A compilation of short pieces that have little or nothing to do with me. Should be good to go by early January 2014.
For your consideration, here’s a bit of what you’ll get”:
Somewhere in horsie heaven a filly whinnies “NOOOO!” (2010)
Divide and conquer is the oldest trick in the political playbook and there is no surer way to divide the working class in troubled times than a royal wedding. Thus it was announced yesterday that Prince Wills will finally marry Waitey Katey next spring.
The timing couldn’t be better for the evil genius David Cameron, who arranged the marriage. Just when the government’s draconian spending cuts will first be felt intensely, the UK’s chattering classes will be treated to a fairytale wedding to ease the pain of eviction notices and Soviet length queues and Old Mother Hubbard cupboards at the food banks.
Wills has, at long last, come to understand the role of the Royal family and accepted his responsibility to divert the attention of the filthy rabble while the aristocracy embark on another loot and pillage foreclosure campaign.
Prime Minister Cameron had to do a lot of talking to convince the Windsors to abandon the tradition of not allowing commoners to marry into the Royal family. Diluted royal bloodlines are anathema to the reptilian code, after all. “Look, if I can tell them that my baby sleeps in a cardboard box, you can bloody well let the boy marry the Middleton wench,” Cameron told an exasperated Queen. “Or, would you prefer to get up on your hind legs and shout, ‘Let them eat cake!’ from the top of Buckingham Palace when they start rolling guillotines up to the gates? Did you not notice that student mob that ran wild through the streets last week, you doddering old fool?”
The cornered Queen hissed, “Oh, that bastard Cromwell! Damn him all to bloody Hell,” before storming out of 10 Downing and retreating to the palace to swill several pints of virgin blood.
Wills was, to say the least, none too happy when the Queen broke the news. “You killed my mother, you old sea hag,” he screamed before storming out of the palace to knock back a dozen pints of very bitter with his mate Guy Pelly.
The scenes were, no doubt, reminiscent of those that unfolded the last time a Machiavellian leader waltzed in 10 Downing with austerity on the Prime Ministerial mind. In 1981, as the seething underclasses began to riot in the streets against Maggie Thatcher’s savage economic reforms, the fun was interrupted by the marriage of Prince Big Ears and Lady Die. The tea sipping blue hairs of the nation brought the revolution to a full stop by commanding their revolting offspring to, “Show some bloody respect.” The no future generation obeyed their mums by ceasing and desisting the carnage.
When the fun started up again the following year, the Iron Lady paid sheep shaggers on the Falkland Islands to stand on the shores and taunt their Argie Bargie neighbours Monty Python style. Argie Bargie’s tin pot dictator, Generalissimo Leopoldo Galtieri, himself plagued by an unruly peasantry, took the bait and it was on. Once again, Britain’s revolting proles were divided and subdued (they had, of course, been conquered long ago).
However, just as that last fairytale marriage was doomed from the start, so too is this one and for the same reason. Like his alleged father, Wills is being forced to marry someone other than his true love.
It is, perhaps, the worst guarded Royal secret ever that Wills has had a bit of a drug problem over the years. In 2006 his mate Pelly was caught smoking a spliff in a club. Mercifully for Wills, Pelly noticed he was being filmed just as he was about to pass the spliff to the young Prince, with whom he was dancing.
The fact that Wills was a crew member aboard the Royal Navy frigate HMS Iron Duke when it intercepted a drug shipment in the West Indies, seizing 40 million pounds worth of cocaine, in 2008 was widely reported. What was not reported was that the daring Prince used his Royal prerogative to help himself to 10 kilos of the haul.
Not wanting to sully his royal paws, but very much wanting to enjoy the spoils of his bold gambit, Wills handed the blow over to Waitey Katey’s uncle Gary Goldsmith for safekeeping. Uncle Goldy was later rumbled in a Fleet Street sting in which he snuffled up lines of coke and blabbed about his niece and her Royal boy toy. The kerfuffle inspired the Washington Post to call commoner Waitey Katey, “A royal pain in the class.”
