Let The Big O Flow

O. J. will walk.

That is the confident and exclusive prediction of Sam Snort, at the cutting edge of the American legal system.

He will walk, and walk tall out of that courthouse, a free man.

There is just no percentage in locking up O. J. for the rest of his natural, whereas giving him a clean sheet will mean gargantuan amounts of mazooma for all concerned.

This is America, and mazooma matters a great deal more than inadvertently battering a babe and her companion to death. They have different priorities over there, and they are the right priorities.

So you convict O. J. So what’s the fucking point?

The dead babe is not going to rise from the tomb to congratulate the jury on its perspicacity. It’s not going to make O. J. a better person, and will probably lead to prison disturbances as the inmates dispute whose turn it is to butt-fuck the man of the moment.

Waving his pecker

America was built on the idea of a fresh start for everyone, on not holding any grudges. Thus the Menendez Brothers got a hung jury after savagely murdering their parents, on account of Pop allegedly waving his pecker at them 14 years ago.

Thus Jacko sinks his love-truncheon into the asshole of half the juveniles of California, and he gets a clear run for the small consideration of 20 million bucks.

I ask you, would you accept 20 million dollars from Jacko for a bit of rumpy-pumpy, if the alternative was to see him installed as prisoner number 4269385? Of course you fucking would. They’ve got a bit of gumption in the United States after all.

So Mike Tyson didn’t walk. But Iron Mike is an ugly Nigra sonofabitch who would have been doing time anyway if he hadn’t been licenced to poleaxe people in the ring. Jail is his natural habitat, and none of the other cons are going to be unwise enough to catch him unawares in the showers, proposing a spot of leurve.

Jacko isn’t a Nigra any more, and neither is O. J. They might as well be white folks at this stage, and white folks walk.

Yummy Yummy

So is my good buddy O. J. guilty? I’m surprised you should ask. I’m surprised that I would ask myself.

Of course he is fucking guilty. He is as guilty as a puppy sitting beside a pile of poo. He is as guilty as Guilty Jack McGuilty, winner of the Guiltiest Man Of The Year competition. He is as guilty as Jeffrey Dahmer opening the door of his fridge and showing the arresting officer a row of severed heads, and saying, “You see those guys? I had them for supper last night. Yummy, yummy. Would you like to try some?”

But O. J. was clever. O. J. was cute. He sussed that the only way for a man in his position to go down, is to commit the brutal murders on live prime time television, standing over their battered remains and saying “I’m glad I killed the bastards. It’ll look great in slo-mo.”

Even then, he might walk, if he could prove that his dear old dad asked him to suck on his dick when O. J. was a gosson.

The Pop’s Pecker Defence is solid gold in the USA, as solid as Sam Snort’s love-torpedo bearing down on its target.

At the hearings, we have seen The Juice leaning over to his attorney and whispering things in his ear. He is reminding him of how fucking guilty he is, and could he crank up his act a bit for appearances sake.

Otherwise, brother Simpson is going to have to do a John De Lorean on it, and make a complete fucking bollocks of himself by pretending to have discovered The Lourd.

Sam Snort would not wish this on anyone, particularly O. J., who, during the many years of our close friendship, drinking heavily, scoring poontang, and free-basing to our heart’s content, was not the sort of man to take time out to do his devotions.

The Lourd is strictly for emergencies, and it would want to be some dire emergency for O. J. to testify, as it were.

He will walk. And we will party, party, party.

Insatiable Mickey

All hail Chris De Bonk! All hail his mighty porksword!

Fresh from the news about my man De Bonk playing doctors and nurses with hired poontang, we learn that a babe in South Africa has been on the receiving end of his insatiable mickey.

He told her that the papers would never believe her, because he is Mr Clean.

Ho yus, ho yus.

Roll up, roll up, for the De Bonk floorshow. He warbles awhile for the sad denizens of Mandela’s single-bar electric fire land, and then he’s off around Cape Horn, sporting musical boxer shorts, and suggesting that one of Pik Botha’s leggy lovelies might like to swallow his todger.

Ho yus, ho yus.

Ship to shore. Send me out some prime pussy, for I wish to sink my log. There’s a good fellow. There’s a fiver in it for you, old bean. And don’t pay the ferryman.

He wants ’em young, he wants ’em blonde, and he wants ’em now.

Any day now, Sam Snort expects a communication from De Bonk, challenging him to a shagging contest.

I am in heavy training. When The Juice is on the loose, he can decide the winner and bludgeon the loser to death with a brick.

He will want to get back to normality as quickly as possible.