Archive for August, 2009

I Need A Vacation

August 31, 2009

I Need A VacationSo I’m going on vacation for a few weeks. Ted’s dead, Maria’s still pissed at me, Kissinger’s one and only plan for world domination is to exterminate 90% of the population, and that son of a bitchTM Dillon’s still out there somewhere waiting for me to fuck up so he can make his move.

I’ve decided to return to my homeland of Cimmeria, where I can smoke stogies indoors and make blood sacrifices to CROM every day, and seek his wisdom and guidance, before I begin my epic quest to become President of Universe in 2012.

I’ve got some gubernatorial stationary with me, so I’ll be writing down my thoughts on paper, and then sending them to Manolo by camel so that he can type them up. Unless I get really pissed off and decide to punch the camel in the face (that was a total ad-lib by the way).

And when I return, rejuvenated, revitalized, I will unleash the full force and fury of Valhalla itself, and my good buddy CROM will rain down destruction and ruin on every fool standing in the way of my ascension.

I’ll be backTM.


The Horror

August 31, 2009

The Horror

So according to the Ministry of Information, if you want to get laid tonight, and every other night, the UK is the place to be. The official press release states officially that the country is swarming with drunk teenage girls. I’m not making this stuff up.

But I guess it all comes down to standards. The place is an island, so unfortunately there isn’t going to be much variation in the gene pool. So what you’re going to be faced with when you get there is a bunch of inbred illiterates with bad teeth and the conversational aptitude of retarded parrots. And that’s before they start drinking. Not that you’re gonna notice too much on account of the fact that by the end of the night you’ll be just as wasted as they are.

A word of warning before you book your flights, however. Manolo was there a couple of weeks ago. I asked him what it was like when he came back. He couldn’t answer. It looked as though his soul had been sucked out of his eye sockets. He collapsed onto the ground right there in front of me, curled up into a ball, and started sobbing. He didn’t stop for five hours. The horror. The horror. That’s all he kept saying. I told him he should have gone to Miami instead HATM HATM HATM!

We’re not going to tell you what we did with your $24 trillion

August 28, 2009

joker-burns-moneySo check this out. A bunch of hippie bums and freeloaders want to… hang on a second, Manolo are you sure this is right?! They want to audit the Fed?! You people are so stupid. Let me tell you something, before you decide to lend someone $24 TRILLION, maybe you should do a little background check on them first, I dunno, maybe read some books or something.

You want to know where your money went? I’ll tell you where: yachts, mansions, booze, cocaine, hookers for Kissinger, more yachts… the most epic spending binge in history, at your expense. And they’re just getting started. They’re going to be asking for more of your money very soon, so let’s all play good citizens and hand it over without too much fuss, eh?

If you ask me, they’re just wasting it. When I’m President of the Universe in 2012, I’m going to build a giant fire-breathing, solid-gold statue of CROM on the front lawn of the White House, and then I’m going to build an even bigger statue of me right next to it EEEYYYAAARRRGGGHHHTM!!! With a giant stogie hanging from my mouth HATM HATM HATM!

But I digress. The Fed has never been audited, and it’s going to stay that way until you people wake up penniless and homeless on the land your ancestors conquered. So hippies, why don’t you just do what you usually do and get stoned and have sex and protest about the silly polar bears not having anywhere to live. Or something else that’s equally important. In the meantime, my buddies are going to carry on running this country into the ground, and they ask only one thing of you in return: don’t get in their way.


August 28, 2009

NUP_112711_2095So my favorite dream of all time is the one where I’m on my ship. One day there’s a storm and I’m shipwrecked on a desert island. It’s a beautiful island, an isolated, unspoiled eden a thousand miles away from civilization. The only other inhabitants of this mystical place are a race of nubile, naked Amazon warrior queens. Their eyes have never gazed upon a man’s visage before, but their myths and legends speak of the day when a man-king will arrive on their shores, show them pleasures they have never known, and single-handedly keep them satisfied for all eternity. No one comes to rescue me and I live there happily ever after HATM HATM HATM!!! That’s my favorite dream of all time.

