Problem with Spain’s economy is not debts, unemployment or lack of credit. The problem is, in a word, squeakbob.
You thought living the crisis was bad enough, try living it with squeakbob in charge. When he speaks, stock markets crash, investors flee, jobs are destroyed and little kittens are skinned alive to make French ticklers.
But it’s not his words that do the damage, it’s him.
First of all, he sounds like Spongebob, looks like Squidward and behaves like Mr. Krab. Hello cognitive dissonance!
Then he climbs on his stool to reach the atrium of the Spanish congress, flattens his ears and begins his Minister of Finance discourse of doom & gloom, in which thousands of millions are tossed like so many peanuts from the pockets of the citizens into the gaping maws of the banksters. And all I can think is… squeakbob?
Here we got the largest upwards transfer of wealth in Spanish history, and the bankster cartel could find no-one better than squeakbob to sell us the austerity snake oil? C’mon, we gave the world latin lovers of the stature of Julio Iglesias, Antonio Banderas and Manuel from Fawlty Towers… there must be someone who can give it to us with sultry gazes and husky tones instead of handing us a squirming gerbil wrapped in red tape and calling it love.
The minister’s voice issue is actually a medical condition caused by having bankster dick rammed so far up the backside that the vocal chords deform. But this hardly matters anymore, because his days as peen puppet are almost over. Word is that the technocrats are already emerging from the vaults where they sleep at day to replace the current administration…
Together with the gold sacks thug brought on board as squeakbob’s pitbull, the tag team has been cruisin’ the international markets, pimping their sorry assets to a bunch of investors that would rather have their knobs polished by rabid derivatives than face the delicate maidenhood of Spanish sovereign debt.
Smart money ain’t playing the odds on squeakbob or the bull making the cut when the banksters come marching in. They’re loyal little whores, sure, but their sordid affair with democrazy has left them tainted, fit only to man the glory hole of bankster love in some dank basement. The big chairs are for banksters that have not mingled with the people, made empty promises or even pretended to give a flying fck about anything but theirs.
So one way or another, the squeakster’s gotta go. And it better be soon, because if they leave it up to us, we’ll lock them all up in a soundproof cell together with a female dog called karma and throw away the key.
Sometimes silence is the best poetry.