I Slaughtered Six Chickens
September 26, 1531
For a half-hour now I’ve been watching that heifer haul her lazy ass back and forth. I can’t believe that I’ve been married to her for 22 years. I, Henry, King of England, who has absolute power over the life and death of all his subjects has to spend his days with that pathetic creature, that repulsive sniveler, that vile pterodactyl.
Most people think being king is the bomb. I want just one of those guys who envy me to try living a single day with Kate, that sourpuss Aragonian killjoy. She’s always crotchety, eternally dissatisfied, as if she were married to world’s sorriest loser.
She’s given me six kids, five of whom died. Friggin’ abysmal track record. Only Mary survived, my sweet little Mary, who makes life worth living, my only comfort during the cold days and sleepless nights.
And on top of everything Arsenal is having a crappy season. I can’t figure out why. They’ve got a good roster, and besides that, if there’s anyone in the world who knows anything about football, it’s Arsene Wenger. But still – we take it up the ass. Fabregas is totally AWOL, van Persie is wishy-washy, and Adebayor only plays when he’s in the mood, fucking black beanpole fuck.
Only Nasri brings me any joy, but like my grandma always said: “one turd don’t make a shitter.”
And the country is going down the tubes, but I don’t feel like dealing with that just now. I’m overwhelmed with personal problems at the moment, the country’s just gonna have to wait.
June 29, 1532
Last night I threw a ball for my birthday and met the most amazing biyotch. Little Annie Boleyn. There was something so intriguingс about her face that I couldn’t help myself and grabbed her ass. And she blushed, if you can believe it. Why are these young folks so bashful, I just can’t figure it out.
“I can’t do that,” she told me. “You’re married, and besides I’m married, too, and my morals don’t allow it.”
So her marital status had to be changed pronto. I called the guards over and arranged for Mrs. Boleyn to get widowed ASAP. And so Annie got widowed in nine or ten minutes tops. In my case, however, things turned out to be a little more complicated. I couldn’t just knock Kate off, ‘cause that’d give rise to some nasty rumors about yours truly. People would say I’m cruel, that I discriminate against women and then afterwards my PR team would have a helluva time scrubbing that stain off my image.
So I called Wolsey and stuck him with the task of figuring out a way for me to divorce Kate and to take up with Annie. But Wolsey, instead of helping me out, started wringing his hands and mumbling like some kind of goddamn faggot:
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, milord. Mrs. Boleyn is married to Sir Henry Percy.”
“Not anymore. Sir Henry Percy passed away unexpectedly.”
“Oh my God. When?”
“Just now. He couldn’t handle the pressure. He was a worthy man. We’ll bury him with honors and a 21-canon salute. And after that, as a sign of my appreciation of his life’s work, I’ll marry his wife.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, milord. You are married.”
“So what if I’m married? I’ll get divorced.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, milord. The church doesn’t allow it.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean, Wolsey, ‘the church doesn’t allow it’? Aren’t you the boss of the church? Aren’t you a fucking cardinal? You’ll work it out for me.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, milord. I don’t have that sort of jurisdiction.”
“Wolsey, talking to you makes me feel like I’m stuck in some kind of bad comedy sketch. What do you mean you don’t have jurisdiction, when every motherfucking church in England and all of their motherfucking priests are under your control? You’re their motherfucking boss. I hired you to solve problems for me, not create them.”
“I’ll have to ask as to how to proceed, milord.”
“His Holiness the pope in Rome.”
“Wolsey, lemme ask you just one thing. Do you live in Rome? Huh? Answer me, do you live in Rome? Well? Cat got your tongue, you pussified mother of all pussies? Answer me when I ask you something. Do you live in Rome?”
“Absolutely not, milord.”
“So where do you live?”
“In London, milord.”
“In London. Exactly. London. Keep that in mind, because if you forget I’ll have it written across your chest with iron. London. In Rome, the pope may be the Lord’s protégé extraordinaire, the Number One Jesus Man, but here I’m in the driver’s seat. So when I tell you to divorce me from that Spanish lardass, you divorce me, capiche?”