Uncle Teddy

August 27, 2009

Uncle TeddySo see! I knew that something wasn’t quite right! Uncle Teddy popped his clogs, kicked the bucket and shuffled off this mortal coil yesterday to take his place in Valhalla, sitting at the right hand of Crom.

The lucky, selfish bastard.

Now what the fuck am I gonna do? That guy was gonna be the lynchpin of my 2012 campaign. How the fuck else was I gonna get all those dumb-ass liberals to vote for a guy that made his name killing people with big guns? Hold hands with Uncle Teddy in public, that’s how! Now it’s all ruined, YOU BLEW MY COVERTM! EEEEYYYYAAAARRRRGGGGHHHHTM!

And you know what’s the worst thing? I only just got finished getting Manolo to write an article for Time Magazine kissing his wrinkly ass. Wunderbar.

Maria is devastated. She’s now lost her mother and Uncle Teddy in the space of a few weeks. I gave her a really big stogie to try and cheer her up but not even that worked. I think I might just retreat to the gubernatorial smoking tent and have a couple of solo power lunches to regroup.

For the first time since about 1973, I can feel my grip on the Presidency of the Universe in 2012 slipping, like a greased dumbell from my iron grasp.

Return of the Reptilian Overlords

August 27, 2009

nesarai_medSo I got up in the middle of the night to take a gubernatorial slash, and then I was thinking about stepping outside to chug on a midnight stogie, when I bumped into Kissinger wandering aimlessly around the house wearing nothing but his underwear, and that stupid glazed look he always has in his eyes.


He didn’t notice me. He was standing next to a table lamp turning it on and off at random intervals, muttering some bullshit to himself in that god damn stupid fake German accent of his.


“Blehblehbleh… Morse code… blehblehbleh… have to send secure communication… blehblehbleh… to mothership… blehblehbleh… the planets will be in alignment… blehblehbleh… my masters are coming…”

Jesus. The old man’s cracking up. I gave him a stogie hoping it would shut him up, but he just started nibbling on the tobacco. I left him to it and walked out to the garden to think.

He turned up at our house a few weeks ago to help me finalize my plans for World Domination, and now he won’t leave. What’s worse is that all he ever wants to do is get wasted and fuck high class hookers all the time. Either that or play Risk.

Maria’s getting really hacked off with the whole thing. Last night she told me, “Arnold, you’ve got to do something! I don’t know how much longer I can take this! Even the kids are starting to freak out! And why, for the love of all that is good and natural in this world, why does he go out into the front yard every afternoon, take his clothes off, and lie down on a rock for five hours in the baking heat?! WWHHHYYY???!!! I WAS GOING TO HAVE SOME FRIENDS OVER YESTERDAY BUT I COULDN’T BECAUSE THE FIRST THING THEY WOULD SEE WHEN THEY PULLED INTO THE DRIVE WOULD BE KISSINGER’S ASS CRACK SMILING AT THEM!!! I HATE YOU!!!!”

I tried to reason with her. “Maria,” I said. “Darling, baby… that man is one of the most successful, most celebrated mass-murderers alive. He’s so good they gave him the Noble Peace Prize for it. He is quite possibly the most devious, evil little shit that has ever lived. We have to be nice to him. It’ll only be for a few more days, I promise. I love you.”

“I want him out of my house,” she said quietly, with a sigh that told me I’d fucked up, big time.

But that’s not even the worst of it. Dillon’s still out there, somewhere, probably driving around in my Hummer, plotting and scheming, trying to do everything he can to break my concentration and stop me becoming President of the Universe in 2012. The police haven’t found any proof yet, but I know it was him. It couldn’t have been anyone else. The son of a bitchTM.

