NOTE: What follows is nothing to do with the President of the United States of Britain of a similar name. HE’S fictional. Well come ON! Whoever could ever believe there’s a Prime Minister called Boris DePfeffle Johnson. This on the other hand is the historical true satirical story of BOGUS DEPIFFLE JOBSWORTH. A Different person altogether.
All hail Great Skong! This is Agent 4564b, reporting from ‘Earth’, as per your instructions based on the kidnap of my maternal Grandmother and your threat to eat him and his. As you know, I myself intended to eat the creature as soon as her reproductive cycle had concluded – so, you bastard, my admiration! You got there first. I hope her/his kittens choke you
May your farts bring orgasms to all the planet Earths of this Universe.
THIS REPORT IS DEDICATED TO YOU, AND YOUR HOLY SON, THE BOGUS, with all my contemptuous admiration.
UPDATE: The most powerful Agent of the Great Skong, 273526, had failed lamentably in his attempt to undermine his designated continent, Amerigo Vestpucci. Having invaded the body of a Trump, he found himself ejected from his House at the very moment of potential victory. This despite his employment of the dreaded mind-mush amongst a sizeable percentage of the Amerigoons, known proud boyly as the Deplorables. It may well be the case that the body supplied to him/her/it may itself be turning into mush as a result of the application of vast quantities of Muck Donals, a peculiar brand of junk ‘food’ favoured by Deplorables. Also, Coke Colder, a black drink with a huge amount of this Earth’s favourite drug, sugar. And so perhaps he will simply rot away delightfully, in which case we will send you the corpse to dine on. If not, it is possible he may be of some use for a while. Time, as they say on our home planet, will smell.
A series of his reports to you are in the archives, in case you have forgotten, Here’s the first one FYI http://jonelkon.com/report-from-earth/
And now, the remaining Agents of the Empire can only nibble away at what is left of their of Sanity, an offshoot of that human infection called logic. Remaining agents are still active in countries called something like (this Earth is rubbish at spelling) Twerky, Phillip Inns, Bra Zille, Hungry, Russier, and there are several agents vying for power in almost every country of this de-knighted place. Armed and equipped with massive amounts of mind-mush (dispensed through a collective unconscious called the Internut, via what they enjoy calling So shall Medja) they occupy every nook and cranny of this festering lump of rock. Which festering, by the way, was initiated by the Earthlings themselves, quite without any Aldeberanian efforts. Because while several of these grotesque creatures are suffering from Sanity and Logic, at least 99% are infected by that greatest and highest of Aldeberanian virtues, which we value above all others: Greed. As a result, they are making a pretty good job of destroying the capability of their rock to support life. Which, you may say, Great Skong, (may your ears rot and your brain bubble out of the holes! Yes, I love you.) means we could just sit back and wait for these creatures to drown in their own ordure and then just invade and eat it all. But how long would it take, oh great two. I know how impatient both your brains are.
And so to my Report:
THE BOGUS WAS BORN at a ridiculously young age, and how the Humans marvelled at his resemblance to themselves! Four legs, four arms (two of each of which had to be removed by his proud parents) and, of course, a barbed penis. Yes, you guessed it: his parentage was part Aldeberanian on the Twerkish side (Twerky being, as I have said, one of the parts of this Earth ruled by one of our agents, the very delicious and thrustful Erdogranny, a Nerd of the twelfth level.) The Bogus thusways was disguised as an Earthling by his adoring mother Stanley Piffle and his adorable other mother. Yes, Great Skong. You! How I doth love you. Let me count the graze! on my knees!
Unfortunately, as you know, there was a slight problem in the installation of the brain. Owing to the destruction of the delivery drone from the Home Planet by an area of High Pleasure which moved in from South West, and with virtually unbroken sunshine it will be a warmer day as well temperatures around 12 to 16 degrees but 17 in a few spots such as cardiff and manchester
Seems there may have been a similar problem in the installation of my brain too. Or I hit a button called dictate with one of my tentacles in error while listening to Radio 4. Rebooting…
Ah! That’s better.
Where was I. Once the Bogus was grown a bit, it was inserted into a pubic School called Eating. No doubt the school’s name derives from its long association with the Aldeberanian Conspiracy, and the nourishment provided to the eminent teachers by the consumption of so many delicious brains with gravy. Naturally the defective brain he was issued with began to smell, it being rather too human for comfort. As a result several brain parts had to be replaced or destroyed. The amygdala had to be excised, for example. This is an operation performed on all Eating Boys, removing the capacity for empathy which is a lamentable human trait possessed by quite a few who didn’t have the benefit of getting into one of our famous pubic schools. These humans are, as you can imagine, referred to as ‘losers’ by all our alumni.
