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Hitch a Ride on the Thatcher Fame Train |
Whilst the fake tears of irrelevant elite scum fall for the cameras at the public pisstake that is Baroness Margaret Hilda Thatcher's funeral, we at Jap'a Eye decided enough is enough...We need our star to fire higher in the sky, and to do so we need to use the lame Tory spectacle of Thatcher's death to do so. So we went to the streets and interviewed several people who claimed to know the real Maggie the Maggot Thatcher.
The first person we interviewed was a self-proclaimed Thatcherite, Lord Obese Stupid Peasant-Beater. Although Peasant-Beater has bluer blood than the most inbred royal fuckwit, he also has claimed to bear witness to an astonishing fact: when Thatcher finally died a green fog billowed from her corporeal body and the place where the heart should be was actually a vortex leading to a special Tory black hole.
'Well, I was there with several of my brethren and we were holding our usual ceremonial sex rituals with the dead corpses of friends, acquaintances, strangers and family members. On this occasion we were trying to resurrect the ghostly apparition of our fix-it man Jimmy Savile. My honourable gentleman Lord BBC Child-Killer, brought along the holy and only pair of underpants that belonged to Jimmy Savile.'
'As Thatcher had spent many a Christmas dinner with Savile, it seemed only appropriate that the two could be united in vile death.'
'Instead what we exhumed was the corpse of Tory politics. It was a pretty grisly affair betwixt as it was with decaying body parts from former Tory ministers such as Edward Heath, Winston Churchill, Lord North, Spencer Perceval and other semi-dead coenobites hidden in the dark cloisters in the soulless land of Toryism.'
'This corpse is now negotiating an arms deal with Lockheed Martin to mercilessly destroy the entire North Korean population and I for one wish it all the Bally best!'
The next person we interviewed was a self-proclaimed honest working class moron called Barry Barking who comes from Barking and spends most of his time barking with dogs down the race tracks at Barking.
'Yep, loved that fucking kunt I did y'know, cos y'know she was a right fucking kunt in charge. Ya always knew where ya stood with 'er, normally in the gutter or in a big pile of shit, but ya always knew where ya stood with 'er, normally on the edge of a deep crevice or with ya cock in a guillotine but ya always knew where ya stood with 'er, y'know always knew. Y'know, ya just knew, y'know...'
After several minutes of repetition, waffle, and 'y'knows' our great English working man Barry Barking fell onto all fours and starting imitating the behaviour of an ailing bulldog that was puffing its way through the street. At this point we had to terminate the mterview as we do not understand the howling and the barkings of a man-dog.
Next on our interview trail was Majorie Constipation, a lady with an unfortunate name and an even more unfortunate medical condition that has ruined her life, the medical condition known as: being middle class in Britain. It is such a travesty that the ruling elite allow such horrific ailments to go unchecked when surely the most humane antidote would be some form of compulsory euthanasia.
Alas, we continued the interview with such heavy thoughts in our hearts:
'Well Baroness Thatcher was a marvellous lady, a real lady with a sure sense of propriety. I voted her at every election because I adored her conservative fashion sense. I own several Launer London hand bags to conceal my block of stone that I carry around with me at all times. My starched pussy bow is de rigeur with both myself, my children and my grandchildren, due to its supreme artificial snootiness that it exudes.'
'Although my sex life died on my wedding night my main pleasures extended into my dotage from just watching Baroness Thatcher peering out at me from the Daily Telegraph very day in the 1980s. Whether I was at home baking cakes for my alcoholic husband or starching my legs to be even straighter Baroness Thatcher's image was forever embedded in my ever shrinking mind.'
After several hours of hearing from Marjorie Constipation our journalist committed suicide by slitting their own throat with a piece of soft cheese made from the udders of Ms Constipation. It was a very slow and very painful death but completely unavoidable.
We spent days and days trying to find more people with good things to say about our heroine Thatcher but unfortunately they were either completely insane or mentally deficient (current members of the Tory party), or so completely slimy that they slithered into a puddle of vapid patriotic sludge (current and past members of all political parties) or they were too intent on selling themselves on the back of canonising the Thatcher (Geri Halliwell, John Lydon etc).
Alas, we had to content ourselves with this final missive from an illiterate borderline simpleton peasant who claims to have worked as a footslave on the Thatcher estate in Grantham. He was merely referred to as Jack from Grantham:
'She be deedle dum a rum pe pum pum. Her dad be a right rummun and he did like put his naked carrot up some young girls hairy bum. He did be right sexualist like be shove his hand up young girl skirt and done touch her naughty bit in front. And he like do something naughty with all young girl in town in his grocers shoppe and like did like beat me hard with stick and stone and use my mouth as wheelbarrow. I done ate maggot marrow and chow down lots of specks of dirt...'
Again as seems befitting of a national treasure the dull and dreary anecdotes abound from all walks of life. I just hope we weren't too late to jump on the bandwagon of using the Thatcher to re-launch our career.
By Narcissus Shameless-Opportunist
