1. Tuesday, March 18, 2003

    when i was prime minister of denmark 

    i had motherfuckers tossing red paint on my ass all the damn time.

    pissed me off.

    then there were the jokers with the creme pies and the hippies with the spray paint and the fuckers with water balloons, and the ingrates with the silly string.

    but all that shit stopped the first time that i kicked one of those cocksuckers in the nads with my doc martins.

    “you have blood on your hands!” they shrieked.

    and i said, “no it isnt you smelly fuck, it’s paint!” and i slapped them with the back of my hand and they crumpled like a burning spider.

    pathetic. weasly. laying there on the marble floor hands protecting their face like i was going to actually kick them there.

    cover your nuts man! i would tell them. your face? who are you kidding?

    then blam blam blam right in the family jewels and then they sure squirmed.

    one reason nobody is into this war is cuz everyone involved are a bunch of fucking assholes.

    only guy worth his salt is tony blair but because he’s sucking dubya’s cock so hard it’s hard to get behind him. and why is britian so up in arms anyway? gas over there has been over $4/gallon since forever. $4 or $4.50 is pretty much the same thing. especially when we’re complaining when it gets to a whopping $2.19.

    currently there are two sorts of leaders: the incredibly lame wimpy stupid ones like the ruler of the free world, and the agressively tyrannical rapist murderer ones like the Tribune Corp., oops, i mean, like sadaam.

    and theres very little in the middle.

    wasnt Bill Clinton in the middle? why yes, he was. and he was perfect. and we had eight years of peace and prosperity. only troubles this country had during that time was within the beltway and under the hemline. the way it oughtta be.

    meanwhile i was in denmark in the parking garages where the protesters would sometimes meet me. regularilly foiling them in their attempt to let the air out of my tires, i would chase after a few of them and then play a little game called punch the pm in the gut, fucker.

    i would lift my shirt and i’d say hit me you spoiled little babies but then i get to hit you back.

    and they’d punch me and i would wince and then i would roll up my sleeve and every single time it would only take one punch and they were flat on their asses with their piercings jingling and their drealocks flailing and their birkenstocks flying off.

    i’d pick them up off the ground and i would shake their hands and say next time you fucking smartasses want to get my attention email me, write me, or lift up your shirts during a press conference. but this paint on my fucking brooks brothers is totally not cool. cant you see how well this shit fits!

    and then theyd stutter some fucking art school bullshit and look at the ground and maybe puke from the punch and i’d say write it in an email and send it to me and i will think about it and write you back with probably like 50 reasons why you’re wrong about this, your stupid tattoos and probably everything in your record collection.

    kmfdm? you’ve Got to be kidding me.

    and then theyd run home and tell all their friends.

    i slept until two today and i feel like a total god.

    alabama whoorley