A cunting please for US political rhetoric.

Political rhetoric is dire in the UK but listening to the US Democratic nominees on the radio this morning, I was reminded just how much worse it is on the other side of the pond.

US political rhetoric has always been full of empty, wholesome apple pie sentiments which mean very little. Abe Lincoln started it, but there was honesty and substance in what he said as he was a great man, unlike the Pygmies that have succeeded him, most of whom have adopted his phraseology but none of his substance.

JFK was a master of the genre but when you analyze his speeches you realise they were empty. The absolute undisputed master of the genre was Barack Obama, whose eloquent, empty, brain dead speeches were a waste of breath. He never said one single thing of substance but made it sound like a cross between Honest Abe and JFK.

Anyone can make up these speeches. The Democratic nominees are now doing them all the time. Here’s one I made earlier –

“My fellow Americans. I was born in a humble log cabin. As a child I had a dream, the American dream of freedom, liberty and prosperity for all under the noble banner of our fathers. We must endeavour to persevere. Vote for me to realise the profound and far sighted vision of our Founding Fathers who conceived this nation in liberty and equality. God bless America, etc, etc, etc……”.

Bollocks.

That’s why the Orange One is so popular. He doesn’t speak like this. He speaks like Trump.

Fuck off.

Nominated by Marvellous Mechanical Cunting Machine

Melania Geymonat her partner are to be nominated despite having an element of sympathy for them.

Earlier this June, these two women were subject to a totally unjustified and appalling violent attack on a bus, when some scumcunts beat them for refusing to kiss on demand. The assailants appear to have been arrested and will be dealt with accordingly:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-48555889

So why on Earth am I cunting the victims here?

It is really, really unfortunate that these two women have taken the opportunity to use this assault to demonise all men via identity politics, and apply the very same judgemental attitude that their assailants no doubt did.

Comments they have made since the assault, speaking to The Telegraph and The Guardian:

“[We] have been out with women [on dates] before, and every single time, I am going to assume they were heterosexual men, interrupted us. We were just doing our thing, existing. And I think there is this entitlement men feel, to women, and especially two women together. They feel like our sexuality is for their entertainment.”

“I do think that, of course, porn plays its own part in contributing, in treating women as objects that are there for the male gaze.”

It is probably fair to say that the overwhelming majority of men would not beat up two women for refusing to ‘perform’. As ever, the entire net has been cast over the ol’ heterosexual male bogeyman to further an agenda. And I am so fucking tired of reading this kind of bollocks from the liberal left.

May I venture to speculate that a fair number of ’heterosexual men’ were there to help you after the attack, including the police, the people who helped give you photo evidence, and the people giving you a platform to speak out against the abuse?

I truly sympathise with the terror of being subjected to that kind of outrageous assault. But I can’t, not even in these dire circumstances, allow such an exhibition of cuntitude to remain unchecked.

Nominated by The Empire Cunts Back

Care in the community…………..
People have problems, I have problems, you have problems too but why make them other peoples.
Mrs B and I have moved to a nice ground floor flat with a garden a lovely neighbour who we will call Mrs fruitbat lives next-door, I know she is lovely because Mrs B told me so, mrs Fruitbat is a very nervous person and this is the first time she feels safe in a community (she like us has just moved in).
Any way in the build up to the move I replaced the end fence on our property to be and Mrs fruitbat asked a few questions, “Does the fence have to be that big”?, No it wont be I replied, its feather edge in 6ft lengths and I will cut it down to 5ft.
Next was the “is my fence big enough? “ I said it should be and she asked about the dogs I explained Greyhound good with people but likes to chase small and furry.
She broke down, ooh I was going to have kittens! I cant have them now, your dog will kill them, what about my grand children? Will they be safe?
Well it seems that after that Mrs Fruitbat decided to complain to the housing association saying we had dangerous dogs and that she can not have her grand kids round in case they are attacked.
The housing association has yet to contact us on this matter, nor I them about her accusing me of knocking on her door for no reason (as kids would say WTF, why would I want your attention)
That my dear is why you have a nervous disposition and believe everyone is against you, because they are, not because you have a “Victim aura” but because you are a stupid fucking attention seeking cow, manipulative bitch and a bit of a cunt to be honest
Any way I feel better now, because Mrs B phoned me up and said this was all my fault “Giving her the wrong idea” as opposed to Mrs Fruitbat and her crusade to convince all she is the victim of society

