I went to the barber's in Redditch, in 1999; it was just after the death of Old King Hussein of Jordan and Arab John gave me a trim and told me all about the Hashemite dynasty, what bastards they were; and I went again, today, 22nd March, 2015, in Dundee.
I hated it, the barber's, from my very first experience; when I was about four, they sat me on a plank between the arms of the big chair and my Dad said, shortback'n'sides. I screamed my head off and I have never liked it since, the phrase or the sound of the clippers. It may be that grooming other men, like nursing them, is a perfectly natural choice of job but it wouldn't be mine. Fuck no.
Seems a long time, I know, sixteen years, between groomings but it's just so irrelevant, barbering. I need no-one's approval of my appearance, it is an impossibly long time since I worked for anyone else and that circuit, of approval-seeking, is long-since shorted. I don't shit in people's gardens or wipe my hands on their curtains or anything and I wear latex gloves if I even make anyone a slice of toast but my hair, as long as it's clean, never enters my thoughts; being barbered, furthermore, is such a strange intimacy, all that looking-at and talking-to another bloke in the mirror, I can't be the only one made uneasy by that strange, public confessional booth, by a professional groomer telling one what would look good, hair-wise, parting-wise.
My Dad treated me, much later, after instilling in me a loathing of all gentlemen's hairdressers, everywhere, to a barbershop shave - you know, all that fetishy palaver, a roasting hot towel in tongs draped over my face, a badgerbristle brush soaping my face and a stropped, cut-throat razor gliding over my Adam's apple. Seems to me like the sort of ritual a hangman or a suicide bomber might enjoy, before going about his day job. Once was enough. Those Al Capone blokes, in Chicago, they must've been fucking mad, sitting in a chair with some spic fairy waving a blade around their windpipes.
I think the Ruperts used to command their batmen body servants to do it to them, the hot, close shave; but then the Ruperts, well, TE Lawrence-Rupert, of Arabia, anyway, used to require of his manservant that he beat his guilty buttocks for him, with leather straps and God only knows what else. A man's life, in the army, thrashing his master's arse.
I haven't turned into Robinson Crusoe or anything, these past sixteen years, I just get mrs ishmael to tidy things up, once in a while; sometimes I do it myself, just wash it, comb it all forward and scissor a couple of inches away, job done, it's not surgery or anything. But it's thinning on the top now and I thought I'd better get a trained bloke to even things up a bit and so I went into the A Class Turkish Barbers,
just over the road from my hotel,
the Malmaison Boutique Hotel And New People's Brothel.
Meeting comely young men and hard-faced but inviting young women in every elevator is not the strangest aspect of a stay in Malmaison. It may be that a steady supply of prostitutes is all part of the service in a city hotel and the Malmaison emphasises the potential raunchiness of a stay within its confines. For when you need a room in a hurry, that sort of thing accompanies the house logo of a panting couple, clawing at each other. The toiletries supplied all come with pornographic explanation and innuendo, the fig shampoo tube, for instance - gettin' jiggy wit da figgy, away from home you want sexy foam. something to make them (ooh-ooh-ooh) moan and groan. squeeze the tube, that's quite enuff.oh my lord, you look hot in the buff. now all clean no longer dirty, isn't it time for you yoo get flirty) and half of the wardrobe is given over to a Malmaison mini-bar, stocked with expensive cheap champagne and bottled cocktails, in case he or she needs industrial-scale plying with drink, the more mal to be. I don't think there was ever a time when that sort of crudity appealed to me. All a bit racist, too, I think, that enuff in the buff stuff. And the tone is lowered further by the Do Not Disturb sign, whic reads, insrtead of DND, Clean-Up on the one side, Clear Off on the other. Not an ideal way to instruct mainly immigrant domestic staff; still, if the purpose of your visit is purely carnal, as the management seem to want it to be, then insulting the menials might produce a much-needed hard-on. Maybe it is owned, the Malmaison chain, by some cunt like Beardy Branson for it has all of his personal hallmarks.
