JACKAL THE LAD

I have allowed something of a honeymoon period to pass by, before rushing into print about a certain event with which you are all familiar.

Sam Snort is usually the first on the block to offer his views and analysis on the big issues, but I must say that this one is kinda tricky, even for a giant of the written word and a behemoth of the boudoir such as myself.

It is not the apprehension of Carlos The Jackal which has made me pause for thought – though I will of course be visiting him to help in whatever way I can with his “defence”.

You see, my old buddy Carlos was drinking a hell of a lot of whisky over there in The Sudan, so his apprehension was not exactly a meisterwork of top-level sleuthing. All they had to do was look out for the drunkest man in Khartoum, and they had their suspect.

Thus, when they espied a person in dark glasses urinating into a Pass machine at the Bank Of Sudan in Main Street Khartoum, shouting “I’m Carlos The Fucking Jackal. Open up and give me all your money you stupid fuckers,” the gendarmes felt they were on the scent.

After numerous other public appearances involving profuse vomiting, improper approaches to elderly women, and much singing of patriotic songs, they closed in on their prey. Approaching him in the toilet of Biddy Mulligan’s Irish Bar and Lounge in downtown Khartoum, where he had repaired for a nap after his morning whisky-drinking competition, a gendarme popped the question: “Are you Carlos The Jackal, the notorious international terrorist?”

Awoken from his slumbers, he belched, deported a gallon of undigested whiskey on the tiles, and roared, “Who the fuck do you think I am? Sonny fucking Knowles?” It was a good question.

SMALL MATTER

So now he languishes in a Parisian cell, preparing his “defence”. I believe that he will argue that the police drugged and abducted him illegally. Certainly Sam Snort’s investigations have confirmed exclusively that he was drugged – but it was my man Carlos who did all the drugging, and in truth, he was too pissed to care where they were taking him, as long as there was a drop of hard liquor in it. Bless him.

His Iranian friends were beginning to seriously fucking irritate him, with their censorious approach to employees who begin the day with a naggin of Glenmorangie, and then go out for a real drink. Carlos and the Muslims did not see eye to eye on the subject of massive whisky binges, and he’s probably better off where he is now, surrounded by Frenchmen who have an endearing habit of swigging cognac at five in the morning.

So this is not what has been perplexing the brain of the World’s Greatest Rock Journalist. No indeed, the event which has exercised my most profound thoughts, over the past few weeks, and which I must finally share with you now, concerns the recent betrothal of a Mr. Michael Jackson of Neverland, and a Ms. Lisa Marie Presley of Graceland.

The happy couple lashed out a whopping $45 on a wedding license in the Dominican Republic, and are now man and wife. Their wedding photograph features a dwarf in a yellow jacket and a blue top hat.

Now, as you know, Samuel J. Snort cares little for this nuptial vibe, agreeing with Lisa Marie’s dear old dad, the late Elvis Aaron, that there’s no need to buy a cow when you can get all your milk from under the fence.

Clearly, then, these two young people are very much in love, and with about fourteen trillion dollars between them, they’re safe enough on the alimony front, in the unlikely event of this rock-solid partnership running into difficulties.

What has baffled and bamboozled even Sam Snort, however, is the small matter of offspring.

In this union, we have a deeply interesting racial imbroglio, featuring Lisa Marie, whose daddy was a white man pretending to be black, and Jacko, a black man pretending to be white.

FRENZIED COUPLINGS

What the fuck colour will the children be? Does Jacko’s pecker still shoot black bullets, or has he had his leurve-juices whitened as well? And even more to the point, will his interest in the young ’un be entirely commensurate with the standards required by the justice system?

In this extraordinary situation, I feel that Sam Snort must take a strong hand. Since no human being should be expected to grow up with the knowledge that they have been created by Jacko and the daughter of my good buddy from Mississippi, I am willing to rent out my services as a stallion.

Elvis always told me that – while I was helping him out, keeping the smile on Priscilla’s face – I could also fuck Lisa Marie if I wanted to, so there’s no problem on that front. What’s more, the gargantuan Snortian pecker would at least ensure that the little one would be certifiably Caucasian – which of course is what Jacko would want – and not some weird new day-glo kind of hue – this would help its quest for identity in what may be a slightly unorthodox upbringing.

My stud-services may be needed in any case, as the jury is still out on whether Jacko directs his throbbing todger towards anyone above school-going age. Lisa Marie is probably getting on a bit now for Jacko.

Naturally, he may watch our frenzied couplings, take copious notes, and include them in his next video if he likes. Hell, he may insist on it.

Crucially, the world must not be deprived of the magnificent opportunity offered by the union of the demon seed of the King of rock ’n’ roll, with that of Sam Snort, Crown Prince of Rock Journalism.

Naturally, I will have no parental duties, leaving that stuff up to Jacko and his highly-trained staff of child-care experts.

But I think that 20% of the bairn’s action would probably compensate me for my pecker’s exertions.

I could buy a nice plot of land with that kind of loot. Australia, perhaps.