So bad was Wills’ bad habit that he went well beyond his Royal prerogative by engaging in a truly lurid romance. Equine philandery is not unheard of in this world but a member of the Royal family engaging in such behaviour certainly is. Or was, until right now.
Wills’ coke habit would make Sherlock Holmes look like a Nancy Reagan disciple in comparison. He became so depraved that he fell in love with a filly. No, no, a real filly.
“We are not amused,” was the Queen’s reaction when Wills sought permission to marry the horse. Not to be deterred, the Prince resolved to defy his grandmother and proceed with the nuptials anyway.
While the Royal Marriage Act of 1772 expressly forbids heirs to the throne from marrying Catholics, it says nothing about marrying horses, and Wills was overjoyed to hear a prominent American political figure declare that if a state allows gay marriage it should also allow a man to marry a horse.
Although the UK does not yet allow full marriages for gays, it does allow gays to join together in civil ceremonies. “Good enough for us,” said Wills. Enlisting mate Pelly as his best man and forcing younger brother Harry to perform the ceremony, Wills and his filly were married earlier this year.
The Queen, using her Royal prerogative, quickly annulled the marriage and had the bride sent to the glue factory, while Wills was earning his wings with the RAF. Enraged, Wills climbed into his Tornado GR4, vowed, “Ima kill that old witch, once and for all,” and blasted off into the wild blue yonder in the direction of Buckingham Palace. An entire squadron of jets was scrambled to intercept Wills with orders to, “blow his royal ass out of the sky, if he does not turn around and return to base.”
Since that drama Wills has kicked his cocaine habit and come to his senses. But the young Prince showed his mother’s resolve by issuing demands of his grandmother and her reptilian court.
Understanding that it is his duty to bring the House of Windsor into greater standing with his one day subjects, Wills is determined to be a true populist. Thus he insisted that Elton John and Lady Gaga perform at the wedding. “Oh, I hate that bitch,” the Queen seethed at his demand.
“Which one, mummy?” asked Prince Big Ears.
“Both of them!”
Joining in on the fun, Waitey Katey demanded that all Royal couples join her, her groom, Elton and Gaga in a sing-along of Sonny and Cher’s classic, I got you babe as they exchange vows. That will be immediately followed by stirring renditions of Don’t go breaking my heart and Love will keep us together.
The Queen ceded to the demand but insisted that the young couple will not be transported to St. Paul’s Cathedral by horse-drawn carriage, “just in case….” Waitey Katey sighed in agreement. The House of Windsor has also insisted that Lady Gaga agree to not wear that hideous meat dress of hers, which even Cher said was, “garish and repulsive,” so as not to upstage the bride, who will finally get the boy she has stalked for close to a decade.
Understanding that this marriage will be the gayest thing ever, organizers of London Pride Week have decided to move their festivities up on the calendar to coincide with the wedding.
While lucky invitees are dining on a gluttonous, greasy feast of whale and gorilla meat following the multi million pound ceremony, the rest of you are kindly requested to eat shit and die.
There now, isn’t this going to be fun?
God made those tits (2005)
On Easter Sunday I made a pilgrimage to the monstrous Catholic monument to God known as St. Joseph’s Oratory, just up the hill from my very humble Montreal apartment. It was a beautiful spring day, one of the first after a long winter.
As we were waiting for the pageantry to begin, several dozen of us took in the sun on the steps of the church, which overlooks the west island from on high. Immediately in front of me, not ten feet away, sat two good-looking young couples. The two guys were arguing over the colour of a store awning on rue Cote des Nieges, below us. One of the girls, a ravishing beauty with a bountiful treasure chest that was barely contained in her new spring dress, interrupted, “Will the two of you shut up, please? I didn’t come to the House of God to hear you argue about the colour of an awning!”
The girl’s boyfriend shot her a mean look, laughed and replied, “Oh yeah, but you’ll come to the House of God with a pierced clit and your tits spilling out of your dress!”
