I don't see any of them trying to help by paying back their bonuses and profits to dig themselves out of a hole of their own creation.
Their profits are yours and my money, the Bank of England's cash is yours and my money. The only money that apparently isn't yours or mine is safely stashed away in some offshore tax haven like Jersey. Thieving bastards.
They make even Monty look slim (a stone and a half, thank you very much)
6 comments:
Monty on his chopping block! Be like me and keep it under the mattress at 1 Loadsamoney Avenue, Richville;-)
GRRR at the fatcats indeed - although Monty's OK :]
I Got What America Needs Right Here
By Jimmy Carter
January 9, 2008 |
The Onion Issue 44•02
Sometimes I'm a little stupid, maybe, a little slow in the head, so I'm wondering if you can help me get something straight. Maybe you can help me understand one fucking thing right now, America, and explain to me what in the Christ is going on here. 'Cause, unless I'm missing something, this country is in the middle of a motherfucking shitstorm, and I have no fucking idea what you're gonna do to get out of it. I mean, are you seriously considering voting for one of these shitbags you got here in '08? Fat fucking chance.
Way I see it, America needs a president who's gonna somehow un-royally screw up the Middle East, do some serious cleaning up after you dropped your pants and took a steaming dump all over the fucking environment, and—boom!—restore dignity, honor, and all that shit to these United States.
See, I got solutions to all your problems—I got 'em right here in my big, hairy ballsack.
You better get down on your hands and knees and kiss Jimmy Carter's rosy-red Georgia-peach-picking ass and beg me to run your fucking country again, because there's no way I'm ever gonna come to you fuck-knobs and politely ask you if I might please be a presidential candidate in your precious fuckin' election. So you can just bite my cock. I've had it with you jerkoffs and your jerkoff candidates.
You actually seem to think one a' these assholes is gonna prance in and wave a magic wand and make everything all nice again. Look at you, sitting there like a common fucking schnook and eating all their bull about bi-fucking-partisanship, and how they have all the goddamn answers. Let me tell you something: These fags are dogshit compared to Jimmy fucking Carter, all right? I was arbitrating Mideast crises when this bunch was still sucking on their mamas' titties.
But who comes to me, huh? Fucking nobody. Why ask old Jimmy anything? What the fuck could he know about peace in the Middle East? It's not like he fucking won the Nobel Peace Prize for that shit. You myopic pricks. Back in '79, I sat Sadat and Begin right down and made those two dicklicks shake hands. It was beautiful—I had all the pieces lined up and I smiled and waved in my best fucking suit and tie right there on TV. And what do you do, you pieces of shit? You screw the whole goddamn pooch.
Cocksuckers.
Oh, what's that I hear? The weather's all screwy? You got a global warming problem? Boo-fucking-hoo! I was telling you morons to turn off your lights and unplug all your shit at night to conserve energy in 19-fuckin'-75, for chrissake. Gee, I wonder what woulda happened if we'd all switched to solar power like I fucking did back when we had a fucking chance to do something about it. Think we'd still be sucking Saudi Arabia's dick like a five-dollar whore? I sure as fuck didn't get no fancy Oscar for that little spiel, though, did I? No. But Al Gore, that cum-sucking pig, steals the shit from me and now he's the greatest thing since Jesus Christ made a fucking sandwich.
Well, he can lick my asshole right after George W. Bush, that fuck.
You want compassion? Somebody who's looking out for the little guy? Why don't you take a look at Jimmy Carter, 'cause unlike, oh, every motherfucking candidate out there, he spent the last fucking quarter-century building houses for the homeless. And what does he get for it? A fucking hernia. Some fucking gratitude, you selfish twats. You talk to me about compassion? I'll shove a crucifix so far up the Democrats' asses they'll be asking me to buy them dinner and kiss them good night.
Funny thing about me: I actually fucking know shit! Not like these goombas trying to weasel their way into the White House. I practically wrote the book on collapsing bridges, inflation, and the working poor, fuck-o. I even got a degree in nuclear engineering or some shit. You know how easy I could swoop down right now like a guardian angel and solve all your fucking problems? Snap. Bam. Do it in my fucking sleep. Just fucking try me.
So you want me to run for president again? Yeah, sure, absolutely, I'll do it. I'd be honored to do it—with my fucking dick in your mouth, you worthless scumbags.
You had your chance with Jimmy Carter, and you fucking blew it. So get fucked. Fucking country.
Area Senior Remembers A Simpler Time When His Anus Didn't Leak
The Onion February 2, 2008 |2008 | Issue 44•05
CARSON CITY, NV—Looking out his window as the cars zoom by and a jet plane rumbles overhead, 87-year-old Hank Fletcher sees a world far different from the one in which he grew up. In his day, the retired factory worker says, life was simpler. The streets were quieter, people were more polite, neighbors all knew one another, and his anus did not emit oily discharges of liquid stool.
But times have changed.
"When I was a young man, there was no uncertainty in the world—dinner was at 5:30 sharp, people who got married stayed that way, and my anus didn't leak," Fletcher says. "I can still remember playing stickball till the sun dipped below the trees. Why, I'd round the bases pretending I was Rogers Hornsby without ever having to think about a viscous brown liquid trickling down my leg. The future seemed so bright."
Hank Fletcher sits on his fifth couch in as many months and reminisces about the good old days of dry pants.