It’s a beautiful, cloudless night. I’m standing barefoot in my back yard with a freshly lit stogie in my hand. The kids are fast asleep inside, and Maria’s gone to one of her cousin’s for a few days. Everything is… still. As it should be. I know in my mind that nothing stands between me and my destiny, that one day I will be elected President of the Universe. But for some reason, I still can’t shake the feeling in the pit of my stomach that something isn’t quite right…

LaBoeuf Barfed On My Shirt

August 26, 2009


So anyway I got in really late last night, drunk as fuck and stoned off my ass after a night out with the boys. I don’t know why Maria tolerates it, really. Oh wait a minute, yeah I do. It’s cos I’m one of the biggest super-smash-hit box office moviestars of all time and soon to become President of the fucking Universe. HATM HATM.

Man that Kissinger can party. I know he’s allegedly 86-years old and looks like a sun-dried toad with glasses, but man, that guy was outbonging McCain last night and that’s no mean feat! I hope when I’m allegedly 86 I’ve got as much game as he does. The mumbling schweinhund.

So, as usual, I invited everyone back to mine for bratwurst and hookers: Oprah was designated driver this time and we bagsied the front seat for that young fuck LaBoeuf – he’s still not ready to be shooting with the big guns yet so we knew he’d ralf. And he did. All over the bearskin interior of the Hummer that faggot Putin gave me when he came for a three week power lunch back in 2007 EEYYYYAAAARRRRGGHHTM! He’ll fucking pay for that in good time. Trust meTM.

So we got back about 3 am and I got Manolo straight on the case. The guy makes a mean bratwurst, in fact his sausage handling is the single reason I chose him out of all the other illegals that auditioned for the part of gubernatorial manservant. The fact that he’s also related to some of the finest hookers this side of Tijuana is an added bonus. As is the fact I have them on speed-dial HATM HATM HATM.

So McCain and Kissinger were going at a couple of barely legal illegals, LaBoeuf was knocked out on the sofa and Manolo was at the grill. Me and Oprah were smoking cigars. She’s a real hoot. She was telling me about growing up in Mississippi and selling pot to children. The used to call her DOPErah HATM HATM! Even if it’s not true, it’s still funny. Like my supersmashhitboxofficemovie Twins – as if I’d be related to that midget DeNiro. EEYYYYAAAARRRRGGGGHHHHTM!! You people are so stupid!

Anyway Oprah was telling me about how she managed to get that homosexual, drug-abusing muslim illegal alien president elected last year, so she should have no problemoTM making me President of the Universe in 2012 (it’s as good as done)!

So after the senior Republicans were done with Manolo’s relatives, we woke up LaBoeuf, had some stogies and played naked Twister until Oprah needed to leave for her morning broadcast. Man I was wasted, and I love being Fuhrer of Kalifornia.

That was definitely the best Tuesday so far this week ever.

Camping for Amerika

August 25, 2009

Tent Cities

So the other day I was just sitting in my gubernatorial smoking tent having a Punch Punch and enjoying my mid-afternoon bratwurst. The birds that I hadn’t shot yet were singing in the trees, the sun was shining through the double-glazed tent flap window, and Manolo was buffing the heels of my feet with a pumice stone. He was singing Stille Nacht to me in broken German.

So there I was completely at ease; stogie, bratwurst, stogie, bratwurst, no kids, no Maria, no signature-needing, discernment-requiring gubernatorial bullshit to piss me off. This humble little, eight berth, air-conditioned, satellite up-linked tent was a little piece of Valhalla.

So that got me to thinking about all of those thousands of my fellow Kalifornians who are currently living in tent cities across the state: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU COMPLAINING ABOUT, YOU BROKE-ASS, UNAMERIKAN BUMS?!?! STOP WHININGTM!

After tits, stogies and feeling the pump, tents are the best thing Crom has ever given us! You can chill outTM, talk to all your buddies that probably couldn’t keep up with their mortgages either and have the time of your fucking lives! You don’t even have to worry about locking the doors and putting the burglar alarm on after having some beers and a few stogies, because you don’t have either! HATM HATM!

And what could be more Amerikan than living in a tent anyway? Remember the Hoovervilles of 1930s? What, you people are too good for tents in an economic depression? BULLSHITTM!

