Suggested Audio Candy:
 Flinch “World on Fire”
 Nouvelle Vague “Sweet Dreams”
The world has officially gone mad. This morning, as I flicked through the channels searching for something even vaguely interesting to accompany my first caffeine hit of the day, I was greeted by none other than outspoken Republican candidate and billionaire mogul Donald Trump. There is no mistaking this man, if you can call him that. His toupé alone recently secured a multi-million dollar recording contract and is set to work on its debut album, How To Get A Head & Make It Look Fucking Ridiculous. Never one to shy away from making ludicrous statements, Trump’s most recent brainstorm has led him to believe that all Muslims should be banned from entering the United States and is bound to court widespread controversy. What a tool he is. Granted he could buy an entire continent with loose pocket change but all the cash in the world won’t change the fact that he is little more than a gibbon with a hairpiece.
Surely, with his limitless funds, he can afford to invest in a beanie hat as his long-suffering follicles must groan every time he adjusts his top box. This recent outburst confirms what I have been thinking for some time now. He is an intruder from another planet and likely to do to congress what Justin Bieber did to America-Poland relations in one visit. Speaking of which, Bieber is due an extra hiding on account of his recent multi-pronged assault on the top of the billboard charts. While admittedly he appears to have grown a few strands of hair on his chest during his lengthy break and some of his songs are, dare I say it, infuriatingly catchy, he has also managed the unthinkable by making Skrillex less cool. It’s all Cuban cigars and Babycham now but what happens the next time he is cut short in public and decides to relieve himself in a mop bucket? Suddenly, dubstep wizard Skrillex becomes an accessory to idiotic behavior.
Every day I do my darndest to avoid the news and, every day, I fail miserably. Living with your seventy-one year old mother has its drawbacks and one of them is shared ownership of the living room. When she has retired for the evening, it becomes my den of iniquity and, should I become overcome with the urge to unzip my pants and flop out my junk, then who is to call me a deviant? However, during waking hours, I act like a pillar of decency and tow the line accordingly. Invariably I have to eat at some point and, when my tummy starts to growl its derision, you can bet your bottom dollar that some pre-programmed chump is rattling on in monotone about some bleak turn of events in the middle east or the latest outbreak of Pigeon-themed influenza sweeping the country. It’s Trump today but what about tomorrow? Gilbert Gottfried reading the weather? Actually, that may be vaguely amusing.
Recently I travelled to Paris to work on two short films which will be hitting your screens in 2016 and my arrival coincided with one of the most devastating events I have ever witnessed. The Parisians were visibly shaken by the atrocities that played out on their very doorsteps and security measures had been maximized as the whole city mourned this unspeakable tragedy. However, after a few days of feeling dejected and exasperated by just how sick a place the world we live in can be, something occurred which filled me with pride to call myself human. They began to rally, puffed out their chests, and flat refused to be beaten by such a repugnant display of inhumanity. Life must go on, as hard as that may appear at the time, as the many still outweigh the few spoiled apples. There will always be cruelty, treachery and downright sickness and I’ve long since accepted that some things in life we simply cannot change. However, the moment we allow our heads to drop is the very same one where these putrid cunts triumph and mankind will never let that happen.
What if global war breaks out as it invariably does every new generation? As that nuclear missile is hurtling towards my coordinates and preparing to obliterate my sorry ass and millions of others, I shall locate the first senior citizen I lay eyes on and help them across the road before offering to massage their bunions. Life need not change as long as it is under my jurisdiction. Until that fateful moment, I am the master of my own destiny just as Donald Trump is his. The difference is that his brain has long since been replaced by an out-of-date cauliflower. I checked mine yesterday and it is just as gooey and pulsating as it always is. If you ask me, I believe that his hairpiece is inherently evil and Trump himself is merely a vessel. Time to shave it off Donald and, while you’re at it, give Bieber a bowl cut. Maybe then, Skrillex will cut him loose and get back to being the man again.
My recent Eurostar trip to gay Paris reminded me that together we really can make a difference. I love a good cliché me. It’s true though, united we stand is a catchy slogan, and it holds extraordinary weight when you get over how unoriginal it sounds. Personally I believe that reinvention is evolution in itself. Just when we think that every type of sad love song has been made, Adele comes along with a new studio album and my internet speed drops dramatically. She just keeps on reinventing herself and, credit to her for milking the fiscal teats so consistently. By the same token, all a good cliché needs is a fresh lick of paint and suddenly it has relevance again. The term united we stand then receives a remix and suddenly Donald Trump has a new pearl of wisdom to blatantly disregard.
Mean-spirited meatbags like Trump may think that a fascist regime is the way to go but one day his toupé will turn on him and suffocate him in his sleep. I’m not saying that hair implants cannot be trusted and, under the correct supervision, I’m sure that they can enrich your life. However, place a baby wipe over a mass of lumpy dog excrement and it is unlikely to smell of roses a few days down the line. Wigs have feelings too you know. I’m transgressing but my point is this: fuck Donald Trump. Fuck him in his kidney with a shattered mercury thermometer and twist it 360. The world is already hurting enough without the idiotic blathering of a banana-headed shock jock with toxic dandruff. Here, allow me to close with a hateful ode.
What is that stench? I can smell it from here
Reminds me of rhinos when they have diarrhea
Mr Trump I believe that all signs point to you
and I’d love to hear just what you’re planning to do
Don’t spray antiperspirants my sinuses flare
Tell you what if you don’t mind let me borrow your hair
I’ll have it straight back to you in a minute no less
Just enough time to use it to scoop up this mess
I believe it vacated when you gave your last speech
It spills from your maw with the shit that you preach
I hope you get dysentery choke on your colon
and I hope they smear anthrax on your Slazenger roll-on
You may think it funny to cause a commotion
But think before spouting each ill-informed notion
If you don’t heed my words then I’ll buy a plane ticket
place your wig on a freeway during rush hour and kick it
I’ll gouge out your eyes and rip out your spleen
and that’s just getting started what comes next is obscene
as just when you think that your suffering’s passed
I’ll poke that dire hairpiece in the eye of your ass
If you see Justin Bieber please pass on my regards
I despised that punk once but the worst of it passed
If I see him in passing I’ll still give him a thump
But I’ll save the real low blow for you Mr Trump