Senator Longshore today met with a form of protest rarely seen in politics. The controversial politician and owner of several gay brothels met with fierce resistance from his very own employees over his refusal to install bidets in the changing rooms of his male escorts.

Sr Longhore – who infamously instituted a No Straws policy in his bars in omish to his Paddy friends, saying that seeing someone sucking plaintively on one of those plastic catheters gave him the impression that their only goal in life was to become paraplegic – when asked about the working conditions of his employees, replied, “Well, it’s tough on the bottom.”

A dirty protest was planned, yet their pride, finer-keeled by marches over time than that of the quickest caravelle, would not admit such a murky, anti-aesthetic spectacle seep out into the world. Instead a hastily assembled yet ne’ertheless impressive bank of strobes and classic red lightbulbs now sits out front of Sr Longshore’s maligned establishment. In the run up to this new crisis, the owner had only stated, in the his notoriously enigmatic style, “The winds can blow only so hard, what goes down with the stricken ship-suck may well bob up again, as long as it does not fall and pray to a passing whale.”

Meanwhile the taxi boys have mounted a fleshy spectáculo of Sepp Blatter proportions. Placards denouncing Longshore’s thrift shake more violently than a rooster in a washing machine, groins thrust ever outward, and, tuned finer than last week’s bagpipe champs, the lights spring and bounce off the tightened buttocks as when a cyclist is followed to the dirt by his illuminous yellow vest and the impassive exhaust fumes of a bus on a winter’s morn.

In the absence of la Presidenta, who was last seen hanging around the portico of the Club de Paris  promising to get Argentina’s enormous foreign debt cancelled whilst wearing nothing other than a fetching pair of knee-high boots, the Kirchner Dynasty sent their newly promoted Ministro de la Moda, the good Dr Horace Walpole, whose brief includes wallpapering the cracks in society and spot-checks of all potentially offensive aesthetic spectacles. He arrived on scene brandishing his brand new invention, the Aesthetiscope. A solemn air descended on the street party as he demanded silence to best determine if this whole set-up, once solidified and fire-tested, would in fact be capable of cutting mustard. He cocked his eyes and rolled his ears and put the long tube in air, remaining still as a veritable movie of rainbow-coloured sensations were seen to pass over the whites of his eyes via the pulsating aesthetiscope. Finally, however, he emerged from this trance and pronounced the protest aesthetically sound and unlikely to damage the morale of the pueblo.

Then came the proprietor and senator, Señor Longshore, upon the scene. At first he was jocular and warm, and seemed to be enjoying the show being put on by his disgruntled workers. His new business partners, a choppy crew of drunken Korean fishermen, also seemed delighted. Soon after their arrival a karaoke machine was set up on the footpath along with ten bottles of 12 year old Johnny Walker. Needless to say, their leery, depraved singing was an unwelcome addition to the proceedings. A nun was even seen with a placard denouncing them as the scum of both earth and sea. Though, in the in the interest of balance, it must be said that several bystanders seemed delighted by their childlike lust.

Experienced and avid orator that he is, the budding statesman attempted to distract the multitude’s attention away from the flashing lights and music. However, he was dissuaded from this activity by aides on the grounds that it could be prejudicial to him during upcoming campaign rallies. He opted instead for a more ingenious approach, employing the whole legendary gamut of winks, nudges, hops, skips, elbow taps and Charleston steps to steal the amber light from his erstwhile employees.

It was to no avail, however, as the party maintained its veiny throb. Thereafter, Sr Longshore seemed to lose his temper. He even had a go at the cuidacoches, or car-parkers, in the city: “Mar del Plata has its fair share of freaks and ne’er-do-wells, hunchbacks and amputees, but why this band of orange flag-waving feckers who ‘help’ you park your car? Do we really need one on every block? Like a dog guarding his patch – with his own peculiar scent, too. One winces to hear their salty sea bones creak so as they wave their dirty standards in the breeze, coaxing the cars backways into the most impossible, indeed Charibysian, of kerbside berths.”

Sr Longshore also made what appeared to be a rather out-of-place election promise to the effect that “Jenny From the Block” would be played at least seven times a night in his various locales. His aides later rushed to clarify that Sr Longshore merely wished to emphasise that, like Ms Lopez, he too remains close to the common people.

In all the tirade, however, his only comment on the matter at hand, namely the instalment of bidets in the staff changing rooms, was a muttered aside to the effect that removable shower heads are a must in today’s society and that as usual the French were to blame.

His parting words, his pointing finger raised toward many a tumbling piece of space debris, were terse and foreboding: “If at room temperature a bottle of wine rises two degrees centigrade every fifteen minutes, how long will it take to reach boiling point?”

It remains to be seen if Sr Longhore and his political career are drained away like the flaky refuse of a bidet bowl.

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