This is broad daylight au Malmaison and the lights are on.
A new experience, especially for those who are jaded with being able to see what they are doing, the Malmaison's exclusive design team has developed very dark corridors, leading through very dark doors into very dark rooms which are cunningly unlit by strangely useless lightbulbs, pinhead-bright, but useless to see-by, like stars a trillion light years away, before Time began; the walls are dark, the carpet is dark, the furniture is dark, the curtains are dark, even the television has, somehow, had all the light leeched from it.
Towards the end of 2001, A Space Odyssey, the hero finds himself, at the farthest end of space and time, in what appears to be a replicated Earth domicile but it only looks like a proper place, everything is plastic, copied visually from a photo; drinks and foodstuffs, although in authentic packaging, contain only ersatz goo. This not-quite-rightness, this Looks-Like-A-Hotel-But-Isn'tness of the Malmaison was apparent not only in the decadent dinginess of its miserable fucking decor but in the staggering, breath-taking, heart-stopping incompetence of the staff - receptionists who couldn't receive; waiters who couldn't wait, barstaff who could neither pour nor transport a drink, yet all grinning like masturbating chimpanzees, all addressing us as YouGuys, urging us to Enjoy! One teenage waitress, who couldn't safely carry two empty side plates, informing us, as though she was God's personal Maitre d'hotel, that her particular, special, personal favourite among the desserts was the pineapple blanquette, whatever the fuck that is, and as if any bastard in his right mind would give a fuck what her favourite pudding was, stupid slut When I was a kid I worked in Belfast's then-great Grand Central Hotel, where waiters worked for months, in what was called the Still Room, making tartare and horseradish and Hollandaise sauces; creating wafer-thin, delicately curved Melba Toast, curling butter, polishing silver, glass and crockery before being allowed anywhere near the fucking dining room. Once there they would learn how to vacuum the floor, polish the tables, lay the linen, set the silver without even the hint of a fingerprint and eventually they would be allowed to, using a spoon and fork, place in front of a customer, just-so, a hot plate, onto which a fully-trained waiter would silver-serve his meal. Other waiters, chefs-de-rang, cooked on a lamp at the table, Stroganoff, Steak Diane, Crepes; might pan-fry and fillet, with a spoon and fork, a whole Dover Sole Meuniere. The country, its hotels and restaurants, it's First Class train buffet carriages, its town halls, its passenger liners, was once awash with people who could do that stuff. I can do all that stuff and so some slip of a girl who serves soup with her finger it, telling me about her favourite pudding is only going to set my teeth on edge. Some countries still train catering staff; I think in Ireland being a barman needs an apprenticeship and the Europeans still value proper service. Nothing wrong with service and people shouldn't conflate it with servility. As mr bungalow bill often repines, those things which we do with our hands and eyes, we should do well. Ruin has robbed us even of the satisfaction of knowing how to wait at table, made feeble and worthless what was once a complex set of skills. Enjoy!
In the barbers, I sat me down on the leather settee and commenced to watch Turkish Gaz shave this bloke's already closely-shaven head until he looked like a concentration camp victim and then take twenty quid off him. In the other chair, Turkish Gaz's brother, Solly, was doing the same to another customer, only he was leaving a line, half-way up the scalp, the kind of thing I used to do with the lawnmower, a line between mown strips that wasn't really there; this was a neat line all the way around his head just above his ears which kind of made the almost-invisible stubble look as though it was, well I don't know what it was supposed to look like, looked fucking stupid to me, two-tone, that's what it was, a two-tone shaved head. See, bro, I 'as got yo line, innit, chortled Turkish Solly of A Class Turkish Barbers, Dundee. 'Ow many times it is I 'as done yo line now? Issa lot anyway, I could do that line in me sleep, man, tellin' ya.
