Now that The Queen's visit to America is over and she's back at the airport, stuffing her musty grey knickers with duty free cigarettes and Swiss chocolate like a huge teabag-faced magpie, we can look back at what she has achieved over the past few weeks.
Firstly, the staff at Virginia airport got a few hours off, during which they were made to stand around and coo whilst the Monarch descended from her economy class flight as though they were a parent applauding a child who had successfully shit into a potty of it's own volition for the first time.
Secondly, she has done more for the popularity of George W Bush in Britain than anything he or his government has done during his time in office. Whether you are for or against his politics, there is no denying that seeing him hop from foot to foot with trepidation as he greeted her like a man with his trembling balls in the teetering mouth of a doberman was an endearing sight. And who can blame him? Being visited by The Queen of England is at least seventeen times scarier than waking to find yourself naked on national television, giant bats having stolen your cock. She is the grandma-you-don't-want-to-come-and-visit of the world.
And by reacting like a lost little boy, just as we all would, Mr Bush has shown to a world that likes to pretend he is in fact some kind of blood sucking space lizard that when an old woman with all the charm of a broken toaster and a disposition so miserable her presence alone makes you pray that the country you are standing on will sink into the sea comes to tea, he hates it as much as the rest of us.
Good on you Mr Bush, you should act human more often. Perhaps making a national address about your disgust that the strange old woman who came to stay and reeked of piss and biscuits had sex in your spare bedroom would be a good start.
Incidentally, no old women ever come to visit me any more. The only house guest that makes me nervous is Kevin Godlington. I'm not saying he's a queen you understand. It's just that my grandma never insisted we share a bed.
D.
myspace.com/davebecomemonster
Firstly, the staff at Virginia airport got a few hours off, during which they were made to stand around and coo whilst the Monarch descended from her economy class flight as though they were a parent applauding a child who had successfully shit into a potty of it's own volition for the first time.
Secondly, she has done more for the popularity of George W Bush in Britain than anything he or his government has done during his time in office. Whether you are for or against his politics, there is no denying that seeing him hop from foot to foot with trepidation as he greeted her like a man with his trembling balls in the teetering mouth of a doberman was an endearing sight. And who can blame him? Being visited by The Queen of England is at least seventeen times scarier than waking to find yourself naked on national television, giant bats having stolen your cock. She is the grandma-you-don't-want-to-come-and-visit of the world.
And by reacting like a lost little boy, just as we all would, Mr Bush has shown to a world that likes to pretend he is in fact some kind of blood sucking space lizard that when an old woman with all the charm of a broken toaster and a disposition so miserable her presence alone makes you pray that the country you are standing on will sink into the sea comes to tea, he hates it as much as the rest of us.
Good on you Mr Bush, you should act human more often. Perhaps making a national address about your disgust that the strange old woman who came to stay and reeked of piss and biscuits had sex in your spare bedroom would be a good start.
Incidentally, no old women ever come to visit me any more. The only house guest that makes me nervous is Kevin Godlington. I'm not saying he's a queen you understand. It's just that my grandma never insisted we share a bed.
D.
myspace.com/davebecomemonster
1 comment:
Loved it, as always!
Perhaps making a national address about your disgust that the strange old woman who came to stay and reeked of piss and biscuits had sex in your spare bedroom would be a good start.
Thanks.....my mind's eye is now forever scarred. And perhaps needs repression therapy.
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