“Milord, the church does not allow divorce.”
“Jesus, is there no end to this hogwash? So what you’re trying to tell me is that because of some bureaucratic red-tape, my whole life is gonna be fucked up the wazoo? I don’t think so, Wolsey. If your church won’t let me live the way I want to, then I’ll create my own damn church, where I make the rules. Is that clear?”
“I’ll pray for you, milord.”
“Save your prayers for yourself, Wolsey. If you don’t come up with a way to get me a divorce, you’re gonna need some serious heavenly reinforcements.”
Wolsey started crossing himself and slipped out of the hall all quiet and hangdog like an old governess who’d accidentally let a fart.
December 6, 1532
You can’t believe how Arsenal completely screwed me over! How could they let themselves draw nil-nil with Everton, for fuck’s sake. I’ve rarely seen such a bunch of bunglers. Christ almighty, they almost had us beat there for a second. Good thing the ref let it go into overtime, so van Persi could score and save us from complete disgrace. I don’t know what’s happening with merry old England. I get the feeling that I’m losing control, and that makes me nervous.
I see Annie every day now. I’m crazy about her. But she won’t let me make it to home base – just lots of running around first, second and third. Until you get divorced, she says, I’m not gonna let you. I’m not the kind of girl you think I am.
So she thinks I think about her. What the hell is there to think about? I just want to give her a nice good fucking, that’s the truth plain and simple. I don’t have any ulterior motives, if you know what I’m saying, that would make me waste time thinking about her…
I called Wolsey in and kicked his sorry ass. I asked him what was happening with my divorce, and he just mumbled something or other. Those cardinals have fucked themselves over big-time.
I told him that since he couldn’t solve my problem, he was fired. Let him go begging to the pope for a paycheck from now on. I don’t have any use for duffers.
So I kissed Catholicism goodbye and announced the founding of a new church. The Anglican Church.
In this church, I’m the boss. I’m your pope and your poppa and your mamma – in short, I’m your daddy. And in my church, not only are divorces allowed, they’re even blessed by God. That’s the way it is.
December 19, 1532
Today I went to a wedding. Thomas Cromwell and his fiancée Elizabeth invited me to be their best man. Everything went off without a hitch. I danced with the chicken, did the YMCA, punched out the DJ… the works. So then the time came for the traditional best man’s toast. That’s my favorite part, since I’m an exceptional orator. So I got up and began formally:
“My dear newlyweds, my dearest Elizabeth and Thomas! I’m calling you ‘dear,’ because thanks to your crappy little wedding I had to shell out 350 precious pounds for that eyesore of a dinner set I gave you. Here’s to hoping you smash it during the hundreds of marital squabbles that await you before the blessed day of your divorce!
Today everyone is wishing you all the best, but as your true friend I cannot allow myself to lie to you. I’m obliged to inform you of what lies ahead.
Because all those hypocrites who now shower you with their oily smiles and clichés of the sort: “Love and marriage go together like a horse and carriage!” They all know very well what a shitstorm marriage really is. And all of them will gleefully guffaw at the moment when your union inevitably falls apart.
Have you ever wondered why people chant “bitter” at weddings? I’ll tell you why. Wedding kisses are life’s most bitter smooches and you’ll very soon find out the reason.
I’m astonished at your foolhardy decision to get married. Today in the 16th century, marriage is not only old fashioned, but has also been proven harmful. What lies ahead of you are onerous, joyless days in which you will curse the foolish step you took today and will gaze longingly at photographs from the time when you hadn’t yet met.
Under the ruinous effects of domestic life, Elizabeth will soon become a repulsive tub of lard, in despair over her cellulite and her inability to reach orgasm anymore, while Thomas will metamorphose into a bald, grumbling old fuddy-duddy with stinking socks and untamable intestinal gases.
