obama

“Mon pays ce n’est pas un pays, c’est l’hiver …” {Holiday Special, Part I:- I’m Dreaming of a Whitey Christmas}

xmas tree2Very merry happy holidays. It’s the fag-end of

2017, the annus horribilis that saw me narrowly escaping eviction from my home;

Brought my first, and, I guarantee, my last, summons in the name of Her Majesty The Queen to Estreat Court (a special royal garden party, but without the fruity hats and crustless sandwiches, for those who’ve put up bail for their loser friends—only to have the loser friends break their conditions of bail, leaving them at large, and us, their hapless gaolers, in the Superior Court of Justice, undergoing public humiliation for our idiocy in believing that anything would change, ever);

And, naturally, or my name ain’t Murgatroyd McGraw, continued my death-by-roommate via a graduating class of seven new specimens so feckless, so untruthful, so institutionalized in their freaky, senseless behavior and coddled pre-teen expectations, that it’s either a case of

a.  I have the world’s worst bad judgement, or

b.  I’m the problem and should probably move out.

(It wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve thought: maybe it’s ME. Or, as expressed by the last roommate, who—having been taken on in order to help me pay the rent on time, never paid the rent on time, then absconded on November 3rd having paid no rent—texted me and said:

“Stop blaming everyone else for your problems”.

You know, and can I just say, seriously.  I’m NOT blaming him or anyone for my problems, which are as the stars in the heavens, so numberless they be. I AM blaming him for HIS problem, which is not paying the rent on time.

Yes, no?)

Two thousand seventeen was the year of a whole new cast of fairy-tale characters, Germanic as genocide and grimmer than Grimm: der Führer des neuen amerikanischen Reiches, Herr TRUMPF and his gnädige Frau Melania; and, as the corresponding Shakespearean low-comedy couple, though it’s hard to see how much lower you could get: Wicked Killary, who eats dead babies for tea in her root cellar, naked, seated on a pile of moist, yellowing e-mails; and Obama Satanica, black as coals at midnight, who fucks the babies to death for her with his scaly, forked devil-dick.

I ask you. Could anything be more plausible?  Now, eat your spinach or they’re coming to get you.

It was the year when Truth raised its fuzzy little newborn head, took one look at the orange glow emanating from the Oval Office and died in its cot, and when the real news was more unreal than the fake; a year when child molestors ran cheerfully for office while every third male in the civilized world was unmasked as nothing more than a small, unruly penis dragging along an eight-armed sociopath; and the year, though it feels so very much longer, when Bernie Sanders flailed his arms a lot and blamed everyone else for his problems.

(Hint to Bernie:  It’s your fucking dandruff, you deal with it.)

Meanwhile it’s cold as fuddle-duddle in Toronto, North Korea keeps saying “war”, with the same unnerving conviction as a two-year-old calling everyone “dada”, and it’s our first white Christmas in a few years.

For the White House, it’s the first Whitey Christmas in a while, too; because, hallelujah, Trump has reinstated Christmas, snatched the twenty-fifth December—originally, I believe, a pagan solstice celebration—from the dark, heathen hands of Hussein and “Mike”.allanGardensSnow

Infidels!

Don’t bother to point out that the Obamas had a Christmas tree, offered Christmas good wishes and Christmas prayers and all the Christmas trimmings every year for eight years, with no interruption.  The Facebook commenters are adamant:  “It’s so good to see a Christmas tree in the White House again!”

Every fucking one of them.  It is astonishing, and not a little frightening, to see a bunch of people so convinced against all evidence to the contrary—real, tangible, watch it, listen to it, touch it evidence, on video, on the net, in print—of a complete lie.

Even, presumably, the guy who gushed:  “It’s so wonderful to see the Negativity Scene [sic] in our nation’s capital again!”

You couldn’t make shit like that up.

~

White Christmas.  Genuine, ankle-to-knee-deep snow,

howling Wuthering Heights wind at night, at sunrise snow-silence and at the horizon a veil of pink and blue.

