stanislav said...In house of reptile last week is opposition debate on cuntus johnsonitis fatalis

stanislav said...

In house of reptile last week is opposition debate on cuntus johnsonitis fatalis, named after singing postmistress and head of National Death Service, Mrs Johnson. This is epidemic of mildly sick people go in hospital and come out in box dead as fucking mackerel. Thousands of people is already dead, killed by useless private cleaning firm, Germs&Corpse U Like, lazy foreign nurse terrorist, greedy dirty doctor bastard and pension-mad chief executive of hospital. Is most serious health problem in country. Thousands more destined for slow, dirty extermination. Even fucking dogs catch cuntus johnsonitis fatalis from owners. Is worse, much worse than evilest evil ever committed on nine-eleven, is murder on a grand scale and yet, yet……in the debate is hardly no fucker to be seen. Handful of sleeping drunks; mad pizza saleswoman, maybe twenty, out of over six hundred MP, is lying about in chamber, farting. No Lib Dem at all. No Paisleys. No Jock Nazi Party. All must be in restaurant, knocking shop or public toilet with Michael White and Kevin Maguire, proprietors of Gay Toilet Sex Is Us.

Speaker Gorbals Mick is absent probably queuing up outside toilet - because is nobody on Labour benches need protecting from tricky question, his only purpose on Earth.. Health minister “Cocaine Carol” Flint is off doing worthy relief work in streets of Kings Cross and singing postmistress, Alan Johnson, herself, is busy putting finishing touch to new album, Songs from a Mortuary. Department of Extermination is represented only by grey-haired old biddy, used to be dinner lady in Rowley Regis, now, fuck me, minister of state.

Madam Deputy Speaker, says veteran Tory nobody, Is fucking shit, all this, get letter all day long from constituent, father go in local hospital, Madam Deputy Speaker, share fucking bed with two other people, roll around in shit, get some slap from nurse, get no food, starve and then fucking die, Madam Deputy Speaker; yes I will give way to the Honourable drunk opposite…

I thank the honourable gentleman, said Barry Knuckles(New Lab, West Bromwich) and wish to tell House that I get these fucking letters, too, all fucking day long, Madam Deputy Speaker. Fucking constituents pestering fucking life out of me. I mean, Madam Deputy Speaker, what the fuck do they expect me to do about it? Work in fucking warehouse before I came here. Do I look like a fucking doctor? Is very real problem for honourable and right honourable members. Need pay rise, Madam Deputy Speaker, need more staff, need less hours and more holiday, Madam Deputy Speaker. Otherwise attract wrong type of person in House. Put people off voting for me.

I thank the honourable member for his intervention but back, Madam Deputy Speaker, to this old bastard in my constituency….Yes I will give way to the right honourable lady…

I am grateful to the honourable wotsisname and might I just say Madam Deputy Speaker that my pizzas are on sale in the lobby of this house and outside the other place, too, at an introductory price of three for two and they are, if I may say so, like yourself, Madam Deputy Speaker, and myself, hot stuff…

The House rang to shouts of Siddown; Tory Slag; You must be fucking joking and Show us yer tits then, this last from Mr Knuckles of New Labour.

Order, order, the right honourable lady must be heard.

Thank you Madam deputy Speaker and as I was saying to my friend His Holiness Pope Nazi only the other day over lunch in the Vatican, these pizzas of mine really do, Your Holiness, represent outstanding value and maybe you would consider a bulk order for your Paedophile Escape Committee Working Lunches. I know you have a lot of hungry mouths to feed on these occasions and I could get you one fucking Hail Mary of a deal on a lorry load of the five-cheese variety. The Lunch is a-over, fuck off in a-peace, was the Holy Father’s strange response. Got enough-a on-a my gold-a salver with those-a fucking McCann nutters a-coming around here every five minutes with a fucking film crew, saying darling you were lovely but can we do that again, just-a one more take, darling, Capiche ? Shower of a-fucking heathen cunts. Go on, fuck off back to the nutter house before I-a fucking excommunicate you, you-a mad old bitch. Take your fucking pizzas a-with you. This is-a fucking Italy. We don’t-a want-a pizza made in-a fucking Milton Keynes. Anyway, thought-a you was a fucking M-a fucking P, eh ? Not-a fucking fast-a food-a salesgirl. What next-a happen? Is-a whole fucking house of commons go on-a fucking Tesco advert, every fucking little help-a. Fuck-a me, great Catholic, Napoleon, was-a right, is a nation of-a fucking shopkeeper, go-a straight in-a fucking Purgatory or my-a name-a is-a not Joseph Mengele, Butcher of-a fucking Poles, Scourge of-a fucking Jews and-a Protector-a General of-a sacred brotherhood of-a Nonce U Like. These geezers, blessed be the name of the Lord, is as much-a sin against as-a sinning, these kiddies is all tarts, always asking for it. Not fucking grateful. So what if holy man of God fuck up arse of few altar boys in otherwise life of service to one true religion. Issa perk of fucking job. Little bastard get used to have insertion of Holy Ghost Don’t get fucking manse to live in like heretic fucking Presbyterian. Dominus Vobiscum and suffer the little children to-a come unto me. O sole mio, arrivederci Roma, issa Walls-a Cornetto, give-a it to me.