I burst out in 110 decibel, maniacal laughter. The embarrassed girl shrieked and stormed into the church, followed by her girlfriend. The other guy turned to his buddy and said, “Yeah but God made those tits,” to which the amused smackdown artist sighed and replied, “God did make those tits!”
Quebec Cops Violate Sanctuary:
Place in Hell Reserved for Them (2004)
It’s been 15 years since Panamanian strongman Manuel Pineapplehead Noriega sought sanctuary in the Vatican Embassy to avoid capture by Mairkan forces. Pineapplehead thumbed his nose at Dubya’s father one too many times and Old Bush sent the troops in to explain that he was in breach of his drug smuggling and money-laundering contract with the CIA.
The Mexican standoff became one of the most bizarre events in a year that saw the Chinese government prove that they really were nothing more than yellow heathens by sending tanks in to crush a student led rebellion in Tiananmen Square, and the fall of the Berlin Wall and Soviet communism in Eastern Europe, which culminated when Romanian dictator Nicolae Ceausescu and his wife, Elena, were dragged into a Bucharest courtyard, Elena pleading, “I was like a mother to you,” and executed, on Christmas Day.
Pineapplehead eventually surrendered to the gringos-loco after the Yanks decided to use their limited smarts instead of their ludicrous military muscle, for a change. Unlike Stalin – who scoffed at the power of the Vatican by derisively asking, “How many divisions does the Pope have?” – Old Bush didn’t want to fuck with Pope JPII by invading the compound and breaking the centuries-old sacred right of sanctuary.
Instead, the Yanks surrounded the compound with brighter-than-the-sun-itself lights and a louder-than-Spinal-Tap pa system. The gringos-loco let the Pope’s boys have it with both barrels – tan-in-20-minutes lights and run-to-the-hills-decibel-level heavy fuckin’ metal 24/7.
Being an old-school metal-head, I was hoping to see Pineapplehead mock his tormentors by doing some wango-tango air guitar, Ted Nugent style, or maybe even doing his own rendition of Van Halen’s Panama, up on the compound wall. Alas, tyrants are rarely endowed with much in the way of imagination or comedic talents. Eventually, the good Fathers inside the Vatican Embassy realized that, with all the lights and news cameras around, they weren’t going to be able to ass-rape any more 8-year-old boys – which was a bit of a shame for them because I’m sure heavy metal is the ultimate music to ass-rape little boys by – so they gave Pineapplehead the bum’s rush.
What’s important here, however, is the fact that the Yanks did not violate sanctuary. Even after a full-on military invasion and takeover of Panama, the Yanks could not bring themselves to trample on the sacred, sacred right of sanctuary. All of which makes it even more heinous that Canadian authorities stormed into a Quebec City church last week and removed and deported an Algerian who had sought sanctuary.
For the record, the Algerian is a guy named Mohammed Cherfi, who has, no doubt, an interesting story. But I’m not going to get into the details of the whole thing because they don’t matter when weighed against the larger issue of violating sanctuary. I don’t give a fuck who seeks sanctuary; there can be no reason for its violation. Period. If the church decides to deny sanctuary, that’s its business but I would not advocate or agitate on behalf of authorities wanting to storm a church, even if King George Puil himself was the one seeking sanctuary.
In so many ways, the world is getting stranger and uglier every day but this is a new low. That the bastards could even contemplate violating sanctuary is the surest sign yet that the Lost Tribes of Israel are gathering with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and a band of Bohemian Grove Bilderbergers in a 7-11 parking lot in Abbotsford and waiting for Darth Vader to bring them their brand-spanking black-on-black New World Order hockey sweaters.
I would like it to be known that My Canada does not include power-crazed Pepsis who take it upon themselves to violate sanctuary. If Quebec is going to continue to insist on handling immigration matters itself and simultaneously claim that it has the right to violate sanctuary, I say it’s time to kick the Pepsi bastards out of Confederation.
