2 Jun 2017

And Then News Fun...

It’s been a joy today to tune into the TV and radio news and be witness to exploding heads as the usual suspects wrestled with the unthinkable; that Trumpton has actually done wot he done did say he’d do if elected and that is to withdraw the US out of the Paris climate accord. It’s understood that many of the usual suspects couldn’t be coaxed out of their safe spaces to cry on camera.

As for the Greens and any number of environmentalists, they have got to be in complete apoplectic meltdown. You have to feel sorry for the poor things, right? Right?

I’m guessing you also noticed, as indeed did I, that, at time of typing, no voice with a sceptical view regarding man made climate change, or any voice  agreeing with Trumpton, however tenuously, has been allowed anywhere near the pointy end of any camera or the black bulbous bit atop any microphone.

I’m betting that the next bout of heavy rain, the next strong winds, the next polar bear found floating deceased or the next prolonged period of sunshine will be shouted, via megaphone, as being the fault of Trumpton and Trumpton alone. He sure won’t be allowed to win but I’m sure he didn’t expect that to happen. Bravely done that man I say.

Here’s something slightly different to mull over, seeing as it’s election time an’ all, that I ran into  this morning down in the comments section on the site of that Dr Redwood fellow wot is marked, after a search, as ‘author unknown’. I do believe I’ve seen it before but when and where I have nary a clue.

Tax his land, tax his wage,
Tax his bed in which he lays.
Tax his tractor, tax his mule,
Teach him taxes is the rule.

Tax his cow, tax his goat,
Tax his pants, tax his coat.
Tax his ties, tax his shirts,
Tax his work, tax his dirt.

Tax his chew, tax his smoke,
Teach him taxes are no joke.
Tax his car, tax his grass,
Tax the roads he must pass.

Tax his food, tax his drink,
Tax him if he tries to think.
Tax his sodas, tax his beers,
If he cries, tax his tears.

Tax his bills, tax his gas,
Tax his notes, tax his cash.
Tax him good and let him know
That after taxes, he has no dough.

If he hollers, tax him more,
Tax him until he’s good and sore.
Tax his coffin, tax his grave,
Tax the sod in which he lays.

Put these words upon his tomb,
“Taxes drove me to my doom!”
And when he’s gone, we won’t relax,
We’ll still be after the inheritance tax.

Quote;  Monty Python.

"I think that all good, right thinking people in this country are sick and tired of being told that all good, right thinking people in this country are fed up with being told that all good, right thinking people in this country are fed up with being sick and tired. I'm certainly not, and I'm sick and tired of being told that I am."

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