Meanwhile, a million miles from the World Cup and Wimbledon…
The voices in American heads continue to inspire fear and hatred of all things “un-American “, and any tiny imagined threat to “the American way of life “, (i.e. big fuel-guzzling cars, invading countries, swaggering, boasting, and generally being a pain in the arse to the rest of the planet.)
Recently we had Rand Paul, who hopes to be a Senator for Kentucky, announcing on his web-site that he planned “an underground electric fence ” at the US-Mexican border, with helicopter stations to respond quickly to any breaches of the border.
Gotta keep them pesky Spanish-speaking Mexicans out. They’ll dig their way to the fence and then sizzle. Or the underground helicopters’ll get ‘em.
Then there’s Alyssa Thomas. This home-bred terrorist is on the no-fly list maintained by the department of Homeland Security. One wrong move and she’ll be banged up in Gitmo. Which seems a bit rough for a six-year old, but Homeland Security know what they’re doing. Don’t they? Anyway, they admit she’s on the list, and say she’s going to stay on it too. Alyssa admits one of her favourite things is “jumping on my bed”. Definitely a terrorist.
Now we have Texas (yes, it would be ) Representative, Louie Gohmert. Apart from having a comical deep south accent and a shiny bald head, Louie is barking mad, and would very much like everyone else to be, too. Here he is on the subject of “terrorist babies”. (Please note — these babies are free! Yes, folks, FREE!)
Hey-ho… the second week of Wimbledon begins today. Another few days of bink-bonk until Roger Federer wins again. Tennis is not what it was, but then — what is?
We've gone from this...
... to this
At least we have the women’s — sorry! — the lady’s matches to look forward to. Their game has progressed so much in the last century. Not that the Daily Moanerwould put up pictures simply because we’re a male chauvinist outfit that can’t get to watch enough top totty dashing about and displaying their limbs. Certainly not!
Um… sorry… a photo from our private collection seems to have crept in. Very distasteful. We do most humbly apologise.
To make up for the error, here’s a photo showing how to make men’s tennis a little more exciting.
Four-one. Plus a disallowed English goal. And now the post mortem is filling the airwaves, with the pundits looking for the right culprit to string up.
Various theories abound. It’s all the referee’s fault. He was banned from taking part in the 2002 World Cup for “irregularities”. It’s all Sepp Blatter’s fault, for barring technology and for being Sepp Blatter. It’s all Fabio Capello’s fault for being a rotten manager. It’s all the team’s fault for playing ponderously like a pitchful of hippo’s. It’s all Beckham’s fault for not playing. It’s all Rooney’s fault for not scoring the ten goals we expected. It’s all the Press’s fault for piling on the pressure. It’s all the fan’s fault for painting themselves like nancy-boys. And it’s all the vuvuzela’s fault for being just fucking annoying and pissing everybody off.
The Daily Moaneris glad to offer further reasons for our team’s defeat. Such as the weather, (which was too hot / cold / wet / dry /windy — delete as applicable); the Archbishop of Canterbury, for not offering special prayers; David Cameron for not attending in person, preferring to gab with his mates at the G20 in Toronto; and the WAGS for either being there or not being there, as the case may be. Not forgetting, of course, that for the whole team, it was the wrong time of the month.
Somebody said the defeat was because the Germans played better than we did.
Have you ever wondered what are the essential differences between American football and English football? No, neither have we. But John Cleese has a stab at explaining it anyway.
It has been a good week for our trans-Atlantic friends. First, their whole Congress was able to bully and harangue one tiny little Brit for a whole six hours, whilst wetting their knickers like girlies over the oil spill. And on coast-to-coast TV too, so they could pick up a few votes with their chest-beating. Goshdarn it, that sure felt good!
But better was to come — when they beat the hated Brits one-all in South Africa. Even though Britain doesn’t have a team.
All over the US, people came out into the streets to cheer the one-all win. There was dancing in the streets. And drinking. Lots of drinking. Lots and lots and lots of drinking.
Filed under: Art — Tags: General — lenko @ 7:55 pm
Yes, your eyes do not deceive you. That is indeed a monster penis, rising majestically (as penises do) when St Petersburg’s Leiteny Bridge is opened to allow semenseamen ships through. Of course, when the bridge is closed again, the giant penis does tend to wilt. (As penises also do.)
The huge drawing — 22o feet long — was made by a radical art collective to highlight the security measures which will be in place for an important forum in June. Not that we care, because – look! It’s a giant penis. Something which you don’t see every day. I’m sure our lady readers would agree.
One of the artists has been picked up by the fuzz, a painful experience, and fined. Latest information is that it is still going up and down. Readers are encouraged to write in with further smutty double-entendres.
Your editor, though even more dashing and heroic than Indiana Jones, has several Achilles heels, though just two feet. And the greatest of these is that I am a musician manqué .
Can Easily Be Mistaken For Music
As a child, I played drums in a number of marching bands, all of whom asked me to leave. As a young teenager, I paid my paper-round money over to rent a piano-accordian which was at least as big as I was. And I paid more money over for lessons, until the teacher asked me to leave.
Another resounding failure was my attempt to become the next Louis Armstrong, blowing a battered old trumpet for hours in my bedroom. Until the neighbours asked me to leave.
In my mid-twenties, someone gave me a guitar, with which I tortured my small and defenceless children. I still play to this day, though nobody will stand still long enough to hear me play a full piece. I have to face it — I have all the ambition of a first-class musician. And none of the talent.
Except now, I have an instrument that even I can play, and easily be mistaken for music. It is simple. It is elegant to look at. It is easy to learn. And it is extremely irritating to listen to.
It is called a vuvuzela, and apparently it is annoying the hell out of people attending the World Cup in South Africa. They are claiming that it is too loud, that they cannot concentrate on the little men running about and falling over on the field, and that they are unable to hear what the commentators are screaming into their microphones. In short, that the vuvuzela is ruining the match for them.
We stole the pic below from TYWKIWDBI — a great site that the Daily Moaner reads every day, in an effort to remain sane in an insane world. It stands for Things You Wouldn’t Know If We Didn’t Blog Intermittantly. You should go there. Now!
Apparently there has been some kind of sporting tournament going on, these last few days. Possibly football. And there has been not a whisper of publicity about it — not in the newspapers, not on the TV. Nowhere . Admittedly, my TV can only receive a channel called Extreme Ironing , owing to my inability to reprogramme the thingey. And my local paper seems to be 100% adverts for optimistically priced houses.
If it had not been for my neighbour being sick in my letterbox at half-two in the morning, and the conversation immediately after, I would not have heard a word about this footie (as it is now called). My neighbour is a disgrace — coming home fighting drunk, night after night, with dishevelled hair, vomit down the front, and clothes in disarray, swearing and cursing like a Lebanese stevedore. I shall never be able to face her again.
Anyway, I gather there was a game between ourselves and the US which ended in a draw, after the Americans had unleashed WMD of some sort. In my neighbour Deirdre’s opinion, we wuz robbed. As far as I could gather ( just before she wet her St George’s Cross knickers and sank insensibly into my fish-pond ), there were no sendings-off, no red cards, no pitched battles between rival fans, no smoke bombs and nobody shot by the police.
Though there is some talk of stringing the goalie up. But that is all it will come to — just talk . It is all very disappointing.
The voices in American heads continue to inspire fear and hatred of all things “un-American “, and any tiny imagined threat to “the American way of life “, (i.e. big fuel-guzzling cars, invading countries, swaggering, boasting, and generally being a pain in the arse to the rest of the planet.)