People don’t like snow any more, because it’s inconvenient, it requires work, it slows you down.  They don’t get snow:  snow on pine trees, snowmen, snow angels, packin’ snow for Roberston Davies’ snowball fights; and fluffy, fresh snow like icy down, each flake, yes it’s true, every single billionth one a different, perfect crystal.

They don’t get winter: Have they never heard tree branches glazed with thick transparent ice creaking like tall ships in the wind, never squinted in pain from the diamond ferocity of light reflecting off a kajillion flakes piled high as a nine-year-old, never tried to open the front door in the morning to find snow has drifted two-thirds of the way up and felt that anarchic, school’s-cancelled joy?

People die in the snow.  That’s also true.

As a child, you awaken one morning, maybe in November, to ethereal silence and silvery light: snow, you think, with a little thrill, and you rush to the window to confirm your prediction, see the cherry tree by moonlight cast indigo shadows on steel-blue drifts. It takes an hour to get dressed for school, in the semi-dark, and your mother makes porridge—oatmeal or Red River or Cream of Wheat—and you walk to school like a plump little Michelin man, you walk to school by yourself, and at lunch time you come home and have Campbell’s tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.

They don’t get winter, any more than they get that you don’t eat turkey at Easter or asparagus in December, or that you don’t need “rapid oatmeal” made in the microwave which takes the same time as cooking it on the stove, but less attention and care;

They don’t get that you don’t respond to an invitation to dinner with, “I don’t know, what are you making?” (It’s not about “dinner”, lughead, and I’m not McDonald’s; it’s about spending time with each other, but the concept of “other” doesn’t register with you, and your mind immediately goes to: “what’s in this for me?”);

They don’t get that you don’t respond to “Thank you” with the rejoinder “no praaaahblem!”

My long-suffering friends reading this can go powder their noses, but if you’ve just arrived: Can I tell you my praaaahblem with “no praaaaahblem“?

I say to you, “Thank you.” I’ve offered something to you: acknowledgement that you’ve made an effort, perhaps even a small sacrifice, for my comfort.  Graciousness.

You say to me, “You’re welcome.”  You’ve offered something back to me:  “What I did was not a burden, it was a pleasure.”  Graciousness back, “you” and “you”.  A circle of grace, each person focused on the other.

But say to me, “No praaaaahblem!!” and the circle does not complete.  “It was no problem [for ME”].  It was not a problem, to do what I did.  So you got lucky this time.  But what I did has nothing to do with you.  Maybe someday – it will be a problem, so watch yourself, Murgatroyd.”

~

The primary Canadian personality trait is fortitude.

We don’t expect leadership by default, universal deference, or prizes for the biggest, tallest, best.  We don’t expect the world to jump at our command or dance to our tune.

We expect to survive.

The oldest of us, which would include me these days, know that the rhythms of nature are tsunamis that, indifferent to our preposterous schedules and self-importance, erase human certainty.

With one good blast of snow, one nostril-searing sniff of icy air, one three-hour traffic jam, cancelled flight or broken ankle, you are permanently relieved of

the touching belief that everything is about you.

~

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In which the author, exhausted by maintaining his consistently superhuman level of blogging excellence, fobs you off with a “Twitchie”; +PLUS+ Dave be like “Click the button!”

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First signs of President Trump Stress Disorder:  “The Twitchies”.

You may be wondering.

I’ve been lying in my bathtub since, you know—“the election”—my chin wobbling like my mother’s infamous tomato aspic from the effort of holding back my wild, existential cry of “What The Fuck, dude!?“.

For a little variety I count the missing chunks in the tile grouting,  while I figure out what necessities I’ll take to the special Alaskan holiday camp for homosexuals when Pence sends the order.

