Kommander-Steppenfuhrer Wehrner Straffen von Schnugenstein was watching MTV Deutschland in his massive Bavarian castle in Bavaria.
The Libertines have decided to continue their world tour after having been very nearly blown to teeny tiny smithereens, almost as tiny as their todgers, by a bomb planted beneath the stage at a show in the UK. The Police are saying the culprit is of Pope-like appearance, of exceptional good looks, extreme genius, and overall coolness.
"Damn und blast der fucking Pope sweinhund!", the Kommander exclaimed. "Dat fucking dumkopf vill pay for zis stupidity!"
Pete and Carl were getting stoned off their faces on their private jet.
"Hey you twats, stop giggling", Dave said. "I'm trying to fly this fucking plane yknow."
Pete giggled. "Ok, ok, ok, ok ok ok, ok. I'll stop. Aheehehee."
"Oh shit," said Dave. "Guys, you better take a look at this."
"Pete," Carl said, "put your trousers back on."
Pete giggled. "No. You put your trousers back on," he said, before giggling again.
"Alright, Dave, what is it?"
"You see that fucking massive German triplane over there?" Dave replied.
"Yeah..."
"I think that's Kommander Wehrner von Schnugenstein."
"Oh god! Oh fuck man!"
Pete giggled. "Shit. What's he gonna do?
"Put your y fronts back on, Pete."
Pete giggle. "Only if you put yours back on."
"He's getting closer! What's he gonna do to us?!"
They would soon find out, as the Fucking Massive Triplane flew closer, and closer, and closer, until the Kommander was actually in the cockpit of the private jet.
"Oh!" the Kommander exclaimed. "All ready are ve?!"
Onlookers back on the ground could only see the expensive private jet sway from left to right as the Kommander wreaked his horrible vengeance on the drug-crazed British lads.