das booties

Enda Kenny's jackboots squeaked as he frogmarched himself down the corridor at the Irish parliament towards his personal office.
Red backed swastikas snapped stiffly in the morning breeze on his penis.
The Fuhrer was humming the Sven Hassel Waltz from The Merry Widow as he walked.
His office door swung open to reveal Gestapo Chief Alan Shatter already there waiting for him.
Herr Shatter was sitting in Enda Kenny's personal leather swivel chair with his own jackboots on Enda Kenny's personal mahogany table.
He leapt to his personal feet as the Fuhrer entered.
In truth Enda Kenny is a weak, vapid, vascillatory, hairstyle of a Fuhrer, easily dominated by the likes of Herr Shatter and Baldy Von Quinn.
Still it's always an awkward moment when you're caught sitting in the bosses chair.
"Mein Fuhrer," stammered Shatter awkwardly, scrambling to the front of the desk.
"Never mind zat," ordered the Fuhrer sitting down. "You've kept ze chair warm for me. Vat is ze meaning of ziss?"
So saying he tossed his personally autographed copies of the anti Catholic Irish Independent and the anti Catholic Irish Times on the table.
(Personally autographed by who? - Ed note)
(By satan. - Heelers note)
Alan Shatter eyed the newspapers silently.
They were covered in headlines about a spate of robberies around Ireland.
Seven major heists in one day.
"How can ziss happen?" barked Enda Kenny. "I mean vot are our corrupt jerk off police actually doing vith zemselves aside from corruptly vanking on ze public dime?"
"Vell Mein Fuhrer," answered Alan Shatter. "You know vee haff deployed the police to harass and intimidate people harvesting turf in Roscommon. Zese Roscommoners tzink zat the fact that they haff harvested turf from ze bogs outside zere homes for generations, entitles zem to continue doing so in contravention of European Union regulations. Ha. Ze peasants. Vee vill show them."
"But surely vee must haff ozzer police officers who could actually occasionally fight crime?" mused the Fuhrer in a practical voice.
"Vell Mein Fuhrer," said Alan Shatter, "most of ze ozzer police are too busy terrorising motorists at the side of the road as part of our revenue collection activities. They cannot spare ze time to actually fight crime. You know how they pass their days Mein Fuhrer. Inventing frivolous purely fictional crimes to accuse the public of and imposing on the spot fines for them. Who needs to pursue drug rackateers for rape and grievous bodily harm venn you can put a family man in fear of his life as you sneeringly and falsely allege he's been doing thirty miles an hour in a twenty zone. Very profitable for us. Remember how corrupt thug Sergeant James D O'Mara of the Naas traffic division trumped up a charge to bring James Healy to court for allowing a light on his car to fuse in a downpour? Remember O'Mara perjuring himself in court by claiming there were lights missing on Healy's car when we all knew the lights had in all probability just fused right that moment. Missing indeed. It was a gas. Zat's ze sort of tzing ze cops do all day long. It's the perfect blag. Brings in tons of money and of course destroys ze ancient trust Irish people vested in their police. There's no justice. There's just us. Our police don't have time to arrest bank robbers."
"Yes zat vas a good vun vith Heelers," murmured the Fuhrer thoughtfully. "I suppose vee vill just have to let the gangsters and bank robbers continue to run riot."
"Jawohl Mein Fuhrer," barked Alan Shatter, standing smartly to attention.
"Vee really are scum," said the Fuhrer softly.
"Vee really are, Mein Fuhrer," answered Alan Shatter.
The door burst open.
Reeducation Minister Ruari Quinn entered panting and stood in the centre of the room.
The Fuhrer groaned.
"Oh Quinn," he said. "You can't even get ze jackboots right. We never wear pink ones. Zose are for pop concerts only."
Ruairi Quinn paused to catch his breath.
Then with great Shakespearian import, he exclaimed: "... Line!"