Another day, another Zelensky diktat to the West. And the line is again strikingly similar: demands for arms, a no-fly zone, ramped-up sanctions etc.
The trite turd ultimately wants NATO to trigger World War III.
How is it that this bloviating berk has bagged platforms to address overseas parliaments with this shameless shizzle?
Well, that’s likely to be rooted in a perceived wanker win-win. He craves support in fighting his war, and charlatan politicians prize any reflected glory they can push their pugfaces into.
The public, with their ropey ribbons and bullshit badges, are very much the same. This time last year, they were sucking up to burly, bearded blokes swinging their big ‘ole bulbous-headed cocks beneath their floral skater dresses.
Sorry – I meant ‘women with big cocks’. I don’t wish to appear transphobic and earn another stint in social media jail, particularly one where my cellmate is an horny woman packing a big ‘ole bulbous-headed cock.
The year before that, it was the lives of black folk and how the people who’ve never thought they mattered had a stab at acting out the part of those who passionately believe they do.
And then they realised that they really don’t.
And hey, these kooks would be barfing up yesterday’s tapas and indeed their stomach lining at the prospect of Ukrainians living next door, just as they would if a bunch of Jamaicans or a coterie of bad trannies rocked up.
The sanctimonious spare room gig appears to have gone off the boil too. Staples are currently reporting sky-high sales as the limp-wristed loons of the liberal heartlands are rushing to kit out their spare bedrooms as ‘offices’.
‘Sorry, there’s no room at the inn, but I’ll still wear my ribbon in solidarity’.
But back to the Ukraine, which of course is what Chicken Kiev ought to have on his bucket list rather than his fuck-it list.
Zelensky, lest we forget (and you can picture me with my beret and medals on, shaking my Royal British Legion collection bucket in the faces of supermarket shoppers as I write that remembrance-evocative soundbite), is the chap who has banned eleven opposition parties and who had it on his toes during the earliest days of the conflict, if not before.
He’s broadcasting from the US embassy in Poland.
Watching him bang on in his khaki t-shirt evokes the standard MO of a UK Territorial Army bod regaling pub locals to the point of voluntary euthanasia. Bores who crave only a Fisher Price uniform that unlocks a perceived right to bang on about it for eternity.
The only weapon he’ll be grabbing, though, will subconsciously slip into his exfoliating mitt during a warm shower at his five-star, subsidised accommodation.
Not only has the carky, khaki cock banned meaningful opposition, he this week slapped his John Hancock onto a decree that will unite all national TV channels into one platform. The purpose of this was to establish a ‘unified information policy’.
Woah, think about that for a moment.
We need to re-imagine this whole Ukrainian escapade because it’s not a question of a battle of good vs evil, or even freedom vs tyranny.
It’s a battle between autocracies.
We’d be better off leaving them all to it.