out of the mouths of babes and ancient uncles
Sitting with 87 year old Uncle Thaddeus watching the news.
On the screen is an image of British Prime Minister Boris Johnson visiting a town and being ambushed on Main Street by some long haired Labour Party voting socialist woooorker prole cousin of the Murdocks who Sky News have put up to calling Boris a traitor.
"You should be a politician," says Uncle Thad to me suddenly.
"I don't think I'd be good at it," quoth me.
"I think you would," says he.
I shook my head.
"You see what just happened to Boris Johnson there? See how congenial he is about it? Now I'd want to say to that guywho jumped out at him: You **** off you ****ing **** and stand for election yourself if you've got something to say and let's see how many ****s vote for you. And when Sky News set up the Australian Prime Minister Scott Morrison a few weeks ago in the same way to have a fireman turn his back on him, if I'd been Australian Prime Minister Scott Morrison I'd have given the fireman a kick in the arse and a butt of the lug and a root in the bawls as he was going down, and then said: You ****s are lighting the fires, you ****ing ****s. Go back to ****ing Arabia you **** sucking ****. I am, old Uncle old pal, overly reliant in my response to bollocksology on the F Word and on the Cee Word and on various permutations thereof, and on fantastical notons of what I'd like to do to those who hype up fictional threats such as Climate Change and the Corona Virus (Hint, it's the ****ing flu) while ignoring catastrophic barbarisms that actually do menace the human race such as Jihad or the collapse of immigration law or the rise of mafia crime gangs as delineators of power or Vladdie The Pute or dictatorships in Africa or unreal expectations of a free lunch among western socialist electorates and pseudo elites or abortion culture or porngraphy or euthanasia or assisted suicide or doctors performing mutilating sex change operations on children and adults. I'm afraid my rustic simplicity just won't play in the gentle rarified saturnalia that is modern politics."
The Uncle leaned forward with the air of one confiding great wisdom.
"I still think you'd be good at it. You're the best bullshitter I've ever heard. I've been listening to you for forty years and I'd say you're the champion bullshit artist of all time."
My gentle pre raphaelite features deepened into poignancy.
87.
Perspicacious isn't he.
On the screen is an image of British Prime Minister Boris Johnson visiting a town and being ambushed on Main Street by some long haired Labour Party voting socialist woooorker prole cousin of the Murdocks who Sky News have put up to calling Boris a traitor.
"You should be a politician," says Uncle Thad to me suddenly.
"I don't think I'd be good at it," quoth me.
"I think you would," says he.
I shook my head.
"You see what just happened to Boris Johnson there? See how congenial he is about it? Now I'd want to say to that guywho jumped out at him: You **** off you ****ing **** and stand for election yourself if you've got something to say and let's see how many ****s vote for you. And when Sky News set up the Australian Prime Minister Scott Morrison a few weeks ago in the same way to have a fireman turn his back on him, if I'd been Australian Prime Minister Scott Morrison I'd have given the fireman a kick in the arse and a butt of the lug and a root in the bawls as he was going down, and then said: You ****s are lighting the fires, you ****ing ****s. Go back to ****ing Arabia you **** sucking ****. I am, old Uncle old pal, overly reliant in my response to bollocksology on the F Word and on the Cee Word and on various permutations thereof, and on fantastical notons of what I'd like to do to those who hype up fictional threats such as Climate Change and the Corona Virus (Hint, it's the ****ing flu) while ignoring catastrophic barbarisms that actually do menace the human race such as Jihad or the collapse of immigration law or the rise of mafia crime gangs as delineators of power or Vladdie The Pute or dictatorships in Africa or unreal expectations of a free lunch among western socialist electorates and pseudo elites or abortion culture or porngraphy or euthanasia or assisted suicide or doctors performing mutilating sex change operations on children and adults. I'm afraid my rustic simplicity just won't play in the gentle rarified saturnalia that is modern politics."
The Uncle leaned forward with the air of one confiding great wisdom.
"I still think you'd be good at it. You're the best bullshitter I've ever heard. I've been listening to you for forty years and I'd say you're the champion bullshit artist of all time."
My gentle pre raphaelite features deepened into poignancy.
87.
Perspicacious isn't he.
posted by heelers | 9:49 PM
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