WALKING THE DOG

Just walking the dog? Something that might keep a poor boy occupied as the news media wash around him? Walking the dog? Could it be that the boil of corruption is about to burst? Just walking the dog? As in London we have the MI6 agent with the somewhat androgynous features found locked naked in a red holdall with the keys on the inside, curled in a foetal position, and showing no signs of having attempted to escape while many thousands of pounds-worth of women’s clothes are stashed in his flat, but no news outlet will tell me if the clothes were his size. Just walking the dog? I discover from the New York Times that one of Obama’s Secret Service detail screwed his career-security pooch by engaging in a slagging match with a hooker at the Hotel Caribe, in Cartagena, Columbia over how much he owed her for the previous night’s fucking. She says, “I tell him, ‘Baby, my cash money.” Walking the dog? I watch in awe as the ancient toadsome Murdoch is grilled in London by lawyers for the Leveson Inquiry and doesn’t even have the good grace to squirm. Walking the dog? I observe the smooth, greasy, and now reddening face of the gravy-fed David Cameron and am repulsed by the both corruption and that infuriating lick of hair. Walking the dog? I can’t be repulsed by Mitt because I hardly believe Romney – this GOP CGI wanna-be president construct is even real. Walking the dog? And then the suggestion enters my mind that God might just be a short whiskey drunk Scotsman from a really bad part of Glasgow. On reflection, a good deal of evidence can be found to support the theory. Walking the dog? If you don’t know how to do it, I’ll show how to how to walk the dog.

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The secret word is Collar