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April 7, 2007

IRAN HOSTAGE CRISIS: President's Call Berating Britain's Sissy Prime Minister Over Wasted Chance to Kick Off Armageddon



THE PRESIDENT: Tony it's me, George.

PRIME MINISTER: Good to hear from you, old sausage!

THE PRESIDENT: Tony, what the fuck's going on with this Iran hostage shit?


THE PRESIDENT: Listen you limey fruit, we had a fucking deal! Winston Churchill sold your sorry-assed island to my Grandparents fair and square. Shit, England is basically the 54th State, right after Japan and Israel. So who the fuck gave you permission to deal with the fucking bad guys?

PRIME MINISTER: I beg your pardon, Mr. President. But I'm afraid I haven't the foggiest notion why you’re so upset. What's wrong, guv'ner?

THE PRESIDENT: Oh, I don't know, what could be wrong? Maybe the one miniature toy country that allows me to absurdly claim America is leading a great multi-national alliance against Super-EvilTM, the country whose ass we saved a hundred years ago in totally awesome Dubya Dubya Dos, that country, and I'm talking about ENGLAND, has gone and fucked me over. We had a perfectly good setup for the Apocalypse, man! And you blew it by making nice-nice with Iran!

PRIME MINISTER: Oh dear, and pip, pip, George! I believe my government dealt with the entire hostage situation with reasoned discipline, and in the end, diplomacy saved the day instead of meaningless bloodshed.

PRESDIENT: Yeah. How does Ahmedinadingdong's shit flume taste?

PRIME MINISTER: Criminy, George. I'm sorry, but I had little choice. The truth of our times is thus: in an increasingly multilateral world, it is simply unrealistic to coerce other nation states with violence, especially all the time, in every single circumstance. Not to mention, this formerly splendid little war of ours has made me as popular as a hot cup of piss here.

THE PRESIDENT: Homo says what?


THE PRESIDENT: Homo says what?

PRIME MINISTER: I'm not amused.

THE PRESIDENT: Jesus, Tony, have you finally gone all Eurofaggot on me? What happened to the United Kingdom? When I studied history at Yale, I always loved how you Brits were the first in line to cock-slap uppity negroids, dot-headed injuns and camel jockeys. I mean, you pasty creeps once made the world your bitch, but now lookit you! Maybe Uncle Dick is right about you crooked-tooth island tea drinkers: centuries of sailing around the world in boats with nothing but rum, lashes, and ass fucking makes for a whole of race of girly biscuit munchers!


But this Iran thing? This is too much. Tell me the truth: was it Diana, Tony? I mean, ever since that bleach-blonde bitch and her A-rab boy toy chomped concrete in Paris, you people have become a bunch of hysterical pussies crying blood out yer vaginas.

PRIME MINISTER: I'm awfully sorry you feel that way.

THE PRESIDENT: Couldn't those fifteen sailors – excuse me, THAY-lors – have refused playing table tennis for the Iranian cameras? I mean, that ONE thing? Would it have been so hard for your Royal soldiers to politely decline when them Iranians were all "You are our prisoners! Now play ping pong for the world to see!" I mean, what were they so fucking chicken-shit about? It's not like the CIA captured them. Thing that boggles my mind: why the hell y'all call these fifteen brats heroes, when plenty of you Englishese have bravely absorbed shrapnel on behalf of the multinational energy industry?

PRIME MINISTER: I can tell that you are quite upset, Mr. President. Over the years, I have learned to respect your transparent, tough talking swagger. As a career political hack, I have often been awed by your shameless audacity, especially when it comes to convincing economically disadvantaged families to thank you for sending their children into a human wood chipper, a war that exists, and continues to exist, just to validate your preening ego and narrow world view. I salute you sir; never have I observed a politician who so truly does believes his own lies.

THE PRESIDENT: Uh-huh. We're breaking up, Tony.

PRIME MINISTER: Well, maybe one day we can all look back on this and have a grand old laugh. I'll probably be living in Las Vegas then, seeing as I’ll have been railroaded out of the Kingdom by an angry mob by then.

THE PRESIDENT: You fucked me. What am I supposed to do?

PRIME MINISTER: Just close your eyes and think of England, love!



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