It was at this famous Boring School that our Bogus received his essential education in Writhing, Lying and Apoplectic. He read all the great Roaming Poets, such as Homo and Covid. He studied the great Economists like Damn Smith and, of course, our very own Highneck. Sports were not entirely avoided naturally. At Eating there is a wide variety available, from Crick necks, to Bullying to Skull Duggery and, of course, Buggery (otherwise known as the Wall Game). It is not known how many of these glorious pastimes he indulged in. Suffice it to say he had a jolly good time, spiffing, Sooopah, what japes.
Finally after XIV years of this, thoroughly inflated with knowledge of his own self-importance, Bogus was ready for University.
Of course he chose Oxbridge, which is situated on the Oxus River in the town of Oxen, in the County of Oxwich. The reason he chose Oxbridge was for the name. After all, he has always felt something of an affinity for bovine beasts, having been issued with a body resembling one. Here he studied Classics such as Tchikovsy and Handle in the original Latin and Geek. He applied for and was instantly accepted by the Bullying Club because of his extensive experience in this area, This famous club was a haven for many varieties of male bovine creatures with a preference for alcohol over water, an enjoyment of barbed penises and what they can do, and obviously a total absence of an amygdala. What more japes! By studying assiduously for at least five minutes a week, he gained a Masters in Pomposity, Arrogance, Blurting, and Farting (all the best qualities of Aldeberanians, inherited no doubt from your most rotund and rubicund self oh darling my dear. How I wish I could have your heads in my claws, so that I could spoon out your brains and enjoy them with soy sauce!!). This is referred to as a BA, which stands, I believe for Bugger All,
He was even made President of the Oxen Union, a very special club in which members dressed as oxen tie each other up and throw words at each other. Japes. Here they learn how to spurn logic, twist facts into convoluted delusions, confusions and contortions, using bogusness and bluster to create magnificent palaces of Ox Bollox. How they laughed as they learned not just to talk the hind legs off a donkey, but to persuade it to get up and take a walk afterwards! (Thanks Douglas Adams). By the time he left Oxen he had well earned his first name, Bogus, which though sometimes expressed as Bogus Doris (as a result of some confusion in the dark at the Bullying Club. Frequently.) he bore with pride all his life.
BOGUS LEARNS HIS CRAFT
There is, on this Earth, in the Country of Britland, an absurd system whereby the steaming masses are more-or less kept under control by believing, ridiculous as it may sound, that their rulers care what they think. As the Aldeberanian Great Skong you may well be delighted that these humans can be so easily fooled, and generally become pudding-feed to be dined on by their betters. The Control Mechanisms – called variously Democrassness, Dick Tator’s Ship, Auto Crassness, Commune Isn’t, etc – have very small and subtle differences one from the other. Frankly, too small to be of consequence, as they are all devoted to the same objective.
The official method in Britland is, of course Democrass. This system requires five-yearly erections in which vast moneys are spent to find out what the people think, then tell them what they think and persuade them to put a cross next to what YOU think. Generally, this works because getting Brits to believe five ludicrous things before bedtime is a long tradition, going way back to when Britz lived in caves in which the only running water was urine. In those days it was easy to get people to believe in god or gods! Hilarious! Which belief system served to keep them in control for centuries. But nowadays, Bogus realised, the way to control humans is through the Mind.
This was the reason he became a journalist for the Torygraph. Brief explanation: The Torygraph is of the genus ‘Nudespaper’, a tree-based life form sliced into digestible slices and fed through the head to willing humans. Called ‘Nudespaper’ because many others of the same derivation feature earthlings with no clothes on. Yes I know how that revolts you. But be that as Theresa May, our Bogus had an immense amount of fun learning how to apply and develop all his arts of fact fukking and ox bollox he had learned with the Bovine University in the context of mind-moulding, something the Torygraph prided itself in and had been developing for centuries. It was in this job that our hero learned how to pretend to have Opinions, a mental aberration we have long discarded in favour of selfindulgent hatred of everybody. This was an excellent strategy for him, however, as it got him his middle name of De Piffle, another honour he was to bear with pride all his life.
Greater success followed. Very soon a member of the nudespaper family called a Maggot Seen because it was owned by a worm of that genus that requires Spectacles, had him stolen. They greatly valued his excellent skills in obfuscatory circumlocution, flummox and bluster, all part of their signature tune for centuries. Here, our Bogus churned out column after column (in honour of the Roamings, who had lots of them called Doris, Ironic and Coren Ian) made of a variety of ordure, some of it (in honour of his Alma Martyr) bull shit. So prolific was he that he earned his august surname: Jobsworth.
THUS ENDETH THE EARLY TRIALS of the hero of this account, BOGUS DE PIFFLE JOBSWORTH. Tune in to the same website for the next exasperating episode!
Much love..,.,