Nominated by lord benny

To; The Director General
BBCunts
Broadcasting House
Shepherd’s Bush
Londinistan somewhere

Sir;
I was truly amazed to learn that the BBC pays the absolute non-entity that is Gary Linekunt a salary of £1.75m. per annum.
Linekunt is ‘Mr Switch Over’ personified; a jug-eared, boggle-eyed arsehole with all the charm and charisma of a compost bin. How on earth you can possibly justify paying out the equivalent of more than 11,000 licence fees on this bellend is beyond me. Is he part of the Beeb’s ‘old boy’ network, or is it more the case that he brown-noses the libtard remainers that now seem to infest the organisation? Has he got the goods on some very senior executive, or are you just having a larf at the expense of many thousands of the over 75s? I think we should be told.
Oh I see; you’re just paying ‘the market rate’ for talent (‘talent’!!). Well here’s a thought. I’ll do ‘Match of the Day’ with as little screen presence, finesse, style and personality, and I’ll do it for a tenth of the salary.
You can contact me at RKnee@yahoo.co.uk. I’ll be waiting for your e-mail.

Yours

Ronald Knee

Nominated by Ron Knee

The Prostate
It’s a sad fact of life that when you reach my age, the prostate can really start to act the cunt.
It begins fairly insignificantly. You need a jimmy more often than you used to, particularly during the night. Then sometimes you REALLY need to go, but get to the lav and you dribble and drabble and have to return five minutes later. You start to get a bit concerned, especially if you know someone who was similarly placed, and it turned out to be the dreaded Big C.
So off to the doc you trot. After humming and hawing, s/he will decide to do two things. Firstly blood will be taken, to determine whether your ‘psa level’ is abnormal. Secondly, on will go the latex glove, and a finger will be unceremoniously poked up your jaksey for a rummage about. ‘Mmm’ says the doc. ‘Your prostate’s swollen. I’ll refer you for further investigations’. Cosmic.
So it begins. You wait for ages to see the consultant, wondering just what the fuck you’re in for. You finally get an appointment, and the glove goes on again. You’ve just got to man up. ‘Well’, s/he says, peering over their glasses in that consultant type manner. ‘We need to do more tests’. No fucking shit Sherlock.
So you wait again, growing slowly but surely more anxious. Finally you go for an MRI scan, a boring but painless procedure. Not so the subsequent cystoscopy and biopsy. The former involves shoving a tube with a mini camera into your knob to examine the bladder. The latter involves pushing what feels like a broom handle up your ringpiece to take samples. Each procedure guarantees you a really fun day out at a Urology Department near you. And don’t expect any naughty consolations from the wife for ten days or so; your tackle will be in a sling and you literally will not be rising to the occasion for a while.
Then the worst wait of all begins, as you hope for yet dread the appearance of the envelope with the letters ‘NHS’ in the corner, marked’ private and confidential’. Finally it arrives, and offering a prayer to whoever your God is, you open it up. If your God is indeed merciful, you’ll read those wonderful words ‘no signs of malignancy were detected’, and you can breathe one almighty sigh of relief. Ok, your prostate’s the size of a cricket ball, but the enlargement is benign, and it’s treatable. You’ll be back at the hospital in due course to discuss a medication plan to reduce the size of the bastard. Then you’ll be monitored regularly. ‘Watchful waiting’ they call it, and you have to learn to live with it.
That’s the prostate for you, guys. We’ve all got one, and it can be a real cunt when it feels like it and no mistake. Anyway must dash, I’m dying for a piss…

Nominated by Ron Knee