The sex which you perhaps are now enjoying will turn into a sorry slapping of withered bodies. The day is not far off when Thomas’ flaccid member will rub desperately against Elizabeth’s sagging breasts in search of that long-lost erection.
Your evenings will be a nightmare. You will never forgive yourselves for exchanging the fresh scent of an autumn evening for a grubby little kitchen reeking of day-old gravy. For that reason I offer you this advice – buy a television. The mute staring at the screen will relieve at least a small part of your suffering.
As your friend and best man, I have one burning request. Please do not under any circumstances have children. If you’re that lonely, get a dog, get a cat, raise chickens, pigs, cockroaches, whatever, just don’t – for the love of God! – have kids!
The worst sin that two unfortunate wretches who have mutually ruined each other’s lives can commit is the creation of new wretches, whose lives they will also ruin.
I do have one bit of good news, however. I’ve saved it for last, since I wanted to end on an upbeat, optimistic note. The good news is that today you are taking the first step towards the greatest day of your lives – the day of your divorce. Always remember, the longer and more agonizing your marital road is, the sweeter your divorce will be.
To my surprise, the speech didn’t go over too well. There was a scattering of listless applause, but on the whole the wedding guests didn’t seem too thrilled by it.
I guess people don’t like hearing the truth.
February 24, 1533
I chased off that stupid Aragonian heifer Kate and married little Annie Boleyn. She’s absolutely amazing in bed, that girl – she’s blown my mind and then some, no joke. Good old Percy taught her some unbelievable tricks, may the Lord have mercy on his soul.
I tell ya, having a new wife is like having a new car. For the first few months you drive her like hell until you get to know all her bells and whistles.
A man has to get married a second time to know what true love is.
Yep, Annie’s something else, too bad her brother is a bit of a moron. Guess I just don’t have any luck in the brother-in-law department. Oh well, at the end of the day, I’m not married to him, now am I?
January 30, 1536
Yesterday Kate of Aragon died, and Annie got herself a new lady-in-waiting. Her name is Jane Seymour and she’s a fantastic piece of ass. She has this innocent look, but I can tell that deep down she’s a dirty little bitch.
When we met, I set my famous sense of humor into motion.
“How are you, how are you?” I said, “Is your little pussy-cat wet, heh heh?” “How did you know I had a cat, milord?”
“Well, we just know these things, miss. We’re not dumb, we’ve seen a pussy or two in our day.”
“May I ask you something, milord?”
“Of course, Jane. Ask whatever you’d like.”
“What does the ‘8’ after your name mean? Why are you called ‘Henry 8’?”
“Well, that’s just my brand name, Jane. I’ve got to have some number, after all. You know how it is – you got your Golf 4, your BMW 5, so I’m Henry 8, heh heh. Do you want to see my stick shift?”
“But aren’t you an automatic?”
“No, I’m old school. I only start up with a hand crank.”
“That’s enough of your nonsense, Henry,” Anne hissed.
Stupid cow. Who do you think you are, telling me who I can talk to, huh, you crazy…
That woman has really been getting on my nerves lately. Ever since she’s become queen, she’s been acting like a big shot. I make a new church because of her, and now she goes and starts shooting off her mouth. We’ll see how long I put up with her…
May 2, 1536
Jane is unbelievable. Today she gave me such an amazing blowjob in the throne room that my even fucking feet were tingling. I’m going to marry her. But before that I’ve got to get rid of that sow, Anne.
I called in the CEO of the guard and ordered him to arrest her and lock her up in the Tower.
“What are you accusing her of, Your Highness?” he asked me.
“I don’t know. Think something up, you are the CEO after all, right? Is it really so hard to come up with reasons to toss somebody into the Tower? Use your imagination!”
Ten minutes later that heifer was chained up in shackles. They accused her of witchcraft, adultery, treason and a conspiracy against the king. They even went a little overboard – they also accused her of incest with her brother, and rounded him up as well. No harm done. He’s the most retarded brother-in-law ever to walk the earth, I swear to God. Let both of them rot in prison, since they’re such big shots.
