ONE hates to intervene in potential regime change in another country, but I am troubled by America at this time. Citizens will recall my affection for George W Bush, whose downhome Texas charm won me over. I was never bothered by all that other stuff: wars and so forth.
George is a good man, widely misunderstood – notably by himself – and never meant any harm to anyone. If harm ensued, that was tough. He stood up for the West in the face of loony terrorists and was an inspiration to those of us who value freedom and
whatnot. And when I say "whatnot", I mean excellent television series such as Friends, Smallville and Frasier. Not to mention the Batman film. America gave us those, and we remain in her debt.
I'm also an admirer of smalltown America, and the values associated with it, principally an ignorance of world affairs. As Mrs Sarah Palin, the Republican vice-presidential candidate, is proud to be from smalltown America, you'd expect me to endorse her candidature.
However, ladies and gentleman, I cannot. For I do not like the cut of her jib. George's jib attracted me right away. His impish smile and readiness to laugh at himself endeared instantly and, while I'd little interest in his policies, I thought him the right man to lead the Free World.
But this Palin woman is another can of tuna. Pictures of her crowing over the bloodied body of a moose she'd blootered with a blunderbuss told me she was unevolved and could not be trusted near nuclear buttons and other presidential paraphernalia.
Then there was her daughter, Bristol (the name has no mammarial origin, but commemorates a place on the map that the family found one night when it was too wet to go out and kill anything). I've little inclination towards anthropology and, so, am unable to comment on the various claims that Bristol is actually the grandmother of her father's son, Jebediah (no relation). Sarah Palin herself is said to be the sister of Michael Palin, the amiable BBC traveller, who was unavailable for comment yesterday, due to me not bothering to phone him or anything.
These various claims seem outlandish. However, it's beyond dispute that Bristol was empirically impregnated by her boyfriend, Wrangler, and that he is a ned. Wrangler describes his hobbies as "fishing, shooting some sh*t and just ****** chillin'." He added: "You mess with me and I'll kick your ass." I see. For those of you who need a translation, Wrangler is threatening to kick the bottom of anyone who ruffles his hair or pokes him in the eyelobe. He enjoys angling, shooting poo, and remaining cool (ie not smiling or anything). His bottom-booting, poo-shooting stance is essentially a proactive one, and comes from being a self-styled "redneck", or sunburn-suffering person of Celtic descent prone to murderous rages and irrational opinions.
Wrangler's surname is Johnston, and photographs show a plain fellow with brown hair. His expression is simian. In other words, he is clearly of Scottish descent. I cannot countenance anyone like this coming within a million miles of power in the United States. Scots were born to be ruled, not to rule. You may say: "But La Palin herself isn't Scottish, ken?" I ken that, but she's tainted by this family connection and talks exactly the sort of simple-minded reactionary rubbish that someone of Scottish descent would talk.
In my view, only the Chinese can save us now. For the last 30 years, they've been planning to invade the West. They must bring their plans forward. Invade, my oriental brothers! Impose decency and uniformity on the crazy, gun-totin' Yanks! But don't interfere with their excellent TV series and movies. For that is the unreal America that we love.
Talkin' beanbowl bluesCREDIT crunch news, and financially strapped citizens are turning to baked beans in a bid to stay alive. Experts say beans are full of fibre and protein, and act as comfort food. Some tins of beans also have bits of sausage floating in them, but these are now beyond the pocket of all except an elite, who can also afford fish fingers and – if they work overtime – Spam.
In other crunchy news, carrot farmers are cock-a-hoop at soaring sales for their arguably banal product. Even children are eating them, though only after threats that Santa will hate them if they don't. Yesterday-ish, the controversial British Carrot Growers' Association emerged from the darkness to claim carrots had lost their stigma. However, the claim is premature. Surveys show most people still think carrots are rubbish.
Experts warned citizens not to eat carrots and beans at the same time. One match and the whole country could go up.
Beware Hungarians in tents, they're here for your teeth!TO BE honest, I never envisaged the day that Hungarian dentists would be touring this country, setting up surgeries in tents. At times, I've thought about dentistry. At times, I've thought about tents. At times, I've even thought about Hungarians. But I never dreamed the three would come together in this dramatic development.
At the time of writing, I'm unclear how Scotland's teeth came to the attention of Hungarians. We read about Scotia having the worst teeth in the world, but assume this is the usual rubbish in the press about Scotland being worst for everything. However, perhaps an article appeared in the "Hungarianman", or some such, and this led enterprising dentists in the controversial Mediterranean country to say: "These schmucks sound like they need our help. Helga, pack the tent and my Ikea drill-and-screwdriver set. We're off to England, or wherever it is the Scots live."
Scotland is a mature democracy, respected around the world for running its own affairs responsibly. Now, we're a laughing stock. In the corridors of the United Nations and the European Union, prosperous men in suits whisper: "And they can't even look after their teeth. And their football team always loses. And they smell."
Enough is enough! We can't have Hungarians coming over here, taking all our camping spaces and extracting all our teeth. If you have an MSP, write to him or her, saying you will not have your facial orifices invaded by rampaging Magyars. (Do not include your address, as this might encourage a reply.)
The full article contains 1075 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
