O my merry band. What a week it’s been for George Bushieboy and his droogs, hanging at the WhiteHouse Milkbar playing all keen and vicious with the ultra-politics.
Things are changing so skorry these days and everybody very quick to forget, newspapers not being read and all, everybody distracted by Roverdover in the spotlight.
O Karl’s a real horrorshow filthy fighter and very handy with the press. But with everybody creeching ’bout the leaking, Georgie and the lads are really getting on with the job.
What’s it going to be then, eh?
Our Georgieboy’s been so skorry busy nominating in his ignorant way, his low friends to high places. One’s a malchick name of John G. Roberts who’ll be sitting all in judgement of the peons from the very loftiest heights in the land.
I won’t say Johnnie G.’s the worst of that lot but he’s a toady for all he looks bland. I wouldn’t fancy the rope around my neck if his masters told him to give me a shove. I wager there’ll be many a one dancing on air with the mark of his pasty, puffy paw printed on their backs.
Then there’s John Scottie Redd who’s supposed to be keeping us safe from the terrorists all comfy cozy here in our beds, all under the tender ministrations of The Grim Negroponte.
Scottieboy isn’t just some old veck as they’ve been imping, with a shoe phone and decoder ring, up to his ass in the spook show. He’s a real droog that one with quite a taste for the ultra.
Shows up in his horrorshow jacket intoning before the congress itself “O my brothers” (there are no sisters in his merry band and Pleezy Condaleezy doesn’t count).
“O my brothers” he intones, “beware the two Easts, both Middle and Far, for their malenky countries are up to no good with their skulking WMD’s. Beware the oh-so foreign nations united bearing food for the oil.
“Beware the children who can’t read and the lazy louts who don’t teach them and give me money to repair these grave social threats at home and abroad unless you want another by-God D-day here on our own shores, O my brothers. Let us pray.”
He goes swanning around the halls of power and they shower his path with the taxpayer gold, quivering with luscious fear. Yes for him to build his terrible swift Fifth Fleet and proliferate his mighty weapons and leave no child behind. Yes for him so good at leeching I call him The Bleeder.
And forever in the back, they’re having a bit of fun with their rookers in the taxpayer till, the roads and the water and the able-bodied all divvied up, the rest they turn out to the dog fight. They think not many viddy what they’ve done, and those that viddy care not. O my merry band.
What’s it going to be then, eh?
cross-posted from Unbossed
