When young George was about six years old, he was made the wealthy master of a hatchet of which, like most little boys, he was extremely fond. He went about chopping everything that came his way. One day, as he wandered about the garden amusing himself by hacking his mother's pea sticks (and pulling the legs off insects), he found a beautiful, young English cherry tree, of which his father was most proud. He struck the edge of his hatchet on the trunk of the tree and cut the bark it so that it died.
Some time after this, his father discovered what had happened to his favorite tree. Just then George, with his little hatchet, came into the room. "George,'' said his father, "do you know who has killed my beautiful little cherry tree yonder in the garden? "Father, I cannot tell a lie," said the lying little shit as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "It was Gordon Brown...and the civil service bureaucrats…and the public sector…and the banks…and the wrong kind of snow...and employment tribunals…and trade unions…and energy prices…and the royal wedding...and the extra bank holiday…and the Eurozone...but itdefinitely wasn't me"
"Well George, you are a mendacious little twat, aren’t you" said his father, relieving him of his hatchet. “I would ask you to grow me another tree but I don't think you know the first thing about growth. In fact, I don't think you could grow anything."
(Edited by a moderator)
Not only is this a work of genius, but what the blue fuck was it like before it was moderated?