May 18, 1536
I married Janie. It’s something else to marry a sweet young thing, I’m telling ya. I tight little pussy, nice perky tits, no stretch marks, no cellulite, no migraines.
And the most important – she fucks like a madwoman. Talk about energy!
This is the life. Only in your third marriage do you really realize what true love is.
Jane is something else. She calls me “snuggle bunny,” if you can believe it. What’s this bunny business, girl – I’m a horny old goat.
I arrange for Annie to get beheaded, so she won’t keep suffering in those prisons. That’s no life for her, now is it?
October 24, 1537
Today just isn’t my day. As if Arsenal losing to Fulham wasn’t enough, Jane went and died on me on top of everything. I guess that’s just what happens when you get up on the wrong side of the bed…
August 12, 1539
I went on holiday to the sea in Bulgaria. A bungalow in Shkorpilovtsi. I really like Bulgaria. They make great yogurt here, the women are pretty and the booze is cheap. What more could you ask for? True, they’ve been enslaved by the Turks for 150 years, but they don’t seem all too worked up about that. So in Shkorpilovtsi I met this German girl – Anne con Cleves. She’s from the GDR, but a real tiger of a girl. If she would only shave her legs, she’d be out of this world. We went to a chalga bar, danced and then I took her back to the bungalow.
I just now realized why Germany is the birthplace of porn. That woman blew my mind.
There was none of that “wunderbaaar” and “spritz mich, spritz mich” business – I don’t know much German, but I figured out that much at least.
I was so satisfied that I immediately proposed to her. Now Annie von Cleves and I are on our honeymoon and I’m so happy. A man’s gotta get married a fourth time to understand what true love is.
March 2, 1540
Damn, but that heifer is getting on my nerves! She’s eternally sulking, eternally upset, fuck her fascist mama up the ass! On top of that she’s getting to look more and more like Oliver Kahn with each passing day. I can’t even stand to look at her.
I should’ve known that women named Anne just aren’t for me, but in Shkorpilovtsi I was wasted 24-7 and had absolutely no idea what I was doing.
A few days back I met a bad-ass little bitch – Catherine Howard. A 19-year-old sex kitten. Makes me want to eat her alive.
July 31, 1540
I chased off that stupid German cow and married Catherine. Now, from my experienced vantage point, I can say with confidence that it’s only in your fifth marriage that you realize what true love is.
That women is a firecracker! The stunts she comes up with between the sheets really knock me out. The bad part is that I’m getting up there, I’m not the stud I used to be back in the 20s. But good old Viagra does the trick, it doesn’t let me down.
April 14, 1543
That Catherine has turned out to be a fucking nympho. She’s gonna fuck me straight into the grave. She never gives it a thought that I’m already 52 and I’ve got to take things a bit easier. And all that Viagra is giving me heart palpitations.
Yesterday she threw a total hissy fit. You don’t satisfy me, she screamed, I’m a young woman, I have physiological needs, you can’t constantly leave me unfulfilled!
Fucking ingrate. I picked her up out of the mud, made her queen, gave her everything a woman could dream of, and she’s giving me lip. I called the CEO of the guards and we tossed her in prison on accusations of adultery. We also took advantage of the occasion to round up two other obnoxious bastards from the staff here. They’d been getting on my nerves for forever, but I hadn’t been able to fire them, ‘cause they’re union guys.
June 28, 1543
Today was my birthday. I turned 52. I’m getting too old for rowdy keggers, so I decided to celebrate with the small group of my closest family and friends – I invited only 750 of my nearest and dearest. So we ate, drank and the time rolled around for me to make a toast. As usual, my speech was wise and sincere:
“Friends! Relatives! I’m not going to put any adjective in front of ‘friends’ or ‘relatives’ ‘cause now that I look at you all gathered together in one place, I have no idea how to describe the unparalleled riffraff that you are.
I gathered you together on my birthday not because I wanted to hear your banal good wishes that frankly make me want to puke.