Growing concerned that this was not a gents' hairdressers in the usual sense, I had been looking along the counter for some scissors but all I could see was a vast selection of electric razors, black ones, red ones, white ones. And hair driers. They each had a couple of hairdriers, slung in holsters on the counter, like Colt .45s in the Sherrif's office. Whaddatheywant with hairdriers, I wondered, these guys have virtually fuck all hair when they come in here and none at all by the time Gaz and Solly're done with them, what's to dry? You don't need a hairdrier for a shiny bald head with a fucking line around it. But then I saw Sol, down the other end, he had flames coming out of hands which were frantically waving around his customer's recently shaven head. Fuck, he's caught fire, poor bastard, mind you, paying twenty or thirty quid to look like a nineteenth-century convict, he can't be right; probably just spontaneously combusted, Nature's way of telling him he's a waste of space, which he surely is; happens all the time, I understand, just go up in flames and smoke, they do, only their shoes left, or in this bloke's case his lurid green and pink trainers. I used to worry about that quite a lot, spontaneously combusting, going so far as to mind-design a sensor-operated, shoulder-borne fire extinguisher, with a nozzle on a tube just above the head, one wisp of smoke and a mighty deluge would flood the wearer, but these days I am less self-centred in my anxieties, more community-, more planetarily-orientated, worry myself sick, sometimes, I do, about big fuck-off lumps of asteroid smashing into the Earth at sixty thousand miles an hour, blowing everything to fuck, roasting us all in our beds and blacking out the Sun for a hundred years; serious climate change, that stuff, a gazillion kilotonne nuke, turning everything all Golden Wonder. You may mock my concern but cosmically speaking that sort of shit happens every five minutes.
And then I understood, that what Sol was doing, down the other end of the salon, was burning the hair out of wotsisname's, TwoToneHead's, ears, with a lighted spill and he was waving his hand in and out of the flame, I suppose to stop the ear catching fire. Fuck this, I thought, for a game of soldiers, I came in here for a bit of a trim, not an Aushwitz scalping and having my ears set alight; I'm off, I'll buy a good pair of scissors and do it myself. In the hotel. No, not in the hotel, too dark, even in broad daylight, cut my ear off, I would and some whore probably bust-in, anyway, offering me a figgy shampoo or a pineapple blanquettejob a la mode. I'll give myself a trim when I get back home. Not having some gobby Turkish git poofter set fire to my fucking head, after he's shaved it bald.
But I was too late, Turkish Gaz was extending to me a plastic cape and saying Your turn, sir, sorry to keep you an' 'ow is you today, an' 'ow you want yo' hair?
Before I sat down I said to him, struggling for an idiom, and regretting it immediately, You do old-fashioned? Cutting? With scissors? Only me not wanna shave, like other blokes, certainly no shavez-vous mon tete, comprenez?
No, is OK, can scissors do.
And me not wanna catchee fire, in ear hole.
I didn't think he would, put the fire in my ear, not unless I let him shave my head clean, like a boiled egg, which I wouldn't. Be like Galipoli all over again if Gaz and Sol tried that. But I could see the grim logic of it, now, the fire, what's the point of removing every trace of hair from the cranium, if there's strands hanging out from the earhole? Look fucking rubbish, that would. It was actually quite sensible, in the world of NewPeople's convict chic coiffure, to set fire to your ears. Crazy fucking bastards. Although, if we set fire to the Pampas grass - you can't cut the fucking stuff, not without a nuclear-powered, laser chainsaw - it just grows back bigger and tougher. Maybe there's former customers of A Class Turkish Barbers, Dundee, walking around the town, tripping over their ear-hair, smashing their dumb faces on the pavement. Serve 'em right
You want hair cut to ear, like this, Gaz enquired of me in the mirror, or above ear, like this?
Maybe just below ear a bit.
Like so?
Yeah, like so, just make a bit tidy, make even-out. OK?
OK.