So far I’ve come up with:

two pink toothbrushes (one of them manual in case it’s hard to find batteries);

flap-in-the-back longjohns pinned to “open”;

Canada Goose parka, whose astronomical cost will force me to obtain an undercover coatcheck job at The Black Eagle and nab one while its naked owner is firmly strapped to the St. Andrew’s Cross;

the fluorescent stuff your manservant puts on your nose in Gstaad before you frappez la piste;

my own bag of rocks (in case the ones they provide for hacking with a pickaxe “aren’t doing it for me”); and

DVD Special Extras Editions of “Now, Voyager” and “All About Eve” (which latter title always makes me want to scream, in desperate parody of those rabid christians who oppose equal marriage:  “They made ‘All About EVE’, not ‘All About STEVE’ !!).

So you see, though you may think I’m spending my time lolling like a catamite on black satin sheets, peeling grapes and licking Reddi-Whip off the butt-cracks of random 20-year-old skateboarders, I am, in fact, limp as a Cossack after a hard day’s rape and pillage. All this AND a case of severe,  possibly terminal, President Trump Stress Disorder.

PTSD is a parlous state manifesting as reflexive mouse-clicking while asleep, nicotine overdose and an attention span stretched so wafer-thin that I’ve had to several times during my breakfast revisit the instructions on the Kellog’s Frosted Flakes box (for some reason I keep bungling Step 6: “Enjoy!”).

This lifetime-benefits-worthy level of election-induced disability is completely related to my self-imposed burden of riffing on the greatest show on earth, the recent coronation of Citizen Don. Even more than Obama, he proved that, in America, anyone—and believe me when I say, anyone—can make their American Dreams come hideously true.

But The Donald, with his secret, award-winning recipe of a thin coating of élite enclosing a filled-with-nuts Trump-lump of pure white trash, topped that heap without any of that fancy book-larnin’ and puttin’ on airs, don’t ya know;  and, it should by now go without saying, definitely without flaunting any unpatriotic skin tones.

Real ‘Murcans, as it turns out, like a bit of authenticity with their despots.  Not grace under pressure, but pressure sans grace, sans eyes, sans teeth, sans everything. President O, are you taking notes?  Really, some of my best friends are Hahvad grads, but did you hafta be so goldarned – well, <whisper> BLACK about it? Property values, dude, property values!

And dull!?  OMFG!! The country that invented serial killing then brainstormed it into production-line hamburger franchises was hardly in the mood for Percy Faith and his hundred and one strings; this high-minded mellow; this,“let’s take it slow, ACA, baby, and if I said you have a beautiful body politic would you hold it against me?”  No tantrums, no marital problems, no scandals —

Basically, Barry:  Who the fuck do you think you are?

You have patience alright, my fine dusky-feathered friend, patience in spades; and I’m very sorry about the crude pun, but hey. Come February, 2017, you could probably find a job watching glaciers melt.

I hear there’s positions opening up as we speak.

~

Moving right along, allow me to throw off this lead apron of despair that god-the-invisible-dentist has fastened around my neck as casually as Luigi at the Spaghetti Factory used to fasten the red and white bib so you shouldn’t get sauce on your tie.   And while I’m lightening the tone,  may I say, to the accompaniment of the little smooching noises I make into my webcam,  I’m just LOVIN’ ME some new header (see above. Where did you think the header was? Are you a Luddite? I mean, seriously, dude).

I’ll be honest—and you may want to sit down for this bit after getting your impressionable youngsters out of earshot—it’s a “me” thing.  Ya know??!   I like it because it’s created by me, which makes it a macaroni pic par excellence, and I like it because it’s all portraits of me at various points in my life, including the day I invented “male camel toe”, when I was five.

Oh yeah, baby.  I had ambition back then.

I like my header because Hillary’s in it, gallivanting in rainbow pantsuits across my gaunt, vicarious election-losertard face. How many millions of people can say that?

Exactly!

Do I come across as shallow?

Please, please don’t despair. Just because I’m my own schizoid fan club, including the mousey, horn-rimmed secretary, a phone-it-in role for Patricia Hitchcock, AND the sultry, wisecracking, torpedo-breasted head of the social committee, a turn that simply begs for the ministrations of Lauren Bacall – that doesn’t mean I don’t, you know. TOTALLY CRAVE your clicking my “Like” button.  

