JOE PESCI’S BALLOON-HEAD BREXIT ROUND-UP
Unfamiliar as I am with what the fuck is goin’ on with politics in the UK, I find myself being asked to write several hundred fuckin’ words on the subject. What the fuck do I know about politics? I ask the editor guy who’s whinin’ like a bitch down the phone to me that he needs somethin’ by tonight's deadline. I told him I’ll do it, but he’ll have to dance – dance the fuckin’ copy over to his desk later on.
I been visitin’ Great England, Britain, London the last few weeks, takin’ care of this thing for Formica Tony over in Queen’s – you know the guy. But you don’t really want to know about that – and if you do ask, the lime pit’s already dug. Anyway, the first night I’m here I get a phone call from an old pal of mine – Dom Cummings.
Dom and me go way back, we used to run a Buckaroo game round the back of the Crawley Wetherpoons on a Curry Club Night back in the day – big buckaroos, big bucks - high rollers. Anyway, we meet up and over a few drinks we discuss the old days, for instance, that time we made that guy drink some three months past it’s sell-by-date Greene King IPA when he didn’t settle up. Rumours are he’s still in the John and gone through his 500th toilet roll. But I fuckin’ digress.
Anyway, I ask Dom why the fuck he’s involved with all these fake tough guys at Number Ten White House. The last thing I heard; he’d gone to retire in Florida with the rest of those fuckin’ deadbeats. But no, here is he hanging out with that shit-kickin’, stinky horse-manure-smelling Motherfucker, Boris Johnson – whoever the fuck he is. The guy sounds like a loser – a bigger loser than Johnny Roast Beef, and we all remember what happened to that fat fuck.
Anyway, next day I’m taking the guided tour of the Tower of Westminster, you gotta see this fuckin’ place – it’s older than Tony Bennett’s balls for Christ sakes’. Ok, so I’m walkin’ around and mindin’ my own fuckin’ business when I bumped into this weird lookin’ guy who introduced himself as Jacob Rees-Witherspoon. He looks like a guy who got run over by a steamroller and put in a suit 5 times too fuckin’ big for him. The dumb prick. He introduces himself to me – hey, no offence, but he talks like a half a fag, but what the heck I extend my hand of friendship and ask him how the fuck he is.
So, this Rees-Witherspoon guy invites me into his office for a sit-down, which I think is a bit fucking cheeky, but hey there could be a few dollars in it for yours truly. It’s real fuckin’ neat in this room, there’s a nice big Grandfather clock which goes “tick-tock!” real loud, and a load of fuckin’ old books and shit. Oh, and a desk big enough for two guys to get laid on, two broads each. Nice.
So, we sit down, and some guy brings in a tray of tea and cucumber sandwiches and we start nibbling and talking shit, like you fucking do. It’s Brexit dis and Brexit dat. If the truth be told, I’d had enough of this shit - I got Brexit comin’ out of my fucking ears. This plum in his mouth talking fuck is obsessed with it. Anyway, we’re almost done with Brexit when his pal walks in. This guy’s a real beaut – he’s got a big white head a hair and walks up to me to shake my hand and starts talkin’ like a real fucking balloon-head “Of course, I-I-I-I….eh…eh…”. The mumbling, stutterin’ prick. So, we start talking - well I start talking - I can’t get a sensible word out of this fucking asshole. Eventually, he pipes the fuck down and I can leave – so I shake hands with Moron Number 2 and Moron Number 1, the Wiff-Waff fuck.
So, it’s time to go back home. Home sweet home. I got Mikey 200 Dunhill and Pete The Killer a 2 litre bottle of Kahlua in Duty-Free, and one of them big fucking Toblerones which I felt like jamming up the ass of the bearded prick I sat next to on the way home – told his name was “Jeremy”. Reckons he was getting out of the UK until January, going on a cycling holiday to Cuba, the Commie fuck.