I can put myself in trance, almost at the drop of a hat; no, I can, really, I can, just drop my chin on my chest, close my eyes, drop my hands in my lap, breathe-out and I'm gone; I dunno if it would see me through an asteroid colliding with John O' Groats and dumping a trillion tons of super-heated water on my house but it works for things like epidurals and that's what I did as Gaz snipped away, doing that folding-between-the-fingers and stretching and snipping thing that proper barbers do. I shut my eyes and lost myself.
You wan' some nice spray?
OK, whatever you think.
I wish I hadn't said that because I soon smelt like what I imagine a Balkans Bond villain to smell like, sweet and heavy and a bit unwholesome but as sixteen-yearly haircuts go it wasn't too bad. And I found out what the hairdriers were for. Barbers in ancient days used to brush you down with soft-bristle brushes, pull your collar away and brush all that scratchy stuff the fuck out of it, then they'd sweep your hair from around the floor using a cheap, nylon sweeping broom and a dustpan. I used to wonder what they did with all the hair, the barbers, I mean, it was, in those days, anyway, a lot of hair; maybe they were in touch with the people to whom the Nazi Hermanns - all of them - sold the Jews' hair, the stuff they shaved-off, before they gassed them, vaste not, vant not, eh, Jah, ist gut, mein Fuhrer, some mattresses can make, mit ze hair from ze dead Jews. Ach, nein, nein, zat vood mean sleeping on top ov ze filthy Jewbastards, I am ze fucking Fuhrer, must I sink of every fucking sing? For you, feldwebel of haircutting, iss ze Russian front, fucking dumkopf; you are sure zat you are not a fucking Jew, maybe your grandmutter, she vaz a fucking Jew, eh?
Every minute or so, during my trim, Gaz would blast me with a hairdrier, to get rid of the clippings and when he had finished he half-crouched, half-scampered, half-ran after the hair on the floor, coralling it, at hairdrier point, little bits of stubble - apart from mine, which could be measured in inches - in a pile in the corner of the shop, like mouse droppings.
He only charged me a tenner. Wasn't too bad an experience at all, once I had determined to take some Turkish heads, like we used to, if they came near me with scalp-arson in their eyes. I wondered if they knew of or were bothered by the number of inns and coaching houses in England named The Turk's Head or The Saracen's Head; I mean, if we, not that we would, went to Turkey on holiday and found, in every street - do they have streets? - a coffee shop called the Brummy's Head, the Scousers Entrails or heard one Turk say to another, see you later, Ahmed my brother, for a coffee, down the Geordie's Giblets, salaam eleikum, and it's your turn to pay, I wonder how we'd feel. But fuck 'em, anyway, Turkish barbers, not as though they're important to proper people, not like my young friend, stanislav, was, a Polish plumber.
I am glad I had the haircut but I feel, as I often do in Scotland's mean, city streets, that men of more refinement than I would've fled; even borderlands Berwick-on-Tweed being noticably more civilised than Scotland's dire, Tribesman reservations. An Empire sensibility, Resolution, that's what a man needs, in the towns and cities which have fallen to the cult of Gnashing.
But going to the doctors' in Dundee, that, fuck me, was an whole other thing; I have never seen so many sick people, all in one room. And although I have sat in a room talking to six released lifers I have never seen so many dangerous, crippled and malformed citizens all gathered together as there were in this laughingly-titled health centre.
I had 'phoned my own doctor, at home, concerned about something. Go and see a local GP, she said, tell 'em to get this x-rayed. But they have no appointments, I already tried. They have to see you, they have no choice. I found one which would see me eventually and the waiting room indicated that the Black Death or worse was alive and well in Dundee, not quite the plague exactly but an NHS Trust'sworth worth of cancers, malnutrition, addiction and obesity, knife and bottle wounds; every other person had one of those things in their throats; the ones who didn't weigh forty stones weighed seven or eight, in danger of slithering out of their shell-suits and down a drain; skins translucent, junkies stage-whispered at one another about which doctor was on and what they'd give them; there wasn't a-bit-of-a-cough or an upset tummy to be seen, every bastard was dying, apparently, of abuse or neglect, the guy next to me with the thing in his throat reeking, still, of cigarettes. It was all a depressing, macabre illustration of When you got nuthin, you got nuthin to lose; it was like being in the ante-chamber to that ward in the hospital, the one where all the men with no legs form-up their wheelchairs like a wagon train and power-wheel themselves outside, for a fag.