No, you can’t go to Breitbart just yet, honey. Settle down, OK?

Don’t think for one second that your opinion doesn’t matter, because, dudes, since you asked, and I’m only going to say this once:

« I’m the neediest friggin’ cocksucker from here to Des Moines. »

No question.  I’m so fucking needy, it’s insane.  I’m like the baby bird in the nest, cheep cheep!  opening my naked maw for the slimy, wiggling worms of your validation;  I’m your golden lab puppy whining for food and water, yapping its promise of total, abject love from the cold basement room;

I’m Richard Burton tied to the bedpost while Liz sits at her dressing table, removes her bra, puts scarlet lipstick on her nipples:-

That’s how much your opinion matters to me; in fact, this may be the ONE TIME today, in your life even, when your opinion matters so much to someone.  Or at all!

Think about that, my collective Virginia. Think about that really hard. But only for a short period of time, because the implications – well.

It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?  Unless you make sure you think with extreme, concentrated effort, and keep it, like, under twenty or maybe thirty seconds, tops. That could work.

Alrighty?  So, just to make absolutely nail-it-to-the-floor certain we’re all on the same page, my final instructions are:  Think REALLY hard for a SHORT time about your opinion mattering.  To me. OK?  Let’s see how well you get on.

Frankly, with most of you we’re happy if we can hold a mirror to your lips and see some fogging, so the bar is, I admit, extremely low. But I’m reasonably confident about the “Like” button thing being within your grasp. At least for some of you.

OK.

I feel, and don’t ask me how, that at this point one or two of the more-or-less uncoachable ones amongst you may be wondering:  Is David being bossy ? Is David, like, a bossy person?

PUH-LLLLEASE!  Let me set the record straight once again.  Since you asked.

I am not bossy.  I am goal-oriented.  Like, MY goals for YOU.  OK?

Now, CLICK, dammit.

CLICK!!??!!

-£-

!!! SHOCKING EXCLUSIVE: Hillary and Obama responsible for absolutely everything! Yes, THAT everything! Unbelievable!!?

I’ve been lax in my coverage of the

greatest, raunchiest, smelliest, most-filled-with-animals, free-because-they-haven’t-figured-out-a-way-to-charge-for-it-yet three-ring circus, the Amurcan elections.  I admit it.

But that is about to change, with these exclusive scoops of bullshit-flavored frozen petroleum-based dessert-truthiness from SlowPainful’s tireless, probe-’em-till-it-hurts AND born-again freelance reporter, Glossolalia-Jeezus “Real” McCoy—who today is making her lesbian-journalistic debut with slowpainful!  Let’s hear a nice round of applause for Glossolalia-Jeezus!

Hello?

Did I ever mention, and were you in attendance for,  the bit about never, never forgetting how good I am to you?  Like not even for one second, that measurement assuming that we stay within the current Newtonian  paradigm?   Did I?  Hmmmm?

And now, without further ado, our…

EXCLUSIVE:
LAST-MINUTE ELECTION SHOCKER!!

With reporting by born-again journalist-on-the-go and erstwhile lesbianic messiah, Glossolalia-Jeezus “Real” McCoy.

satanicplanecrash

HITLERY CLONE HORROR AND HUSSEIN IN FLAMES:  Near-tragic forced landing of the TERRORIST firebombed American Airlines aircraft at O’Hare, with unbelievable laughter from the Hitlery lesbo clones. TOP RIGHT:  the Satanic face of you-know-who in the clouds! This is so unbelievable than anything else ever seen!  Or since!

CHICAGO:-   A terrified, yet still-confused, yet ultimately still-confident,  yet mostly still-obese, but when push comes to shove, ultimately, terrified, America is reeling after our publication of this Photoshopped image, exclusive to Slowpainful.com, of cloned Muslim terrorist Hitlerrat Clitsnot and her Kenyan lackey Barfass Obumbanga, depicted here at Chicago O’Hare just after their horrendous fabricated firebombing of an American Airlines jet.

