I say, old chaps. Greetings from our little colonial village across the pond. Thank you for smiling. I have a cousin who’s an orthodontist if you can afford the flight to Salt Lake City. He’ll straighten you out in no time. Please hold your applause. Finish eating your cornish pasties and pork sausage rolls first. Sorry I forgot to bring you some real American French fries–or French chips, as you call them.
Let me tell you, I just flew in from New York and boy, my chauffeur’s arms are pooped. Ouch! Imagine how that would feel–pooping out your arms. It would probably hurt a lot–especially the first one. It would be like fist-fucking yourself in reverse. (I hope there are no children present; please keep the kiddies inside, where it’s safe. Good to see you have so many armed bobbies and stormtroopers here to keep all those left-wing terrorists at bay.)
In case you hadn’t heard, I’m running for president. America needs a rich white man in charge for a change, just as Mr. Burns says. Instead of a rich black man. But heck, as you may already know, I’m a man of the people, and I’m one of the people of the man. I don’t play golf like Barack Obama. Golf is a rich man’s sport. I’m like you blokes–I play polo. Water polo, in fact. Last Saturday I played in the pool on my yacht, but we had to cancel the game half-way through when one of the horses drowned. Coincidentally, it happened in the horse latitudes, so I guess history really does repeat itself, which is why I’m running for president.
I’m here to commemorate the London Summer Olympics. I love summer. And I’m intimately familiar with a lot of Olympic events. I used to be the Lord of the Rings in prep school. By the way, what is pole-vaulting? A pole seems like an awfully narrow place to keep a vault in; then again, there’s a lot of money floating around in cyberspace, and it’s pretty darned ethereal. Or is it a vault full of poles? Why not just call it a Polish prison? In my opinion, opinion polls are overrated. If you don’t believe me, get a second opinion.
People have accused me of being heartless for taking a cross-country trip with the family dog stuck in a crate strapped to the roof of my car. That’s not what happened at all. You know how dogs love to stick their heads out the car window? Well, Anne and I figured that our cocker spaniel Reggie would be happier if we Krazy-glued him to the front of the vehicle and let him be a hood ornament for awhile, or what you Anglican types would call a bonnet figurehead. So as we were rumbling down the divided highway–excuse me, dual carriageway–Reggie was having the time of his life, I’ll tell you. Despite the low visibility and the need to turn the wind–screen wipers on full blast to clear away his relentless slobber, we all had a jolly old ride indeed, singing “Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother’s mansion we go.”
I notice a lot of you are giving me funny looks. Hey, hey, I’m not a Monkee, just because I’m on teevee. And just because I’m a Yank doesn’t mean I can’t speak English. Here, I’ll prove it to you:
“‘Allo, guvnah! Top of the morning to you, luv! Where’s me old mistress Shaggie Thatcher? Please give her my regards. Cheers for privatizing everything, darling.”
Still not getting through to you? Okay, here’s Q from the old James Bond movies:
“Double-O Seven, this monocle also serves as a pocket watch. And don’t touch the alligator on your polo shirt. It’s real, and it’s alive. He’s liable to bite your trigger-finger off. In case you need to watch telly when you go to the toilet, there’s one on your belt buckle. Just be careful not to do too much navel-gazing, or the ladies might lose interest in you. I know, that’s hard for an old rake like you to believe.”
Anyway, you folks have been gracious hosts and Hostess Twinkies. I’ve got to get back to campaigning on the other side of the Atlantic bathtub. Sorry my interpreter couldn’t make it; he’s laid up all week after his hernia operation.
Tally ho! Be seeing you! Don’t forget to pop over for a visit! God save the Queen!