Must be one of the sorriest sights in the developed world, this.
Those people, dying for want of an antibiotic, blinded by dirty water, what must they think of us; flushing our toilets with drinking water, smoking ourselves to death in hospital?
When I went to the Allan Carr Easy Way To Stop Smoking Clinic they told us that there were two kinds of people among whom the Allan Carr approach wouldn't work - teenagers, whose parents were paying the hundred-quid fee for them, and amputees who had already lost legs to smoking-related illness.
The kids, he said, didn't care, it wasn't their money and the amputees were too far gone in addiction to ever be well again.
Most people who go to that clinic - and its branches worldwide - stop smoking but not everybody knows about it, and many are now deluded into thinking that they need nicotine patches or chewing gum, need to be shepherded throught themselves, by smoking cessation teams, teams of experts. It's rubbish, all that, you just need someone to lay out for you just exactly how stupid smoking is and then you'll stop, just like that, there's nothing to give up, it's like banging your head on the wall, only more dangerous.
East to be smug, though, about having stopped that lunacy and I think if I hadn't and had instead, as was likely and may still happen, contracted a fatal, smoking-related illness I'd find myself a tobacco executive, Jazzman Kenny Clarke'd do, the fat cunt,
the one who is a former health seckatry and worked for British American Tobacco, and cut his fucking heart out. See what he made of that as an exercise of free will.
Ye-e-es, I'm a Tory you see, ye-e-e-es,
and rather unlike the socialists, I must say, I believe in freedom of choice.
And that's why I worked for a time, selling killer drugs to poor children in the third world.
They make the choice and I make the money, ye-e-e-es
Dolphin Square?
Never heard of it.
I had a visitor, here, last week, from the Black Country; his back's fucked, his legs're fucked; his hands're stained, not yellow but black; he doesn't sleep and he coughs. But it int the fags wot causes that, no way. It's a soyentifick fact, it is, that smokin' dunt cause none a them. Oh, fair play, it may cause cancer burr I yint got that. I'll stop long before I get that fucker. He's fifty-three.
Scotland, or Scotland's cities, seem to be filled by people like that, like my visitor, people stupidly vicious to themselves, thinking they're clever. The life expectancy in parts of Glasgow is depressingly short and much as I despise Whisky Maggie it is crass and opportunistic of the tribesmen to blame her for Glasgow's epic pilgrimage to self-destruction. Sure, everybody knows that the savaging of shipyard, colliery and foundry workers was an act of wilful political cruelty committed by filth like Tebbit and Heseltine, by spivs, cocksuckers, childfuckers, bullyboys, thieves and beasts but that's no reason to smoke yourself to death, is it; no reason to beat your wife and neglect your kids, just because your footba' team lost; no reason to eat shit fried in lard and snort smack. One can, of course, blame Thatcher for everything and believe in a bizarre Nirvana, in a Scottish renaissance, if only the hated English'd fuck off but junkies and wifebeaters and drunks are not going to be its midwife, no matter what Gnasher tells them about the Scoattish peepul.
Forty miles east,
in Sterling,
or a hundred miles north,
in Inverness, in the Great Glen,
Scotland isn't writhing in the desperate throes of longed-for nationhood,
doesn't have a full-time job hating the English,
that's just the nutters, most of whom know little or nothing of their own history, obviously.
Living in or on the edges of the Wilderness doesn't half give one a sense of proportion.
It isn't Scotland which ails the Tribesman.
It isn't England which ails the Tribesman.
It's the fucking city.
Living in Glasgow or Dundee and having all his hair removed by Turkish Gaz, beating his wife and getting pissed out of his mind, that's the tribesman's ailment.