How do people like this eat their in-flight dinners with a clean conscience???!!  Or sleep at night?????!!!

As per typical, the Serial Killery clones are dressed in communist pantsuits in homosexuality rainbow colours, and are laughing their feminazi heads off, while that un-American NRA-hater and enemy of decent white male unemployed patriots Badatheist Oreomuslim manifests as he always does: in a cloud of black, Satanic smoke positively billowing out of any disaster you could name!!!!!??? 

LATEST ATTEMPTED GOVERNMENT TAKEOVER?  YOU BE THE JUDGE?!!

FACT:  Dozens of  Killery clones are coming!  THEY ARE BEING SEEDED AMONG US disguised as cheery lesbian day-care workers, auto mechanics and dog walkers! Anywhere that a pantsuit can pass unremarked upon!

IT GET’S BETTER!  OR WOR’SE!  Look closely at the Hitlery’s seen on top of that aircraft!

FACT: THE ONE ON THE RIGHT IS ACTUALLY NOT HER CLONE!

The FBI has hinted to me that this mysterious Islamotard-clothed person is one of soon-to-be-on-death-row President Barfly O’Bambivegan‘s hundred-thousand Satanist pedophile day care workers!

FACT:  Those libtards told you they had a literacy program, but it was a front! Unbelievable!!

THOSE FILTHY SATANISTS JUST SCRAMBLED THE PROGRAM NAME!! 

And you won’t believe your ears when I rearrange the words to crack the code and reveal IT’S TRUE, PEDO IDENTITY:

NO CHILD’S BEHIND LEFT!!

Americans, have you HAD ENOUGH yet?

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Literacy program my ass!!

Enuff of these female body parts and un-patriotic skin colors??

These are not just Traitor’s and Libtard’s who should be locked up!

NO IT GET’S WOR’SE!!  OR BETTER!!?

Exclusive intelligence has been uncovered by us that Shillery and Barflack Obirthcertificateislam are

RESPONSIBLE FOR EVERYTHING!!
Yes, my friends, “THAT” everything!

You know, the everything that’s every last fuckin’ thing from the Garden of Eden to now!

That’s six thousand years, guys, and I know, it’s hard for Jesus to get my poor sinner’s brain around that mind-boggling amount of socialist shenaniganizing!

BUT IT’S JUST SO ABSOLUTELY CROSS OF CALVARY ON MY HEART TRUE!

UNBELIEVABLE!!
HOW DO THEY SLEEP WITH THEMSELVES AT NIGHT??!!

FACT:  That snivelling fasci-fem Histamine Crinklecutpotatochipmussoliniton is giving the planet a headache!  In more ways than one!

Seems there’s a PING sound emanating from the normal hum of the arctic, like this:

HmmmmPING!hmmmmmmmPING!hmmmmm! HmmmmPING!hmmmmmmmPING!hmmmmm!

Sounds just like her, don’t it?  Yep, sounds like friggin’ socialist hippy Yogatards everywhere.

And it’s not even very catchy!!
WHAT A LOSER-TARD!

Now get this, that socialist north of the border radio program the CBC – oh GAG ME! =  Communist Bunch Of Crapslingers!  LMAO !!  – has suggested that this is related to oil fracking!

Fuckin retard’s!

FACT:  Fracking produces as much as one whole quart of oil per month, plenty to do your freedom fries in as far as I can reckon.

FACT: The Prairie Stinkwort, the state flower of Minneapolis, NEEDs fracking water to thrive, you scumbag flowertards!

FACT:  Hellbully has been seen many, many times heading north on one of those Feminazi motor scooters!

YOU CAN’T FOOL US, Hellarhoid! We can put two and two together!!

HOW DO YOU SLEEP WITH YOUR DINNER AT NIGHT????!!!

FACT:  Hippietard hired a triangle player from the New York Philharmonic and paid him $500,000 out of YOUR hard-earned taxes, just to hang out in a Russian submarine and make that PING! sound once every couple hours!!

