this is the sort of thing the moderates get up to, imagine what the radicals would do! Gosh! But now you’ve set me mind at f***ing rest – I feel more assured and more f***ing educated. Thank f*** we’ve got Martin Amis to tell us what’s what. You dismal, dentally dysfunctional f***ing c***! Who the f*** appointed you Mr f***ing 9/11 in the f***ing first place, anyway? Just because you were first in there, like an unseemly rat up a f***ing drainpipe, with your f***ing “Out of the clear blue skies sailed Death, like a shark” piece, now we’re gonna have to put up with you clacking out excoriating bollocks like this annually! As if it’s not f***ing bad enough that thanks to these self-charcoaling, suicidal clothheads that you can’t find a f***ing waste paper bin within a ten mile radius of a f***ing railway station nowadays, we have to put up with Amis aching our balls with his tortuous, tedious f***ing musings like he owns the f***ing tragedy! Arsehole!

Luciano Pavarotti, the acclaimed tenor opera singer, has died of buy viagra cancer. He was, as you may not have been reminded, famous for his rendition of “Nessun Dorma”, which became theme to the 1990 World Cup Finals, his supreme achievement to provide the soundtrack to Paul Gascoigne’s tears.

Well, I suppose they had to bury the fat c*** because if they’d cremated the fat f***er, they’d have had to lay on catering and f***ing accommodation for three f***ing days for the f***ing mourners while he burnt away like a f***ing forest fire of f***ing flab! Why the f***ing long faces, folks? Every f***ing account of the man’s life is a study in sheer f***ing fatty twatdom! A philandering, fat, overpumped f***ing warbler with zero f***ing consideration for the people who had to work him or made the f***ing mistake of booking him and imagining he’d do them the f***ing courtesy of actually turning up and do his very easy, very pampered f***ing job, ie wearing a scarf and vibrating from the f***ing neck upwards! I hope Il Fatso’s in f***ing purgatory right now, stacking all the chairs viagra online that had to be stacked early at events because he f***ing blew them out, the fat, self-indulgent f***ing c*** of a deceased, c***faced cock!

It seems there is cheap viagra a new cat in Downing Street – according to the BBC news website, the animal is the property of the new Chancellor of the Exchequer, Alistair Darling.

Well, there’s one thing this important f***ing story reminds us all of – and that’s that we actually f***ing have a Chancellor of the f***ing Exchequer! I mean, f***, who the f*** would have that f***ing job, with that Caledonian c*** next door hovering over you all set to put his hand up your chicken arse like f***ing Keith Harris and make you do what the f*** he wants unless you f***ing second guess him? F***, Captain Darling in f***ing Blackadder had more f***ing independence than that malleable, careerist blob of f***ing Whitehall grease Alistair does! They might as well put the f***ing cat in charge of the Treasure for all the f***ing difference it’d f***ing make!

Finally, it seems that Ian Brown, former lead singer of The Stone Roses, has released an anti-war track, in collusion with formerly bald chanteuse Ms Sinead O’ Connor. Entitled “Illegal Attacks”, it features the following lyric; “It’s a fact, it’s an act/These are illegal attacks/ So bring the soldiers back/ These are illegal attacks/It’s contracts for contacts/ I’m singing concrete facts/ So bring the soldiers back!”

Well, I’m telling you, the f***ing hawks in the Bush administration are giving each other f***ing high fives tonight! Because if anything was going to act as a f***ing buttress against the growing anti-war sentiment on both sides of the f***ing Atlantic, it was generic viagra the news that that mumbling, talentless, clueless, barely-out-of-chimpdom, excremental syntax machine Ian Brown had decided to tell the world that the war was a f***ing bad idea! You wait till this kicks in – the next anti-war demo will consist of half a dozen confused SWP members wondering when the f***ing tide turned unexpectedly in favour of a quadrupling of commitment of British and American troops to f***ing Iraq! Because, let’s face it, if Ian f***ing Brown wrote a song protesting that the earth was f***ing round;The earth is round/Round as a pound/I’m talking facts right, dead sound/Round, I’ve found/It’s fooking well round”, membership of the f***ing Flat Earth society would jump into the f***ing millions overnight! C***!

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