Winston’s Animal Farm

This is the first entry in the competition using as many banned words from the Pakistan Telecommunications Authority list plus the words “Winston Peters”

It is 1500 words and uses 129 of the banned words.

Winston’s Animal farm: A night out with Winston, seeing inside his mind.

Winston was known by those who loved him as God. Year right said the rest of us, he’s a God dammed prick head. He always seemed to show his pub[l]ic face around election time. So lets follow him through a typical night.

Today he entered via the rear end of the building so he could sneak into the seedy joint that was know as the senior citizens hall to address his loyal followers who love[d] juice and other healthy food since they were seniors. It was his habit of cuming through the back door, that had lead to a short lived nick name, back door man.  It had recently come out[extra] that the average age was 69, younger than he thought. It was barely legal that young people these days could vote. What would they know about life. Enough of these musings he said to himself, he was never going to take the backseat when it came to politics. This hall was painted an off nude color, all the rage at the moment. He couldn’t have cared less. As long as he was here that was the main thing.          

After strap[ing] on his microphone he leapt onto the stage. Lets get it on – Showtime! Surveying the lowlife in front of him he noticed some of his loyal followers. There was Richard, known to friends as Dick, a horse lover [extra] Helen, who had on a beautify pearl necklace. She wasn’t a donkey lover, but people still called her ass. Sitting next to ass, monkey was nick name for BullShit Winston thought he still owed him $58, never mind, spit out the negative thoughts on with the show. Least he wasn’t dressed in clothes from Kmart, like many in the hall.

There was a preening cock, Ben. Ben was all cocky as he thought he had laid out the hall in record time. KY was unable to make it tonight, but his low life mate queef had unfortunately made it. He was as worthless as a roach. Are well least it was a butt on a seat.

Also included in this motley bunch was Andrew, who believed that the government set dogs on him over the super city, so was known at Bitch. There was also the usual eclectic mix of mothers who loved to bone fish from theirButt[to] head. These mothers always had big butt but hey they voted for him, so he wasn’t going to point-out their big asses. Others who looked like pussy cat and some looked like they had come of suicide watch. He really was struggling to pull crowds these days.

Winston had prepared his normal speak full of banned words. But this time he was going to go even further, as he had declared whore on the current government. He opened his attack with withering attack on that retard John Key.Shit for brains John Key had molested the country for to long. He had to be shown up as the smart ass he really was. The idiot was like a hustler at a flea market, like a roach about to be swashed, he was a robber and a syphilitic cancer that needed removal. His penetration of the voting population was still staggeringly high even though Winston thought he was a wigger of lies and produced an orgy of policys that the population gullibly believed. Even if he was a killer, a murder people would still vote for him Winston lamented in his mind. He would love to kill John Key, but such killings wouldn’t be very good publicity. He wondered if he could setup his bastard brother in law to take the hit. Now this is a plan.

His impassioned, delirious and repetitive speech rolled on and on into the night. Eventually cuming to an end, with a finale of emotion, banging his fists against the podium. That will wake the dickheads he thought.  .

Afterward there were nibbles. Quite a spread, sticky, creamy bunsglazed donuts, tropical fruit and even somekumquat or nicely arranged around jugs of orange juice.  The chocolate cake was crying eat me, so he did.  Winston talked about his athletes foot, some wondered if it was because he was a foot licker, because he was not foot star. Or was he trying to be flasher than the others who claimed to undertake exercise.

Some just thought of Winston as a slime ball. But these people never came to his meetings any more. Definitely a good thing he thought. Also a good thing is that none of the attendees had had a stroke tonight. One happened the other week, ambulances and medical staff was a bit queer in a politics meeting!

As the crowd thinned, Dick handed him a whiskey. Good man, Winston thought so said “Cheers for the whiskey Dick”. That’s weird thought Dick, never mind, least he wasn’t white trash like most of the other attendees including monkey. Monkey loved to drink the terrible Australian beer XXXX, more like triple X thought Dick. Those Australians are all yellow-man [men] and had no balls [extra] and where a bunch of piss heads. As his thoughts continued he mulled over that XXX could actually be just piss. Even Budweiser was better. Enough of the gutter thoughts he said inside his head[?], no getting drunk tonight. The last time he was drunk with Winston it had ended in a drunken brawl about who could do the best fart and they had continued to drink until they blacked out.

Winston chucked the whiskey deep throat[ed] burning made its way down to his stomach. Smack the monkey he almost said out loud. What kind of moonshine is this? Made by the devil and called sixsixsix? Are well least it wasn’t some nasty cocktail. Last time he had a cocktail it has some nasty jiz juice and some milk from a lactate[ing] cow. How horrid, made him barf all night and gave him wicked flatulence the next day.

He got into his car for the drive home, he managed to avoid the wet spot caused by the rain. Must bung [that] holeso it doesn’t get worse. The hole had started as a small crack and had gotten much bigger over the last week. Still it was a solid Ford, non of this jap crap for him. Those slant eye imports, how dare they cum into the country, no better than slime or make that sleaze balls. He hated them along with niggers and homos. If he had his way they would godeeper than a shag could dive, deeper than a whale could swim, with lead weight around their feet and never to resurface. The KKK did a great service to their communities, maybe he could set up a clan here in NZ. Gosh eveninter-racial marriages where common place now.

He felt a prick on this finger. The stitching was cuming off the wheel. Mary Jane was getting very slack in her maintenance. I’ll have to smack her verbally when I get home he mussed. Will have to make sure she had taken in the car for its annual lube job. He wondered if she had ever checked the oil with the dip stick. Well could be worse he continued to mull, she could be a man hater or Satan incarnate. He wondered if his working like a Trojan to keep himself in the spot light every election was ever going to get him back into parliament. Are well if it doesn’t the skum bags down in Wellington can rot. Opps just ran a red light. Lucky for him no one was around.

After his long evening he could feel snot building up in his navel cavity. Not very upcoming for the playboy he envisioned himself as being. He hadn’t even had a play girl this month, wait, even this year. Things were getting bad he thought. Maybe he could pick up a prostitute on the way home. A prostitute with sexy a nipple ring and camel toewould do the trick. Where the fuck did that thought come from, he thought! Things like that destroyed politicians in this country. He would just have to go home for some cyber sex. It was much harder these days to attract luscious babes to his harem. Who am I kidding, I never had a harem let alone a erection.

As he pulled into his drive way a dog startled by headlights  ran into the bush [extra]. Fuckit he hoped that the dog hadn’t been harassing the chicks in his hen house. He drove past the hen house, no damage, and no fairy’s at the bottom of the garden tonight. He sighed as he parked his car and realized there would be no nookie tonight and likely never again as he was long past the age of needing Viagra.

As he climbed into the cold bed, he noticed dust on the rag that he kept for those special alone times and wondered if he was doomed to live out his remaining years in obscurity.

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As much at home writing editorials as being the subject of them, Cam has won awards, including the Canon Media Award for his work on the Len Brown/Bevan Chuang story.  And when he’s not creating the news, he tends to be in it, with protagonists using the courts, media and social media to deliver financial as well as death threats.

They say that news is something that someone, somewhere, wants kept quiet.   Cam Slater doesn’t do quiet, and as a result he is a polarising, controversial but highly effective journalist that takes no prisoners.

He is fearless in his pursuit of a story.

Love him or loathe him.  But you can’t ignore him.