As time marches on, Fletcher remains one of the last direct links to a bygone era of American life when people passed their evenings relaxing by the fireside or listening to Hopalong Cassidy on the radio. Mothers and fathers would sit on couches free from protective plastic covers, and children would play games in the corner, oblivious to the crime, famine, and warm streams of fluid seeping out of their anal cavities that seem so commonplace today.
"How I loved to stroll down the promenade arm in arm with my best gal, Dorothy," Fletcher says, shifting in his chair as he pages wistfully through a faded old scrapbook. "We'd talk and laugh, unconstrained by bulky plastic sacks tied to our waists, and go into all the shops—never to buy anything, of course, just to look and to dream. We'd wander along the boardwalk all evening, she with her blue Gainsborough hat and I with my clean underpants, all the while holding hands and not ejecting fecal matter from our anuses."
"But Dorothy's been gone for many a year now," he adds as he closes the scrapbook, "and as for my anus, well, as I said before, it leaks constantly."
Seated on a rocking chair covered in a blue tarpaulin to protect the wood from foul-smelling stains, Fletcher chuckled to recall how tiny and hard to come by TV sets were in those days. His family had only one car, he could see a movie for a quarter, soda pop only cost a nickel, and his sphincter was strong enough to expand and contract when he intended instead of hanging permanently open like an unlatched floodgate.
"Back then, the days were as cool and sweet as a sip of lemonade, and the night sky was filled to the brim with bright shiny stars," Fletcher says. "Now there's so much noise and pollution that you can't even hear yourself think. People are always screaming and shouting for no good reason, zipping around from place to place, and the hustle and the bustle and my anus leaks, and it's all computers."
"Glenn Miller, jalopy rides, Lucky Lindy, my non-leaking anus," Fletcher adds. "Those were the days."
Indeed, this octogenarian lived most his life in a time that made him proud to be an American and during which he did not have to change his pants five times a day. He can recall as if it were yesterday seeing the troops come home after Normandy, when the nation was riding high and his feces were satisfyingly firm cylinders that easily held their shape in water; and watching two men land on the moon just moments after he expelled the contents of his bowels all at once in the bathroom rather than in dribs and drabs over the course of an afternoon. Then, on Sept. 11, 2001, terrorists flew two hijacked planes into the World Trade Center and Fletcher's anus leaked, and he knew the world had changed forever.
"Things ain't how they used to be," he says, shaking his head. "Especially in regards to my anus."
Despite it all, Fletcher admits that today's youth have it harder than ever. Amid fears of war, global warming, and political instability, Fletcher leaves the younger generations with a simple word of advice from a man who has seen it all.
"Every once in a while, take a moment to appreciate everything you have in this life," Fletcher says, "because before you know it, the world will pass you by, and also your underpants will be moist with shit."
Larry Flynt Has Sex With Own Mother In Outhouse
February 5, 1997 | Issue 31•04
KNOB CREEK, KY—In an incident that has shocked and repulsed even the most fervent free-expression advocates, controversial Hustler magazine publisher Larry Flynt had sexual intercourse with his own mother in an outhouse Monday.
Enlarge Image
Larry Flynt, seen here attending the premiere of The People Vs. Larry Flynt, recently had an outhouse liaison with his own mother (inset). Flynt has vowed to fight himself in court over the sex act, which he called "unconscionable and sick."
According to reports, not only did Flynt place his mother "face-first in an outhouse shit-hole" near Flynt's poverty-stricken, white trash, backwoods place of birth before "taking her from behind like a dog," but he was also surrounded by pigs, sheep, convicted felons, born-again evangelists, Mafia-linked magazine distributors, and a huge-phallused caricature of Santa Claus at the time.
Particularly nauseating, sources say, was the fact that during the incestuous act, Flynt's colostomy bag exploded violently, covering Flynt, his mother, and all onlookers in a torrential shower of his own feces. Flynt, who is described by close friends and colleagues as a "perverted bastard," does not possess control over his own bowels.
The liaison, which is said to have been possibly the single most obscene and degrading act in human history, has left everyone from right-wing Christian leaders to ACLU lawyers to Larry Flynt himself condemning the sickening, depraved display.
"I cannot in good conscience allow myself to continue this sick, hideous abomination against all that is decent," Flynt said shortly after completion of the sexual liaison. "Our nation's children must be protected from filth like myself!"
Flynt added that videos of the event are available for $29.95 from Larry Flynt Publications, Inc.
Though confined to a wheelchair after being paralyzed by an assailant's bullet during a Georgia obscenity trial in 1978, Flynt, who can feel no sensation beneath the waist, was able to achieve erection and sexually penetrate his 81-year-old mother, Dolores Flynt. His success was largely due to a special penile implant that allows him to partially imitate the mechanics of sexual intercourse in a grotesque parody of the act of human love.
"If the Constitution will protect me, then it will protect all of you, because I'm the worst," Flynt said. "But this time, I've gone too far. I swear to God, I'll sue the pants off myself for doing this to Mama, even if I have to chase myself all the way to the Supreme Court."
ACLU lawyer Dan Glickman agreed with Flynt. "The right of all Americans to free expression, no matter how offensive that expression may seem to others, is the cornerstone of the liberties we as a nation hold as our highest principles," Glickman said. "Nonetheless, I think we should fry that sick Larry Flynt bastard."
Flynt's mother was unavailable for comment at press time, as she was posing for a pictorial in her son's magazine.
Crikey. What happened there?
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