Thursday, December 23, 2010

Merry Holiday

This is the time of year when politicians work even less diligently in the public interest, scarf down gut-fulls of trough gobbling goodies and pose in a mockery of care as ever more constituents go without. I detest the snot of the season, the inescapable drone of saccharine muzak, the whine of cripesters, so sure their omnipresent festival of lies is being stolen away by the word holiday. But it would be a waste of the annoyance to let things just slide when I can spit back and blaspheme and have a laugh on the side. But who to lampoon, what victim to jape? There's a new Senator crying at his catastrophic fate, settling for wages that would feed a family or eight. No shortage of lies or liars to scan, like the munchkin of finance and his failed fiscal plan. Or what about Weepy and the billion buck planes, the reneged withdrawal and the torture and shame. But lo don't be honking the partisan horn for there's no lack of Liberals as worthy of scorn. There's the goalie come lawyer whose name is disgrace for advocating the punishment of civilians in that ol' Gaza place. Then there's Dalton the douchebag so provincial and twee who sold off all our rights for the cop riot spree. Too many, too many disgraces to share, I must pick just one to park in the chair. So how's an old fave with his handout degree, a queer hating bigot of extra-marital needs. Who better to lecture on family and mores than a bloated old gasbag, a churlish old whore. So good gentles indulge me as I fling about some muck, this season I celebrate a miserable fuck. Here is the fable of the eve of the day when adulterers visit by limo or sleigh...

'Twas the week before xmas, when all through Stephen's house

Not a Stockwell was stirring, half as bright as a mouse

Large silk stockings were stuffed down the back of the chair

Proof that old queen McVety had recently been there

The senators were nestled all snug in bought beds

While visions of gerrymanders danced in their heads

Lurleen in her kerchief and Steve in his suit

Shook hands like good white folk, not rutting like fruits

When out on the hill there arose such a muddle

Steve sprang from his bed in mid fuddle-duddle

Off to the window like a waddling badger

He hid in the drapes to conceal his old tadger

The moon on the bosom of the oil sand brown snow

Gave the lustre of dung to his caucus below

When, what to his piggie little eyes should appear

Bev Oda's limo full of frat boys and lite beer

With a greasy old driver, so oily and slick

He knew in a moment it must be Toews, Vic

More rapidly than a dachshund on a shin they came

And he slurred, and bellowed and called them by name

"Now Doris, now Clement, now Weepy and Duffy!

On Prissy, on Dimwit, on Fibber and Puffy!

To the top via Adscam, to the top via gall

Now smear away, smear away, smear away all!"

Like dry heaves that echo across Blogging Tory sites

When met with reality and other such slights

So up to the press gallery with the lobbyists they blew

With a sleigh full of boys and a bishop or two

And while Steve was tinkling, he heard on the roof

The prancing and preening of that Flaherty goof

Steve shook off a drop and as he turned round

Out the chimney Towes, Vic tumbled to ground

He was dressed all in fishnet, from his arse to his ears

With a catalogue of escorts of prominent rear

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back

Plugs and beads and a cinch for his sac

His eye - how they twinkled, a blackguard so merry

He sniffed for any sisters of takable cherry

His dull little mouth puckered like ass

The scruff on his chin of the lecherous class

A tiny blue tablet was clutched in his teeth

The stank of ol' musk he wore like a wreath

He had a slack face and a hanging of belly

That he rubbed to a glisten with a KY of jelly

Steve laughed when he saw him in spite of himself

He was creepy and plump, a values voting elf

A leer in his eye, and a twist in his head

Stephen as leader had nothing to dread

He uttered a grunt as he bent to his work

And soiled a few stockings with a filthy last jerk

And stabbing his finger deep in his nose

And clutching his knob, up the chimney he rose

He slunk to his sled and gave Ambrose a goose

And passed like the wind of a loosely bowelled moose

But Steve heard him exclaim, ere he squirmed out of sight

We'll be coming for you with the long knives some night.


Anonymous said...

Wow, just wow.

Fat Arse said...

Well that woke me up!! Beware Sana's in Tory Blue... they are coming for me and you!

Fat Arse said...

oops! "Sana's" = Santa OR? Does it equal Satan?

Beijing York said...

Need brain bleach after picturing caucus members in various states of undress, especially the gleaming white KY caked belly. Thanks, psa :-)

Rev.Paperboy said...

I hereby nominate PSA for national poet laureate.

Mike said...

A new Christmas Classic is born!

We are not worthy!

Dave said...

Must... clean... keyboard.


900ft Jesus said...

excellent! Going to read that to my nieces and nephews tonight.