Old Glory Hole Knudthen

Old Knudsen is usually a canny debaser bordering on melancholic with a pithy disposition, although I prefer to repress that aspect of my personality because there is a fine line between wistful contemplation and an unhealthy obsession with an unsatisfactory past that leads inexorably to depression. It can also develop into an unhealthy mawkishness that is laughable if it wasn't so unfunny. In other words I am missing the 3 things in life that make me truly happy. 1.America. 2.Cock. 3. More cock. From where I sit overlooking the bay of pigs, more commonly known as Castlerathdun to the great unwashed, I can't help but notice that the lights of Fresno no longer twinkle brightly in the eyes of my weemen. Semen and weemen, my heart belongs to both, but my soul still clings to the dear old US of A.

Motherfuckers... deportation can be such a bitch, but Knudsen and anthrax will never die. Amen. For over 70 years Knudsen has been cunningly disguised as an ageing homosexual with a rapidly reclining hairline, hence the cap. He had surgery on a hair lip at the age of 19 and a lump the size of Fresno implanted into his groin area to make him appear 'hung'. Without the surgeons scalpel skill Old Knudsen would have remained 'Old Knudthen' and been just just another clothet gay with very little to look at in the lunchbox area and a terrible lithp. For thixty of hith theventy eight years, Knudthen hath pretended to be from a Lowland clan of  warriorth, an inthanely ferothiouth band of football manager-murdering neanderthallth who worthip the Pope and live in a world where only the color orange exiths. Knudthens cover was blown (snicker) when he wath forthed to remove hith cap during the ritual vithit by the notoriouth Canadian-Maori drag queen, Mary Jane O'Lethbian. The entire top of his balding head was milk carton white, a dead giveaway that Knudthen was in fact from the Isles of Thcottie and therefore an infiltrator of all things filthy McHaggis who hide from the sun and deep fry their enemies.

How the fuck  Knudthen got away without being scalped, dipped in beetroot and had a boiled egg stuffed up my ass is still a mythtery to thith day. If it hadn't been for a wily orthodontist, a thtick of Wrigley's gum (spearmint natch) and a face like a smacked ass I might well have been licking a clitoris that resembles a pound of raw pigs liver and plucking her leg hairs in some snowy crevice across the Rockies in Cuntada. My many years spent training the real 007 paid off as I was able to slip quietly away between the thighs of big mama Mary-Jane and exited via her rectum cavity amongst a mountain of half digested food and a nebula of flatulent gas. At least it pinned back my protruding ears as I bumped against her vulva on the way through.

So the next time you think of Old Glory, just remember the holes that this particular brand of homo hero has been through, quite literally.

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Go ahead... shat on me again.