Emptybottle.org

I've written my very first little allegory to mark my return to thoughtful, fair and balanced political commentary. I hope you enjoy it.

However : I do warn you in advance that it is deliberately offensive. Lavishly so. You might consider it a kind of conceptual goatse. It contains words and ideas that nobody, even the most open-minded of adults, should be exposed to without fair notice.

You know, like 'pre-emptive war' or 'collateral damage' or 'American democracy'.

And so, on with the show.

Pausing in mid-stroke, annoyed, George Bush, the 43rd president of the United States, Bringer of Freedom and Defender of the Faith, peels back his Hitler mask and wipes the spatter of blood and brain matter from his chin. "Damn it, Dicky, I thought we were gonna pop these two at the same time!"

The corpse of the Iraqi boy Dick Cheney has been raping collapses to the plastic sheeting they'd laid down to protect the Oval Office carpet, a few terminal surges of blood pumping out of the exit wound that was his face. There is a muted suck-and-pop as Dick's dick slips out of the dead boy's rectum, which is relaxing now after tightening and thrillingly gripping the Vice-President's penis when the bullet passed through his brain.

Cheney rears back -- red-faced in the grip of the Viagra™ rush, his scarred, blood-streaked member waving in the air -- and farts loudly as he staggers to his feet. "Fuck you, George, you halfwit. Keep up or get out of the game." He shrugs into a black silk kimono, collapses onto the sofa, trims and lights a cigar, then horks up a dog-choking rail of columbian from the oak coffee table. He is enjoying the look of abject, mortal terror spreading across the drug-blurred face of the spreadeagled girl over whom George is still crouched and into whom he's still persistently and clumsily trying to push his limp presidential weiner, as the puddle of blood spreads closer to her chin.

"Shit, Dick. Now I'm all dis...distracted. This ain't no fun no more!" George's absurdly tiny member has shrivelled completely by now. "Mah gun's not workin'. Help me out here, son!" He pinches his nipples and looks up at Cheney, imploringly, beady eyes a-quiver.

Cheney sighs, steps over the dead boy and begins, after a couple of pumps of his pudgy hips, to piss copiously over both the President and the semi-conscious girl. "Do it yourself, asswipe. I've got a planet to run."

George grins up gratefully up at Cheney through the stream of urine like a down's child on Christmas Day, and, re-tumescent, bends to his task again, happily, licking the sheen of blood and coke-snot from his upper lip.

"Yea, though we walk," thrust, grunt, "through the valley of the shadow of death," thrust, grunt, "we shall fear no," thrust, grunt, spurt "uhhhhh...evil."

Drooling, ejaculating, loose-lipped, he casts his eyes heavenward.

"Bingo! God bless America!"

And as George W Bush pumps his teaspoonful of filthy demon seed into the overdosed and dying girl laid out before him like a turkey dinner, and lifts the pistol from the sofa, we close the door on this little tableau, and retire, mother in her kerchief and father in his cap, to await Old Saint Nick, and sleep the sleep of the just.