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​Fat Nixon Concession Speech

If, Tuesday night, he does collect the proper cut-arse he’s booked for himself, I’ve written this concession speech for Donald Trump, true to his style and character.

I WON THE election. Nobody has ever won more elections by more votes as I won the election tonight. I won so bigly, many people are saying I should win the 2024 and the 2028 elections tonight, too. And the election that comes after that, too, in 2028-30-6. Eight More Years! Twelve More Years! Some More Years After That! The White House is now Trump Towers West.
I’m not giving any interviews to Fox News anymore for being so easily fooled into thinking I’d lost by the Fake News Media and the election results. They shoulda just gone on pretending I won in Florida. I never was a fan of Sean Hannity. His girlfriend is ugly, but his wife is a fat pig, so I guess he’s doing better there, you know, the little tiny fish. You NEVER say you lost, ESPECIALLY when you lose. You smash your birthday cake if you’re ten or smash the Constitution if you’re 74.
So nobody else can get any!
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​Pitch Lake, Oil Lake

IF YOU WANT a visual illustration of the Trinidadian term, “monkey pants”, meaning a really bad situation, drive up to Fort George and have a look at the Gulf of Paria, which may very soon become the Gulf of Petroleum.

You may not see your monkey pants clearly now, but you will feel its effects soon enough.
The biggest uncertainty relating to the FSO Nabarima, a rusty Venezuelan oil tanker moored within Venezuelan waters in the Gulf of Paria, is whether it will sink or simply break apart.
The most assured certainty is that, unless a very great deal is done to prevent it, the Nabarima will very shortly spill1.3 million barrels of thick crude oil – five times more than the Exxon Valdez, an environmental disaster we’ve still not fully recovered from 31 years after it happened – into the Gulf.
It’ll look like something out of a Hollywood post-Apocalypse blockbuster – but it will be us who gets our block busted first and most thoroughly, and our apos properly calypsed.
Go buy some oysters fast-fast-fast, because nobody alive today, or any of their grandchildren, will be eating Caroni Swamp oysters again.
Is real oys-tears.

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​Hiroshima, Heroes He Mow

IT HAPPENS every time my neighbour’s riding lawnmower breaks down: the mini-savannah across the road, three empty, unfenced half-acre plots, which my neighbour normally keeps clean cut, bursts into a small jungle.

This week, the razor grass was taller than me and the crabgrass varied between knee- and neck-high.
And so in I went, on Wednesday, as I always do, to begin the taming of that jungle with my regular common or garden lawnmower.
You have to tilt the mower up on its back wheels, as if you’re popping a mower wheelie, for the first pass. A second pass of the mower, still on its own hind legs, gets the grass below the knee. Only the third pass feels remotely like mowing a lawn, rather than competing in a gruelling Survivor Samoa challenge.
Complete with eating live insects.
Grasshoppers fly out of the grass as you cut it, into your face, eyes, nose, mouth.
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