I only hope that by the time I’m President of the Universe in 2012 (all bets are off) they’ll deem if fitting to rename all such communities Schwarzeneggerburgs in my honour, and every Amerikan can pitch his tent with pride in the ravaged wasteland of his choice.

Louder, Manolo, louder! Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht…


August 24, 2009

I want to know what you think...So I want you to consider your options very carefully, because let me tell you something, your vote will affect not only your own fate, but also the fate of the entire Universe when I am elected President of the Universe in 2012 (it’s on). We take the voting public very seriously around here. This is your chance to really make a difference. Don’t waste it. All of these issues are very close to my heart, and they should be close to yours too. I mean, think about it! The only way true democracy works is if all citizens, young and old, are active participants, instead of the fat, lazy spectators you’ve become. You have to get off the bench every once in a while and play the game EEEYYYAAARRRGGGHHHTM!!! And the bottom line is this: if you don’t vote, I’ll hunt you down and terminate you HATM HATM HATM!

Bun For My Bratwurst

August 21, 2009

Bun For My BratwurstSo I was just signing some gubernatorial proclamations or declarations or some shit in my smoking tent the other day, when suddenly a thought came crashing into my head: CROM, my mom was hot in Conan.

And I mean so many people look back on the eighties like all the moviegirls from that era are super-nubile sex goddesses. They couldn’t be more wrong. Have you seen Top Gun lately? Kelly McGillis looks like a convict with a wig on. Nobody’s got anything on Conan’s mutti. Trust meTM.

Anyway at the time we were doing Conan I was not the big-shot box office superstar I would become two years later in The Terminator, but she was from a town in Germany quite close to Austria so I still got to grope her.

Roswicha Bertasha Smid Honczar her name was, which shits on Schwarzenegger to be fair. Five foot eleven inches of Germanic goddess that left the Fatherland to pursue a career in softcore pornography in Franco’s Spain. Now that’s a fraulein close to my heart – mixing tits AND fascism. HATM HATM.

Anyway, you might be wondering why she doesn’t have a speaking role in my first and possibly most autobiographical super smash-hit box office movie, Conan the Barbarian. It’s because her English was shit. And according to Manolo, so is her Spanish. Although she didn’t say much in those films either, on account of the tits. KOOOOLLTM.

So obviously we were getting on well during the filming: her being a super hot porno vixen, and me on the cusp of transforming from seven-time Mr Olympia winner to super smash hit box office icon. In fact, I think it’s probably more than, and in all honesty likely, fair to say that she was infatuated with me from the moment my ferimones invaded her nostrils.

So anyway, we were hanging out on set one day, she was wearing a skin-coloured bikini and pouting on a sunlounger and I was lifting fat kids to spice up my usually boring two hour dumbbell set, when suddenly I was overcome by the pump. I dropped the fat kids, ran over to her and knelt by her sunbed.

“Mein liepschen,” I said, grasping her tiny girlie hand, “by CROM one day I will be the most highly paid super smash-hit box office actor in all of Hollywood, become Fuhrer of Kalifornia and then in 2012 ascend to the presidency of the entire Universe. It’s a dead cert EEEEYYYYAAAARRRRGGGGHHHHTM!!!!”

“You are the shining light in the darkness, the rhino’s horn, the bun for my bratwurst! Be my consort and we shall rule the Universe as President and Mrs President and have billions of superkinder to carry on the name of Schwarzenegger for all eternity EEEEYYYYAAAARRRRGGGGHHHHTM!!!!”

She looked at me, gorgeous and bewildered. On second thought, maybe I should have said it all in German. Nevertheless, I went in for the kill.

“You’re going to sleep with me tonight, my dear. You know why?”


“Because I’m stronger than you.”

Anyway, that was the last time I spoke to Roswicha Bertasha Smid Honczar. Last I heard she was a washed-up schizophrenic throwing ducks at bread in a Madrid park. She could have been Mrs President of the fucking Universe (it’s a sure thing), but obviously then who would feed the bread? DUMME SCHLAMPE!