As is almost ever the case, the nation’s media missed the boat on this one. Only now, after almost a week, have the slow-witted, far-too-comfortable, middle class editors of Canada’s 4th Estate begun to understand the gravity of this story. The story did get play in Quebec but the English language editors of the country scratched their heads and wondered what all the fuss was about – “C’mon, he’s just another God-damned A-Rab sand-nigger tairist.”
Raid a journalist’s home in Ottawa and the media is all over the fuckers like white on snow. But the fuckin’ hypocrites have to be screamed at for a week before they’ll even question the right of the authorities to violate sanctuary. That’s the sad state of affairs in our post-9/11, every-man-for-himself world.
Maybe, just maybe, this story will find some legs. Or, I should say, the myopic dullards – who sit at the assignment desks and command their armies of third-rate hacks who should, by rights, not be entrusted to write anything more than press releases for over-priced public relations firms -will notice that this one actually does have big, beautiful Catriona Ann Le May Doan legs.
Quebec is the most Catholic of provinces and it’s also home to some of the country’s most radical activists. That’s just the recipe needed to brew up a shit storm on this issue and I hope rabble bring the noise on this one like never before.
As for the wicked, wicked scum who pulled the trigger on the raid, I have only this to say: I really hope there is a Hell because sure as I am Sa Tan, you motherfuckers will burn in it for all eternity for what you’ve done.
Thanks for nothing:
London lawyers seek justice for Roma
who finally escape toxic UN death camps in Kosovo (2010)
Somewhere in London, a team of lawyers, who, despite all the evidence to the contrary, still believe in justice for all, stare at the ceiling, searching for a chink in a dragon’s armour.
A thousand miles away in Serbia an heroic 69 year-old American expat, parts Ernest Hemmingway, Rocky Marciano and the best bits of Don Quixote, lies awake at night stoically cursing the madness of the world, grinding out reams of poetry and prose and lucidly dreaming of a victorious end to an 11-year battle he never wanted.
To the American’s south, in deeply troubled northern Kosovo, a band of Gypsies, 500— 600 strong (500 – 600 weak, actually), sit atop a mountain of toxic waste, drawing more lead into their blood than has ever before been recorded, slowly dying.
Just a little further south, in Kosovo’s capital city, Pristina, an Italian diplomat, entrusted by the United Nations to keep the peace in the Balkan powder keg, sleeps, perhaps peacefully, safely ensconced in his dragon’s armour, impervious to the darts of legal pygmies, the words of heroic dreamers, and the tears of the world’s most despised race.
WHEN NATO warlords began to plot the liberation of Kosovo from its Serb oppressors in 1999, even a Neanderthal like Ozzy Osbourne could have told you that the generals gathered in their masses, just like witches at black masses, were not contemplating the fate of the Roma. But the ethnic-Albanian Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA), beneficiaries of NATO’s military largesse, certainly did have the Roma on their minds.
One week after NATO’s 78-day bombing campaign came to an end, members of the KLA told 8000 Roma living in Mitrovica that Kosovo was for Albanians only. The Roma had heard it before. Over the thousand years since they left India, Romas have been told to get the fuck out of wherever they’ve plopped themselves down to sit a spell.
Before, during and after the war, most of Kosovo’s 100,000 + Roma fled to refugee camps in neighbouring Montenegro and Serbia, but 100 or so families remained in Kosovo. The UN assumed control of the still-to-this-day nascent state and appointed Bernard Kouchner (Doctors Without Borders founder and current French Foreign Minister) head of the UN Mission in Kosovo (UNMIK).
French NATO soldiers stood by and watched as the KLA forced the remaining Roma out of their homes. The expat American hero of this tale, representing the UN High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), found the Roma filthy and starving. Kouchner deposited them into camps built on millions of tons of toxic tailings from lead and zinc mines. The apparently-not-so-good-after-all Dr. Kouchner toured the camps in September 1999 with British MEP Baroness Emma Nicholson and assured her the Roma would be moved within 45 days.