I gathered you together not because I wanted your shitty, useless gifts, which I will waste no time in tossing into the trash tomorrow.
I gathered you together to tell you what I think of you. I’m old enough to not give a rip about anyone, and lonely enough to permit myself to be deprived of the deceptive luxury of hanging out with people like yourselves.
Ever since I was little I’ve known that I’m superior to you in every way. I’ve hung out with you in the hopes that somewhere in the world there are more worthy people and the moment I find them, I’m going to give you all the boot. Unfortunately, fate has not seen fit to smile upon me and has not introduced me to those other people. Clearly this is the price I must pay for my sins….
I have been forced to put up with your eternal grumbling, your constant whinging, your endless requests for help.
Why beat around the bush? – you’re a bunch of complete losers and you know it.
I’ve always helped you, led by some pseudo-Christian conviction that the mentally challenged must be taken care of.
Rather that appreciating my condescending help, however, you have continued hounding me. You’ve decided that I’m some kind of Mother Theresa, and if you happen to wet your beds in the middle of the night I’m obliged to immediately show up and dry you off.
And until now I’ve done so.
You’ve also expected me to financially support all your half-wit cousins, to be a moral pillar for your childhood-friends-turned-staggering-drunks and to wipe away your sexually frustrated aunties’ tears.
And I did. But what did I get in return? Only insults and mockery. You’ve doused me in rivers of filth.
For that reason today all of you are in excellent health, you’ve got rosy cheeks and radiate optimism, while I’ve got high blood pressure, shattered nerves and chronic depression.
I won’t stand for it anymore. From now on, be so kind as to forget my phone number, stop sending me Christmas cards and remove me from your family photo albums.
From today onwards you are dead to me, and I am dead to you.
Without telling you, I took the liberty of arranging a pleasant surprise for you in honor of my birthday. Tomorrow my autobiography will hit the bookstores, in which I’ve described all of your vileness and backstabbing, all of the lowdown, dirty tricks you’ve pulled in front of my very eyes. I’ve entitled my autobiographer Living among the Shitheads. It’s a very interesting read, I highly recommend it to you. Cheers!”
September 2, 1543
I got married yesterday. My new wife’s name is Catherine Parr. She’s a mellow woman, she’s seen a lot in this life – she got married twice, got divorced twice and I get the feeling she’s not going to cause me trouble like the previous five. I mean, the woman arrived with her vibrators and everything. She’s quiet, doesn’t make excessive demands on me and leaves me in peace to watch Arsenal games on Diema.
It’s only during your sixth marriage that you realize what true love is. Peace, understanding, comfort.
Now when I look back, I see that I’ve lived quite a full life. I’ve had six wives – three Kates, two Annies and one Jane. Unfortunately, five of them died. That was just their luck.
I made my own church, went to war now and then with France and Germany. Overall, I’ve had an interesting time of it.
I have only one final wish – to see Arsenal win the championships. Then I can die with a smile on my face.
 Name of a humorous Bulgarian folk song that enjoyed a resurgence in popularity after a contestant on “Music Idol” performed it in 2008. Kokoshka or “chicken” is also a derogatory slang term for a woman.
 In traditional Bulgarian weddings, the best man is given a baked chicken as a thank-you gift, which he then dances with.
 At Bulgarian weddings, instead of clinking glasses guests chant gorchivo, which means “bitter,” to force the couple to kiss to “sweeten” the moment.
 A resort town on the Bulgarian Black Sea coast near Varna.
 Chalga is a Bulgarian popular music genre that arose in the 1990s after the fall of communism that uses many Bulgarian folk, Gypsy, Turkish, Greek, Serbian and “Oriental” elements and is usually performed by scantily-clad women. Most educated Bulgarians consider it vulgar and low-class.
 Many Bulgarians associate pornography with Germany since during the communist period (when pornography was illegal in the Eastern Bloc) many German porno films were smuggled into the country.
 Spritz mich is a German porno-cliché that roughly translates as “Cum on me!”
 Diema is a group of three Bulgarian television channels.