My only question when Evan asked if I could do a write-up for Ian Paisley was whether there would be any restrictions on use of the word "motherfucker." [Nope. - ed.]

Because although the world has seen bigger motherfuckers than Ian Motherfucking Paisley, I'm not writing up those motherfuckers' deaths for the AO Deadpool. This motherfucker I am. Oh, I'm sure he didn't personally kick any puppies; oh, no, he was a "man of peace," an ordained minister, a "tireless warrior for his people," as the Economist put it.* But he didn't have to be violent himself: all this motherfucker had to do was make a speech calling for the destruction of Catholicism or hold up a sign slandering the Pope and hundreds of angry young men would rise up to burn, riot, and kill.

And for whose benefit did this motherfucker instigate all this horror? Not the Northern Irish; they just wanted to be left alone. Not the British; his vicious attacks on Catholicism did more to harm Unionist sentiment in England than even the IRA bombings. No, the only person helped by this motherfucker's hate-suffused rantings was Ian Motherfucking Paisley himself. The proof for that is that as soon as he got more glory out of professing to support peace and reconciliation than he got from inciting hate, he turned tail. It was always only ever all about him, all the time.

I'm sure that Ian Motherfucking Paisley expected to be welcomed into the arms of Christ after his death at the age of 88. I'm no expert on the afterlife, but let's say I have my doubts. Loki and I each get eight points from this motherfucker's death.

--Charlene

* Fuck you, Economist.