May 29, 2009
Loyal subjects of the Crown: Hussein Obomber and that salope Sarkozy can go sod themselves!
Elizabeth R. has been blackballed from this year’s D-Day commemorations in Normandy — and the fact that Obama and Sarkozy, who disinvited her, are both socially lower than a snake’s belly only adds insult to injury. My apologies for linking to the Upper West Side Slimes, Jayson Blair’s far-left birdcage liner of record, but they were first to break this story stateside I believe. The Daily Mail’s take: “Palace fury as Sarkozy refuses to invite royals to 65th Anniversary,” with appropriate details about that Glaswegian tub of guts Gordo Brown’s complicity in the snub.
One hates to say “I told you so,” especially to borderline lèse-majesté, but lie down with dogs and you get fleas. Conservatives warned back in April that Her Majesty shouldn’t receive Calypso Barry and Miss Hell Obomber, but noblesse oblige evidently got the better of her. The monarch should have taken a leaf from her feisty grandson, Prince Harry, who as your humble servant noted back in January seems blissfully uncorrupted by multiculturalist (i.e. anti-European) agitprop.
Pictured above: The First Dragqueen rubs the Royal Person with her great galumphing paw of a man-hand, as she might another transvestite during some crack-fuelled lip-synch of “I Will Survive.”
Really, to paraphrase Sir Alan Clark’s wife, you can expect this sort of thing when you have below-stairs Anglophobes round for drinks. QEI, Gloriana, the virgin Bride of England, wouldn’t have boarded her least-favorite dog with the Obamas, let alone spoken to them socially.
Elizabeth I, the Rainbow Portrait: “I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and a king of England too, and think foul scorn that Parma or Spain, or any prince of Europe should dare to invade the borders of my realm.”
And Sarkozy? A glorified fishmonger.
Voici M. la Grenouille-en-Chef avec sa putain — you know, Carla Bruni, the dopey slut who recently dragged her name into the headlines by sassing the Patriarch of Rome on the Christian teaching against contraception. A subject with which she’s become most intimately familiar, perforce, during long years spent screwing her bowlegged way to the Élysée Palace. In this photo, her legs are kept from flying apart only by Sarko’s crushing grip, inherited from his gold-grasping cit forebears, who knew to pinch a penny ’til it squeaked:
And that great, rawboned, Korean toaster of a head — can it be Bruni’s a drag queen too?
March 3, 2009
Pictured: The First Dragqueen, sporting a black plastic abdominal retaining wall, which protects against hernias should her tucking tape come catastrophically undone. She’s not a raisin in the sun — she’s a grape about to burst.
Remember, you read it here first last week, just hours after the event: The British press, who unlike their American counterparts aren’t fawning sycophants of the tacky proles in the White House — the court flatterers at Vogue, to take just one tasteless example — tell it like it is about Miss Hell Obomber’s clownish fashion emergencies.
The First Dragqueen’s really put her size-12 foot in it this time. The magenta mumu at the pretend State of the Union was bad enough – will the coltish, brawny Miss Hell now proceed to gold velour track suits at state dinners?
And please, won’t some elocution and deportment coach tell the First Lady of J.C. Penney to cover those unsightly man-arms? Yes, yes, we get it; you go to a gym all the time (between your hard work of hating on Middle America and then blowing its tax dollars on ghetto-fabulous East Room receptions). Well, so do all the other hideous pretend career women who push and shove in front of us at Trader Joe’s – big, fat, hairy, female-impersonator deal. To echo a fit woman who’s actually attractive (and actually a woman): “Okay, so you’ve a got a personal trainer… That don’t impress me much!”