In 2000, the World Health Organization (WHO), an arm of the UN, called for the camps to be evacuated immediately. Paul Polansky, our American hero, explains Kouchner’s reaction, “He said that, as a medical doctor, he understood the danger of lead poisoning. He promised to take appropriate measures.” Kouchner’s idea of appropriate measures was to build a jogging track between the camps. “He called it, ‘The Alley of Health,’” Polansky laughs, bitterly. UNMIK also built a football pitch and basketball court, both situated right next to the toxic slag heaps, and encouraged the Roma, especially the children, to exercise vigorously. “Exercise opens the lungs, allowing more poisons in the air to enter the body,” says Polansky, shaking his head. Kouchner was acting on the advice of UNMIK’s head physician, a man commonly referred to by those who have worked to help the Roma as “Dr. Mengele.”
Dr. Rohko Kim, a Harvard-educated, world-renowned expert on toxic poisoning, was sent by WHO to inspect the camps. In a follow-up interview with Polansky, Kim echoed the “Dr. Mengele” sentiment, saying, “People who lived on these toxic wastelands were sacrificed for human studies.”
To date, 11 children under the age of ten have died in the camps. Polansky tells a sickening story: “Lead poisoning means a hideous and painful death for children. Four-year-old Jenita Mehmeti was attending the camp kindergarten when her teacher noticed she was losing her memory and finding it hard to walk. Jenita was sent back to her barracks, where for the next three months she vomited several times a day, before becoming paralyzed and dying. When her two-year -old sister came down with the same symptoms, ‘Dr. Mengele’ refused to treat her, saying she was in a UN camp one kilometre out of his jurisdiction.” Polansky took the girl to Belgrade and saved her life.
Eleven years after Kouchner placed the Roma in the toxic death camps for 45 days, the Roma are finally being relocated. Too late for the 85 who have died. Perhaps too late for those who have, so far, survived, if they do not get medical treatment, which has not yet been agreed to.
IN what was called a, “transfer of competencies,” UNMIK attempted to wash its hands of the bloody mess by handing responsibility for the camps over to the Kosovar government in spring 2008. By this stage of the deadly game the boys and girls in baby blue berets had, for four years, been ignoring human rights lawyers attempting to claim compensation for the Roma. Each letter to UNMIK was replied to with the words, “We will revert to you in due course.”
During the UN General Assembly’s first session in 1946 the organization declared itself above the law, “The United Nations, its property and assets wherever located and by whomsoever held, shall enjoy immunity from every form of legal process except insofar as in any particular case it has expressly waived its immunity.” No one has ever managed to wrestle the UN into a courtroom anywhere on the planet
That immunity, however, is only extended in UN member states, which Kosovo is not yet. Although Kosovo is still a UN protectorate, the Kosovar government is responsible for the country’s judicial system and could, theoretically, allow cases against the UN to be tried. Such a gambit would be wildly popular, as UNMIK is widely and openly detested in Kosovo. UNMIK would be forced to veto the decision, surely setting off yet another explosion of street protests by Kosovo’s popular self determination movement which seeks to chase UNMIK, and its some day European Union successor EULEX, back from whence they came. The problem with that recipe for political drama is that the Kosovars hate the Roma just as passionately as they hate UNMIK.
AND so the intrepid London lawyers, who passed on an opportunity to discuss their plans with snipe, find themselves faced with the improbable task of getting justice from the UN itself.
In 1998 the UN General Assembly passed resolution A/RES/52/247, which allows for, “third-party claims against the Organization for personal injury, illness or death… resulting from or attributable to the activities of members of peacekeeping operations…”
The post once held by Kouchner is now held by Lamberto Zannier and the Italian has been less than receptive to requests made by lawyers representing the Roma for discussions as to exactly how a claim can proceed under A/RES/52/247. After more than a year of ducking, Zannier has deigned to meet the Roma’s legal representatives in London on November 12.
Birkbeck College law professor Bill Bowring says A/RES/52/247, “should be the gap in immunity that allows cases like this to get through.” Of Zannier’s attempts to avoid the UN’s responsibilities under A/RES/52/247, Bowring says, “They’re hiding. It’s outrageous.”