They live in shit, they eat shit, they drink shit, they talk shit and they allow some snarling, good for fuck all, rabble-rousing, tub-thumpng, flag-waving, life-long Nazi career gabshite like
Jesus, I'm sure anyone at school with her would've hated her fucking guts.
wee Nicky Sturgeon to feed them indigestible cliches of shit; too stupid, far too stupid to see that she and her Sugar Daddy, the FatMan,
Does this really fool anybody,
this fat, smirking cunt in his fancy dress?
have far more in common with the filthsters in MediaMinster than ever they do with some ginger, cider-swigging, beetle-browed, cross-dressing, knuckle-dragging, wife-beating, neanderthal savage, who couldn't count to five using his fingers.
like this.
Time after time I enquire of Central Belters, Y'ever been to Orkney, seen the stones, Skara Brae? Inverness, the Cairngorms?
Nah, keep meanin' tae, y'ken....
But I loves Eyebeetha, me.
Sometimes I say, Y'ever been to Canterbury, see the cathedral? Oxford, London? The Albert Hall, the Proms?
Durham, maybe, see the cathedral there? No?
No way, yon's English history.
An' I hae me ain culture, ken,
aye, an me ain music.
Finished in Dundee, instead of blasting up the A9, white-knuckling to the ferry as usual, we lit out, north-west of Pitlochry into Victorian, hunting and fishing Scotland.
Even seeing Dame Judi Dench and Dame Billy Connolly,
at her own wee postbox.
This is the hated A9.
More accustomed, previously, to the M42,
I love it.
It is my own Route 66,
my own Highway 61
running from up in the hovel-sprinkled
Badlands of Caithness
down to sparkling Invernessshire
and Perthshire .
Talking of Caithness, my recent visitor couldn't, simply couldn't, not no way, simply cooden get 'is 'ead around how them people can live there.
There int no people, loike, do me bleedin' 'ead in,
that would. Norravin no people.
He lives here,
in the Black Country
Travelling, anyway, northwards from Dundee
We entered the Tay Forest Park. It was gorgeous; trees, water, and mountains, trembling on the edge of Spring, the odd sheep, some Highland cattle,
just like the Beasts, Drinking at Sunset, in all those Victorian water colours.
There was no traffic and we travelled about fifteen miles, as fast as the road would allow, which was approaching thirty miles an hour, until we reached our hotel for the night. We passed a farmer now and again, coming the other way on a quad bike, going between his jobs, giving us a brief wave; I am sure one could work a life away there, in the country, nestling in the mountains, watching the seasons.
When I was an infant, sitting on her knee, my mother lullabied me with a song which I now know to be The Road To The Isles; her father's family were Orange Glaswegian and she, like many in Belfast, had absorbed Glasgow street slang and idiom and was fiercely sectarian. The song of The Road To The Isles, though, in her voicing, was rythmically wistful -
Sure, by Tummel and Loch Rannoch
And Lochaber I will go,
By heather tracks wi' heaven in their wiles;
If it's thinkin' in your inner heart
Braggart's in my step,
You've never smelt the tangle o' the Isles.
It was just a couple of years back, I discovered that not only were Tummel and Loch Rannoch and Lochaber real places but that quite as a result of an accidental departure from the A9 I was actually standing beside Loch Rannoch reading a signpost to Tummel, Lochaber and to the Isles.
The approach to Loch Rannoch
The hotel, built in the 1880s.
And a room
with a view
On this trip we were heading back home, looking just for an overnight stay, and for the river- and loch-side journey through the still-snowy glens. Any half-way decent hotel would have served that purpose but this was an establishment in which you would expect to find George Clooney, being rich, debonaire, handsome and gipped out of his coffee. Inside, it was a fairly typical Highlands hunting lodge - tartan carpets, antlers on the wall, fireplaces, settees and oak sideboards, all perfectly fine; the food and the service were nigh-on perfect and the tarrif half that of Dundee's Malmaison Knocking Shop. But it was the view outwards which electrified; in Dundee I had looked-out over a depressed, grubby street, strewn with food containers, fragranced, occasionally, with happy hash smoke; in Loch Rannoch, a vast, crisp Creation bid me Welcome, have a nice day, and meant it.
