By Stanley Collymore
Joan Collins rather certainly
throughout her earlier life
and, quite a far cry from
her now demonstrably
and clearly pathetic, octogenarian
existence has actually ridden her
bike around the block, countless
more times than the customary
neighbourhood postman, truly
does, and quite similarly been
lubricated more times than a
bicycle chain. A rather nasty
and hateful, also verminous
piece of work, intentionally
so to all those who were or
are very characteristically
much more talented than
this so distinctly pathetic
evidently one trick pony
who literally started off
as this soft porn actress
who very conveniently
clearly made sure, that
she always, essentially
happened to be in that
right place: very aptly
the customary casting
couch, rather suitably
at the propitious time.
And never really despite her
using Dynasty as her usual
backdrop, truthfully rose
above that initial genre.
This despite the evidently so, stark
reality to others, who discernibly
as well as closely, and markedly
objectively, dispassionately too
keenly observe Joan Collins: a
five times married bint that's
now an OAP, whose face has
so much botox basically on
it that noticeably and quite
candidly also she honestly
resembles a balloon, with
a weird face drawn on it!
That this very delusional
woman so self-evidently
with such mental health
problems, can so risibly
seriously believe, she is
a unique, human being.
And it's hard to fathom out
how Peter your husband:
56 years old, to your 88
years and a whopping 32 years
your junior, doesn't physically
throw up; when, at night, you
are literally, regrettably then
rather reluctantly obliged to
essentially peel off that God
awful sludge and paint: the
latter characteristically far
more so, than the majority
of new autos are carrying,
to stipulate at your actual
behest, that Peter has sex
with a vile coffin dodger!
One thing however is for
absolute certain Joan
Henrietta Collins;
you have literally had yourself
so well embalmed physically
that it'll save precious time
for the undertaker; when
as inescapably happens,
the surely unavoidable
Grim Reaper, imposes
his grave appearance.
(C) Stanley V. Collymore
11 October 2021.
Author's Remarks:
The delusional notions of the likes of Joan Henrietta Collins, Herr Richard Littlejohn and the other likeminded kith and kin expatriates infesting the rest of the world with their presence notably in the USA, genocider, inured convict and delusional Terra nuliius Australia; and everyone of them hard core sycophantic British royalists to the core yet most ironically distinctly thrilled to live and make their living in other people's countries. Basically, notwithstanding all that, that literally all of them enthusiastically, and also unquestionably, do fervently believe in the individually, openly expressed invoilability of this supposed English race whoever or whatever that is, yet unceasingly and clearly dementedly, but nevertheless fervently, yearn for an all-white Britain that's comprised exclusively of their racist sort.
Rather predictably, although wholly unintelligible; but whoever actually sensibly said that such intellectually challenged little Englanders and also braindead empire loyalists were, in effect, anything other than the toxic dregs of humanity that they always were and will exhaustively carry on being?
Death is an inevitability that rational and sensible persons routinely accept with dignified equanimity. And hope that their lives will be a constructive legacy to those who come after them. But fundamentally, in all seriousness, what purposeful constructive legacy will Joan Henrietta Collins seriously leave when she dies? My honest and unapologetic response is, Zilch!
And those like Joan Henrietta Collins who've frankly contributed nothing of significance to the betterment of humanity, is to paraphrase Charles Windsor: one of that family, apart from Harry and Meghan of course, that Joan the distinctly resilient social climber adamantly admires and, predictably so, is as distinctively amoral and also indifferently immoral as the entirety of the Windsor mafia Klan family is; a clearly distinctive carbuncle on the face of decent humanity!
And in a distinct variance, Joan from my profoundly innate, instinctively Christian and intense humanitarian principles it's my earnest hope that whatever demon deity you worship, likewise as indifferently as you have behaved to others during your quite selfish life here on Earth, that when the distinctly, inevitable realization of your imminent demise regarding this life finally arrives, your eternal existence will be one quite identical to that of Prometheus!
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