Anyway Madam Deputy Speaker it occurred to me in my lunch with il Papa that prayer might be the solution to this cuntus johnsonitis fatalis business. If only people in hospital were to pray to the Lord God who made them all, only not of course those beardy cunts and carpet munching vicars in the C-of-E, then our hospitals would be much better places. Prayer is the answer, Madam Deputy Speaker; prayer and pizza; a few Our Fathers and a warmish slice of Widdecombe’s Fair Pizza can ease an old person’s unnecessary passing no end. And I commend them both to the House.

Fuck off you mad old bat. Shove yer pizzas up yer arse. Show us yer tits. (hon. Mr Knuckles) Resign.

If I may, for the Government, Madam Deputy Speaker, reassure the House, said the dinner lady from Rowley Regis, the right honourable Madge Atkins, minister of death, that in conjunction with my right honourable friend, the hereditary minister for plagues, Mrs Rosemary Benn, we have carried out reee-surch into this whole matter and rather than bring in the bulldozers and waste public money on culling these patients and having huge funeral pyres darkening the fucking skies and feeding the frenzied, if diminutive literary skills of Mr Toilets Maguire -skies black with the smoke of infected old age pensioners being burned alive, and so on; cull of infected elderly spreads to Northampton, fire pits smoulder for days as government appeals to UN for airdrop of firelighters and lighter fluid, Nazi doctors roasted my sick father alive - we all know what the press would make of such a solution. So instead, members and right honourable members, we have decided to enlist the services of New York demolition expert, Mr Rudolf Fire-In-The-Hole Giuliani, who assures me that he can demolish all the hospitals with the patients still in them: we’ll put explosives in every floor and they’ll all come down sweet as a nut, right in their own footprints. Just be like mincing everybody up. It’s all quite humane, they don’t feel much and its better than the daily beatings and torture from the Sri Lankan nurses. I mean, I wouldn’t shit you, lady, its not nice or anything, but they were all probably going to die at some point, so fuck ‘em. We hoover up all the debris and ship it out to India to be turned into curry powder or whatever the fuck they do with it. And if the relatives complain you just say it was the ragheads did it and then invade Pakistan. It worked for us. That’ll be ten billion dollars, please.

I would further advise members that I spoke, through the door of the Michael White Exclusive Toilet Suite in Downing Street, to my right honourable friend, the prime minister, who, whilst terribly busy, found time to approve this visionary measure in order to deliver on the aspirations and values of the British people. Well, those British people not clogging-up the hospitals, anyway. Doctor Nutter McCann has offered to lend his expertise, too, as he became familiar with barbecue techniques during his recent sabbatical in Portugal. All he needs in return for doing his act is a donation to he and his wife, Myra’s, personal mortgage charity, from every grateful citizen. This, therefore is the government’s solution to the cuntus johnsonitis fatalis epidemic; never mind killing the sick old bastards slowly, by thirst and starvation and beatings and infection, lets just blow them, Madam Deputy Speaker, all to fuck. Rally round the flag, y’all


Hear-hear, hear-hear. Three cheers for Uncle Sam. Peerages all round. The House will rise. ( and go in search of joyful relief from Michael White and Strict David Aaronobitch.)

Stanislav advise only go in hospital with body armour and AK 47. (Most Reverend Bishop Jonathan Spank-Me Aitken can get cheap from friend down Turkish bathhouse)

12:56 PM, November 23, 2007