Here, in the Highlands, in the distant, off-road Wilderness, is the Scotland for which people say they would die; here is the prompting of my own thought that Scotland is the very best part of England.
It is oddly encouraging that those of us who reside and wrench a living in rural and remote Scotland are the least likely to vote with a road-locked and ranting urban minority cult, inebriated, embittered and too lazy to even visit the lands over which they claim Lordship.
If Scotland's natural, fierce, soaring grandeur could speak it would say, Ye've never, wee Gnasher, smelt the tangle o' the Isles, awa' then and boil yer heid.
THE FOREIGN PAGES,
AMERICA'S WAR AGAINST ITS CITIZENS
My fellow motherfuckers.
I stand before you to-day as our wholly militarised country faces even more difficulties with the negro race.
There was a time.
My fellow motherfuckers,
A time before the Civil Rights Act.
When humans were entitled. To protect themselves. From animals.
But those days. When they knew their place. Are long gone.
And now it seems.
That all they wanna do is bitch.
And our proudly militarised lawnforcement stormtroopers4democracy.
Regularly find themselves.
Outnumbering these dangerous folks so badly.
That they don't all get an opportunity.
To pop a round in their black asses.
My fellow motherfuckers.
That can't be right.
As my good friend, songwriter emeritus and national treasure.
And inextinguishable Beacon of Freedom. And spokesperson of equality. And campaigner for human rights reminds us:
Dah-da-dah-daah da-daah-da-daah-da-daah-da-daah,
everybody must get shot.
And it was my good friend and stooge, Dr Bob, who sang to us about niggers only being a pawn in the game, about how William Zanzinger was unfairly sentenced for killing that piecea nigger trash, which he didn't actually do, or mean to do; it was Bob who reminded us that the times ain't actually a-changing, the cops and the governors and the senators are still killin' niggers on the street, just like they always did.
Fuck me, Jesus,
seems like we can't turn around without some nigger sonofafuckinbitch gettin' his ass blowed away by lawnforcement. Everywhere you look. They're gettin' their big black asses shot, getting choked,
being beaten to death and when that shit ain't happenin' they're gettin' fried, gassed to death or being handed nine-hundred year sentences to be served on they ownsome in some six-foot square shithole only comin' out to receive a good kicking offa the guards, As fine a body of men. As ever served, This fine nation of ours.
Well, my fellow motherfuckers, we all done with pussyin' around with this shit.
It's like Mayor Rudi Guilian-eye-oh done said.
We need zero tolerance of black folks.
These Goddamn niggers are just plain criminal. And he should know. Anybody knows about criminals it's Mayor Rudi; didden he single-handedly save New York City after Saddam Hussein bombed the Trade Centre, killin' all them folks and even collapsing buildings that wasn't even nowhere fuckin' near where them planes hit;
I mean.
How's this shit supposed to happen?
That a building just falls the fuck down. In its own footprint. In free fall. Just because there was a wastepaper bin caught fire?
That's the kinda nigger evil we face, today, voodoo, plain and fucking simple, that sonofafuckinbitch just magicked that buildin' into collapsing, takin' all them tax records with 'em, too; spells, hocus-pocus, shit like that, 'swhat we up against. Nigger shit. Don't matter if them niggers is growed men or babies in the cradle, only good one's a dead one. Ain't we learned nothin' about this shit?
Anyway, just like President Kennedy said, when he and his bro' wasn't bangin' the ass offa poor Marilyn Mun-roe,
Happy Birthday, Mr President,
You met my brother, bitch?
He'll love ya to death.
and then havin' her killed, what he said, that greatest of criminal presidents, was that we need far-sighted and radical solutions. An' that's just what I'm gonna give y'all.
(assumes nasal Boston accent and speaks in sing-song, preachy style)
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