POLITICAL SATIRE THREAD 2018 PUSH THE TEMPO THIS IS THE END

[Gregory Torso]

What does Theresa May do with an egg?

"The first lady is a Slovenian crack whore" announces Fiona Bruce through a bugling fist on the news.
Drone jet black blood arcs out of my willy onto a green, veiny egg that is waiting to go through the hatch to a squabbling cadre of dining Johnsons.
"My main man" says John Humphrys, "I never thought you'd make it to the Late, Late Brexit Show."

Huw Edwards then, a middle-aged basin of watery coleslaw, wearing just a filthy kimono embroidered with a windmill of penises, he fans it like a magician's distraction, and seven more pages appear on an internet forum about a middle management lady promoted way over her head dancing awkwardly in a fiesta of turds.

Andrew Neil does the boogie, and sniffs his fingers, a tattoo of a pork pie on his left hand, the favela kids in tow. He sips on komodo saliva, it runs down his fat fried face, he clasps your arm painfully and pulls you down. "Bumming" he whispers urgently. "Bumming."
Cum on the EU. Jerk me off over Brussels. Look at my papers, a free-for-all jazz mag gummed up with deliberately obfuscating parakeet shriek speech and hellman's goo.


Trump is orange, chuckle a panel of pop hit single Lambert & Butler bent cig smoking satirists. You can smell the adipose wax melt of them under the hot studio lights, desperate to get their bits in. Shocks of laughter pop out of their newly-bearded long and miserable mink like faces.

Mate, here's one: what does Theresa May do with an egg?

Imagine this, my main drains: Trump's bum, his balls hanging down like a Christmas turkey's wattle, nits and mice spilling out of his desert storm touselled mane. Imagine him naked, probing and examining the waxed and waning tan junk body of a trafficked bikini model as she squirms beneath him in sallow, melting congress.

Ten more pages of puns and retweets.

Andrew Neil now refuses to see his kids at the weekends, dances in a wolfksin posing pouch with too much gain on it, kicking his dog around his static bungalow in time with "Uptown Funk". His estranged wife kneels on the couch firing afghani heroin into her heart through an empty biro tube, trying to tweezer the heads of termites out of her forearms that aren't even there.

"Mate" Noel Feeding on the great British break down. "Mate, it's not worth the arse. It's like, cakes, yeah?" His mane of viral sex lotions ripples. "Imagine a bum inside another bum, but like, it's a Trump bum, so it's orange. Vote now, for who's done the shittest cake. Don't you dare let your attention wander off over somewhere else. I SEE FIRE IN A DEAD MAN'S EYES." He penetrates your psyche and awareness, a corny pastiche of gregg's rolls.
A mid-life christ posed septisaemic tattoo embarrassment.

You vote for the best cake.

[BlodwynPig]

True dat

[BlodwynPig]

Genesis' Selling England by the Euro rewrite considered genius

[PlanktonSideburns]

Satire is the carbon offsetting of giving a shit about stuff

[Lisa Jesusandmarychain]

Michael Palin, indeed. Should be Sir Gregory Torso, Innit? The man's a comedy genius, I tells ya!

[Spoon of Ploff]

the authorities pick up a boat load of refugees in the English channel but get this... its some Brie chomping Remoaners going the other way YOU CAN HAVE THAT!