Globalist Loser Squeals When Stuck
Skewered by the sharp sting of truth, the would-be Fat Controller Boris Johnson leaps to his own defense with the silken grace of a hippo climbing a mud-slide. From some dusty back-room in the bowels of the Daily Mail, he lets fly with the limp slings and wonky arrows of a broken man, in a mirth-provoking attempt to frame Ukraine v Russia as a sanctified crusade that only noble knights of democracy (like him) truly understand. God, it appears, is speaking to us through the medium of Boris.
“I pray that the people of the U.S. are able to see through last night’s unholy charade of an interview,” roars Johnson of Kyiv, as the bells of Westminster Abbey ring the alarm (in the echoing cavern of his own mind).
Unholy charade -that one nearly brought my cornflakes back for an encore. The thorn in Johnson’s hefty hide is, of course, Tucker Carlson, who politely offered Vladimir Putin the chance to explain why peace with Ukraine was not negotiated 18 months ago. The Russian, alas, siezed the nearest available plate and served up the head of Johnson the Baptist. For it was he, said Vlad the Imploder, who killed the treaty, on behalf of Uncle Joe Biden.
Boris has written plenty of poorly-worded guff in his time, but yesterday’s incontinent tabloid rant was lame even by his own subterranean standards. Did he, perhaps, get the teeniest little bit carried away? Well, in his opinion Tucker Carlson is a “stooge of the tyrant, the dictaphone to the dictator and a traitor to journalism!” You can almost hear the sizzle of hot spit lashing the keyboard. Calm down love, take your meds.
Carlson’s success is like a knife twisting in the gut of Johnson’s own serial failures. You could fill a book titled Sins of Slimy Boris with a detailed account of his sordid career in journalism.
A few highlights: sacked by the Times in 1988 for inventing a quote for a front-page story; sacked from the Shadow Cabinet in 2004 for lying about his four-year shagfest with journalist Petronella Wyatt. How about this gem from his Telegraph article in 2002: "It is said that the Queen has come to love the Commonwealth, partly because it supplies her with regular cheering crowds of flag-waving piccaninnies." As recently as 2009 Johnson was accused of plagiarising a blogpost for (how low can you go?) a Twitter post about the London Bridge terrorist attack. [Details HERE]
It is hardly surprising that he now foams like an erupting boil to find himself exposed by Tucker Carlson -who is, lest we forget, an unemployed journalist.
Boris does not wear rejection well. Of course, only yesterday (in his selfie collection ) he was a globetrotting warrior-prince, the idol of millions -some tubby hybrid of Churchill and a fighter pilot, standing alone in stoic defiance of the teeming Russian hordes as they swept across eastern europe heading for London. Did Putin not tremble to behold the Mighty Boris, -the Man Who Beat Covid (after a spell in intensive care)- as he stood foursquare and two-fisted at the all-day breakfast buffet Zelensky laid on to honour his visit to the war-torn Ukrainian capital? Apparently not.
It’s easy to picture Johnson’s pudgy digits racing ahead of his hangover as he scrabbled to escape the humiliation of being outed as Joe Biden’s gofer. It can’t be easy when you’re an-ex TV celebrity, ex-Mayor of London, ex Prime Minister, and suddenly it looks like history will remember you as the errand boy for a senile dementia victim.
To understand the mind of a creature like Boris, consider that his close friends say he wakes weeping blood and lays down spitting enamel for each and every day that his photograph does not appear in the newspapers. A conscience-free fratboy who refuses to confess how many children he has fathered, but invokes holiness and invites collective prayer to cover his political tracks. You don’t need to be Sigmund Freud to pick the bones of out Boris Johnson, although some heavy lifting gear will come in handy when that day dawns.
Sic Transit Gloria Mundi, said Bunter.
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