Holy fuckballs I just found the next president of the United States: All hail Lord Buckethead.
I was watching the nigger-less version of ‘Real Time’ otherwise known as ‘Last Week Tonight’, and the topic was the rather amusing debacle of Britain’s so-called “snap election.” Apparently, limeys have got all sorts of weirdo political rules, and calling for an early election seems to be one of the dumber examples. Although considering the glass house of stupidity the U.S. now finds itself encased in, I suppose we’ve lost the ability to throw stones at any other country’s politics. Goddamn Zimbabwe looks down in us.
So not only can Britwits vote for their next election years in advance, for some bizarre reason every candidate has to stand on stage together as the results are read. Why is anyone’s guess, but it sure makes for some classic scenes, because one thing Britain and America share, other than a zest for murdering Indians, is a long-standing tradition of joke presidential candidates making a mockery of politicians specifically and politics in general. Or as the crumpet-munchers would say, “Takin’ the piss out of ’em.” My personal favorite American version of this foolish phenomenon is definitely four-time presidential hopeful Vermin Supreme, although I heavily supported Deez Nuts in the 2016 election.*
But this year Britain outdid itself. Not since the Republican primary has there been such an eclectic collection of human garbage on one stage at one time. Among those who received votes—and this was for Prime Minister mind you—were Elmo, some asshole in a silly costume, and of course the greatest political dynamo of a generation, Lord Buckethead.
As his unusual name suggests, he is indeed a Lord. He kind of looks like the Black Knight who got dismembered in Monty Python, with what else but a big black wastebasket for a head. But he’s not running on his boyish good lucks or Kennedy-like charm and serial infidelity, he’s running because dammit, sometimes a bucket’s got to do what a bucket’s got to do.
It was so funny too that during the official proceedings, some stuck-up snooty English broad had to Mary Poppins her way through reading the names of the respective candidates and their number of votes. When she was actually forced to murmer in her particularly posh accent, “Lord Buckethead” I was fuckin dying laughing. It does beg the question though, if you know it’s going to be read aloud why not a more colorful name? Something regal-sounding, like “King Henry VIIII, aka the Ninth Wonder” or “Cuntface McGee.”
Whatever he calls himself, a bucket by any other name can still govern better than Trump. I don’t even give a shit that he’s not American. He’s a goddamn alien for god’s sake. Or a robot. Or a deeply disturbed lunatic inside a retarded ten cent costume. Given the hideous alternative to a Buckethead presidency in our doomed nation however, does it really matter?
Before he had uttered a single syllable, I was nevertheless ready to start writing in his name on our presidential ballot immediately when Lord Buckethead himself addressed a hushed audience. He mesmerized the crowd with not only his wisdom, but a spot-on comic book villain impersonation, before ending his remarks with a subtle note of warning concerning the difficulties current British Prime Minister Theresa May will soon face, promising, “It will be a shit show.” Absolutely Churchillian.
On the real side, he had me at “Buckethead”, but I never dreamed he’d be so eloquent a public speaker. That trash heap is a regular Abraham Stinkin’.