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24th June 2008
Asshole Takedown: The Harare Files
Before we start today’s righteous ramblings, we at the BoF
must offer something of an apology to our loyal readers. BoF lovers everywhere
have no doubt been feeling a little short changed as of late, given the slowing
of the pace here at The Bat O’ Fury. All we can offer by way of an explanation
is to quote Plato and say that:
“The winds of change are not those that can be easily
cured by Gaviscon. Indeed, if symptoms persist, consult your local leech monger”
Normal,
regular ranting will hopefully continue from this point on – we thank you for
your patience. Those who have had their patience tested can go and take a
running jump. Whilst aflame. Into a vat of camel piss.*
So, what’s been going on in the mean time? Well, in short, two
things: the world is still full of bastards and Hollywood continues to raise one’s spirits,
only to dash them against the rocks in a manner akin to when Piggy has his
melon-like bonce crunched in The Lord of The Flies. Confused by that misplaced
metaphor? Good – we’re right back in the groove…
If this was a film, there’d be some sort of crack commando
unit that even The President didn’t know about (and I don’t mean that he should
know but he’s just a retard, I mean he hasn’t got level 5 security access or
some shite) would be taking down Robert Mugabe quicker than you could say Chuck
Norris with the lead piping in the conservatory. Surely someone can put up the
booty for a soldier of fortune who’s looking for a career revival (we’re
looking at you Mr Lundgren) to take down Africa’s
Biggest Twat® in a hail of bullets and testosterone. For Christ sakes, the damn
thing writes itself:
Asshole Takedown –
an original screenplay by BoF BoFfington
Final Act
Open to a remote farmland. A small, lone plane cuts across
the hazy blue sky. Dolph leaps out and uses his coat as a parachute. He lands
perfectly and pumps his fist in approval at, erm, himself. He removes the M-16
from between his teeth and approaches a nearby farmer.
Dolph: Hey John, where’s Mugabe’s Palace of Evil Shitness?
The dude stares in disbelief and says nothing.
Dolph: Hey John, calm it down. I’m used to
intimidating the gents with my huge physique. Please, I need to take down the
Mugabe bitch before taking an ill-advised sidestep into family comedy.
The dude stares in disbelief and says nothing. Dolph
hears a sound and turns, staring wistfully into the distance. He knows the
sound of a citizen being oppressed when he hears it.
Dolph: Hey
John, did that sound like a citizen being oppressed to you? Bah, of course –
being a square you wouldn’t know. Gotta dash John – be cool. And if you can’t
be cool, be smokin’.
Dolph gives John the wink and the gun, and then runs. Cut
to an arty shot of Dolph outrunning a plethora of wildlife (cheetah, rhino,
hippo, ostrich, llama, possibly a dolphin that’s strayed into a nearby inlet.) N.B.
If these animals are not native to Zimbabwe we can make it out to be
some sort of Zoo, possibly an evil animal recuperation centre. Perhaps John
stops to pet an animal in an affectionate yet manly manner. He could remove a
thorn from a lion cub’s paw. And we can counter the soppiness of that by him
punching a crocodile in the face. Cut to Mugabe’s Palace of Evil Shitness.
Some twat: Mr Mugabe, we have raped and killed many
people today.
Mugabe: Very good. Now fuck off I’m doing a sudoku.
Some twat: How many more shall we rape and kill today
Mr Mugabe.
Mugabe: Nine…no, four…no…gah, motherfucking sudoku.
Kill 10,000 more and bring me etchings that depict their suffering.
Just then Dolph bursts in, battering down the door with a
severed head from a guard outside.
Dolph: Etch this, bitch.
Dolph shoots Mr Some twat 800 times and then sets fire to
him before hurling him, spear like, through Mugabe. Mugabe winces and drops to
his knees.
Dolph: Any last requests?
Mugabe: My…sudoku….I…only have…one number…to…put…in…
Dolph glances down at the book of sudoku and smirks. Then
he drops his pants and does a monster chod on the sudoku pamphlet. He pulls up
his pants.
Dolph: I shit on your last request like you shitted
on the dreams of your people.
Dolph shoots Mugabe 800 times and pumps his fist. He
walks away, waving to a crowd that isn’t there. But in the background Mugabe
gets to his feet and reaches for the nearest blunt item. It’s that Bronzed
Bully from Bullseye. Who knows how he
got it, but it’s fair to say he’s not the close friend of Eric Bristow that he
claims to be…He charges at Dolph. But then, in through the side door comes John
to intercept the attack. John then beats Mugabe to death with a hoe.
Dolph: Looks like you took a last ride on the hoe
train, bitch.
Dolph and John pump fists and head out into the sunset
together. They’d next be seen in the sequel: Asshole Takedown 2: the goblins
take Carlisle. It was straight-to-DVD, yet did
surprisingly well.
So, simple as that really. But, if the real events were to
be committed to celluloid in a realistic manner all we would get would be 3
hours of the baddy being a shit whilst people in suits and ties flapped and consulted
Roget’s Thesaurus for new and interesting ways to underline how pathetically unable
to do fuck all they are. Then they’d come together to offer ‘widespread
condemnation’. The shit would pause briefly, laugh, and then continue being a
shit for the final hour of the film. Meh, it would probably win 13 Oscars. In
fact, hang on a minute…this is the script for the next Disney/Pixar
blockbuster. With Tom Selleck as Dolph and Ted Danson as Mugabe. With a special
guest appearance from Steve Guttenberg as ‘Gazelle #4’.
But what else has been going down in BoFtown? Euro 2008 of
course. A festival of football high in the shadow of the Alps.
Stupid Toblerone – it would have you believe that the Alps are one continuous straight line of uniform mountains. Made from chocolate. They
shouldn’t be allowed to produce such tasty propaganda. SO, anyway, the
football: who’d have thunk it? Italy,
France,
Holland and Portugal all
out. The Germans steam onwards to predictable, dependable relief, erm, victory.
But with no English representation it hasn’t really been the
same. Where’s that surge of spirits followed by a plunge into despair we’ve
come to rely on every other summer? Where are the car flags? Where are the
middle aged women becoming experts on the passing accuracy of Gareth Barry for
a week? Where’s the cheese? WHERE?
And if we’re feeling the disappointment here, imagine how it
feels on the continent. One shop owner in Vienna told the BoF ‘Sales of baseball bats wrapped in barb wire are down 800% now
that the English are officially shite. And we just can’t budge these crates of
Carling and these Union Jack boxer shorts…’
* - We at the BoF appreciate your loyal support.
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