Now there’s a fine use of your stolen money!!  Howdya like your Communism now, libtards!??

That’s right, a Russian sub at the North Pole, with sex-starved and perverted Russian sailors so if her good friend Vladimir is anything to go by she’s not only a commie she’s a SHAMELESS TERROR SLUT AS WELL!

FACT:   Speaking on condition of anonymity, we have evidence of an ongoing secret initiative for brainwashing citizens with electroshock therapy delivered through NPR broadcasts that makes them vote for foreigners, like our former Saudi Arabian dictator, Kenyan Bareass Oreobumslam!!

But wor’st:   They also suck the real American right out of his skin, then fill him up with French or black or chinese people, OR – you guessed it!  More people like HighOnDrugs Clapscrewed!

HOW DO THESE FEMI-NAZI-TARD’S EAT THEIR SLEEP WITH EACH OTHER??  AT DINNER NIGHTS!!??

FACT:  Your washing machine broke down on the same day your mom died. COINCIDENCE???  Tell THAT to your typical layabout welfaretard or some Obamacare freeloader on a death panel!??

FACT:  You’ve been suffering from psoriasis AND fungal infections in your toenails, not to mention your toy poodle has been crapping on the carpet again and last week he bit your cousin while she tried to turn your son into a homo!  Already he likes wearing dresses what’ll happen when he’s two????!!!

FACT:  Homos can now get married in some states, of which I am heartedly ashamed, BUT I TELL YA VERILY THEY WILL NEVER GET MARRIED IN THE STATE OF GRACE, AMEN, cause marriage is between ONE man and at least ONE frail, weak woman.  WOMAN, NOT HARLOT!!

God will smite you into dust, Harlotry Callgirlwhoreton!!?

FACT: The world used to be flat, when Jeezus was still walking amongst us with his band of Merry Men!  Yessir, His name was just like mine!  Now, its going all round and such, like when you inflate that exercise ball and who the hell knows what’ll happen next, thanks to you, HorribleJewKillery Christabortionton!?? 

Maybe it’ll go square and those new deck chairs from Wayfair are gonna fall right off inta hell!  You killed my Christ you Hillretardtheist!!!!!

obama-bestialityFACT:  Check out this picture on the left!  I know!! UNBELIEVEABLE!!!???  Barbarian Oscumsuckertard legalized Bestiality in the Military!  It’s right on Facebook!

So now you got your Dobermans getting shtupped by the colonels, Great Danes by the generals, and so forth, right down to Chihuahuas for the new recruits, which I guess makes sense cause they’re smaller and otherwise how would those poor little privates, what’s the word, “artificially insensitate” them?  That’s what I reckon and it sure is a sad, sad day for our boys!!

And you know what el’se?  You better believe they’re gonna take away our wives and give all of US dogs too, once the homos finish their agenda!

That’s right!!  Thanks for making everyone homo, Hillfucktard Clitlicker!

If that’s not ENUFF PROOF FOR YOU:  

WORLD WAR II, the Depression, the Titanic, the Plague, 9/11, solar flares, that chick who broke your ribs last Black Friday, North Korea, Charles Manson, that lump that just isn’t going away, the Killing Fields, AIDS, your two miscarriages, the fake moon landing, the Kennedy assassination, the moment you still regret when you told your kids to go jump in the lake and the retarded dumbass fuckers went ahead ‘n did it?

IT’S ALL FUCKIN HILLARY!!!

Please please please stop this woman
!!!!Stop her!!!!!!
Until something else unexplained goes wrong!!

EXECUTIONS PLANNED FOR
HURLONMY CUNTLINT
AND
BRAWACKER OBUMANALHOMO!!

GET YER GLOCKS AND UR COCKS REDDY AMURRICA !

ITS GONNA BE A WONDIRFUL, GOD-LUVIN’ JESUS-FUCKIN DAY!!!!!!!

HALLA

LUYA

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