Equinox of the Sods
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Nestled deep in the sanctuary of sanctimony, around the cauldron they congregate. Cloaked in capes of rich misery, giggling a hideous chuckle like disgusting icky children. One ambles forward, slinking the oversized hood back to free the neck nape of a blade’s favored savor, it would make for such a delicious blood-soaked slice. Soft like butter and just as inviting for the salivatory knife. A stilted raise of the hand precedes the lid-liberation sweetly gifted the jar of glimmery blue, which thus allows the coveted collection of tears to well up and spill steadfastly into the cauldron. Exploits reaped from the harvest of the last batch issued some months ago, this manner of resourceful recycling made the process so much more efficient and ensured a superior deal of maleficence. Two proles with one stone! Great British ingenuity to freeze warming of the globe.
A smile as wicked as its beholder emerged as she stepped back. “Stir it up good, Boris!” hacked the hag – to the tune of her cherished Bob Marley ditty – in her demonic and macabre snarl, before joining the synchronized convulsion of their grossly flagrant cackle. A cackle so repugnant, it threatens extinction upon the lonely lard-infused wax candle of burning-flesh illuminating the dingy lair whose demise would gift the trio of vivacious vultures the all (or more accurately, the nothing) they deserve to see. The prize-fighting flame of sensual whiff stuck to its solemn task most stoically, mimicking the detestable determination of its light benefactors. With the floor engulfed in ominous mist and heinous potions of previous devilry lining the raft of rotting shelves they shared with crawling maggotry, this cave of evil was a fitting sinister setting. As such, it produced perfectly dire conditions thus became home for emaciated evil wraiths of olde that delighted to haunt. If ever the trio found themselves in need, summoning the sage advice of Maggot Thatcher was only a séance away. Such phantoms watched over their contemporary counterparts, guiding and imbibing their little ministers of destruction in gleeful hysteria. |
Andy Smith
conjures up pieces of a wicked yet whimsical nature, reflective of the crass society he finds himself sorely stuck in, wielding words as the chosen weapon for change. |
Ending their premature bout of schadenfreude with woeful wheezes and a spritely splutter or two as their treasured inner-vile is nearly ejected, it’s back to business. The rotten and sad-sodden-sack – that once resembled a back – attached to the stash of shaft began to lurch forward, with all the slime of a destitute slug.
Weakly, the thing waddled, covering the short steps in a time most becoming his fragmented mind. Following a deep and thorough scratch of his desperate sweat-soaked ass that seemed to muster all corners of his cognition thus temporarily halting progress. Further wheezes were perspired as was exhausted his charred lungs capacity entire, the two accompanying voyeurs entranced by this vulgar display of power, inspired.
Finally looming over the loot of their labour as it bubbled and boiled, he struggled to stick the stick in. Cracked back into a hunch, muscle memory attempted to haul the well-weathered stick upwards, seducing a steady stream of putrid saliva to escape its unfavorable incarceration – in tandem with the sleeks of spilled snot (the cauldron’s gloop kind) pouring out – unnoticed to the dolt, who in poetic tandem was also blissfully oblivious to the besotted snot stream. Who needs Nordstream anyway?
The struggle found solution and compounded solidarity in the ever-nefarious Cruella Patel (typifying the strong diplomatic union underpinning such a surefooted Government), who had to wrestle her hypnotic and understandably erotic concentration away from the crevice where such sweat crept, to help handling the hauling of the stick into its ghastly cradle of filth. The spirits of evil she appeased with this most helpful gesture manifested themselves in the form of a destitute canyon erupting across her face; a devious grin carved in the pumpkin scarecrow’s drooped traipse from ear to ear. The fissures that arose in wake of the eruption’s growth bloomed a nest gladly taken up by hordes of locusts and further foul winged beasts of the fly variety. Nourishment hath never been so near! This divine evolution evoked in her mind the time-old proverb: ‘Gift the witch a fly, and she may enjoy lunch. Draw a swarm to her lips, and her lifetime’s nourishment is wickedly fixed!’
Once, however, the stick was stoutly stuck in, it was subject to a spin most strained. This constituted a stir, or the closest thing to such the decrepit vessel of blood and bumble could muster.
Round and round it juddered, occasionally getting stuck in the mustard. Gloopy as custard, (though you daren’t douse your pie of apples in it!) source of the nation’s fluster, the stink of the slop emulated that of a rancid rot. Curdled with curses so spurious, and spilt salt sourced straight from the hollow cavern where a heart would beat had they been human creatures and not the repulsive chefs de torment that be this conniving gang of louts huddled in a herd of turd.
Such was the putrid reek of their long-perfected specialty, that as it rose up to violate each one’s enflamed, crust-laden snotholes – in much the same manner they had done to the lives of the nation they played with like big brother – it delivered a high so righteous and thriving they were instantly aroused. So much so, the decrepit three would have achieved stirring erections, had they had any balls.
Murdoch’s Minions were thick in business! The infinite wisdom inherent in this esteemed council; the innermost trio of the Eton Mafia, were well versed with recognizing the right levels of wrong. For they each are regarded top proprietors of such levels and it is these such levels that has posited them as proprietors of the top. ‘Stinking rich’ is the phrase that comes to mind, also an apt soubriquet for the ghoul that was he, the ghoul that he be, the Great Ghastly Necromancing Ghoul Rii-ii-chiiii-iiii!!!! (hold in a high falsetto, repeat the ditty three times with true conviction, face the moon directly with eyes closed and arms raised, leg tucked in tree pose. Correct recital shall see you summon the specter of a perished aristocratic imp. Harmless they may be, though verbally they will berate. Treat these imps with care or risk forsaking your glorious locks of hair).
Relentless ridicule would greet the flaunter of fresh and clean smells in Parliamentary congregation and by all honor of the Queen herself none would wish for such a fate! Previous perpetrators of this sacred code of stench have swiftly fallen subject to a sore ousting and serve many a season solitarily confined in the memorial bind of sour minds. ‘For a vile stench MUST be clenched!’ So proclaims the sacred code every Tory toad in their mind kept in tow.
Along a rocky, pothole-populated road, one of which he hath so proudly perpetuated, this hitching came to implode: Things had been going a desired level of diabolical for the right (dis)honorable pig-fucker, but the often-touted adage ‘all good things must come to an end’ found in him prominence, as the masquerade he’d manned so convincingly faded away and led him astray. Even Andy Coulson couldn’t correct such conservative capitulation! While the purest bred Tories are eternally fused with abhorrent aromas of abrasion (to put it lightly) from their very first breath, mere mortals, as he in question be, may wield a wicked whiff that hoodwinks even the most schooled in deceit, but just as it is so callously conjured it can thus suffer unravelling and reveal a rogue in their true clothes. Punishable by retirement and rerouting of shame through audacious blame; baptized in snide and angst, the scapegoat is born again.
Happily rolling around in shit he had been, constructing an aura obscene, as slimy Green(sill) as his appearance hath beamed. But happily never after got sick of sitting on the rafters. Alas, soon deserted was he! Plunged into the very austerity he had spread so merrily. A talismanic jewel at the head of the Cuntservative crown he was considered. Wreaking havoc without pittance, pouring the nation many a bitter. Bitter pills, hard to swallow that is, the kind Mr Wenger deemed Arsene. Spunky Dave did pave the pothole-laden way for our trio depraved, posters on their walls harping back to formative days. Days of dazing at Dave, swathes of idolizing gaze implanted dreams of devastating decay. Dreams they have elevated and brought into play. ‘It’s only one stir away!’ Downing Street whippets would often hear them say.
The tale of Icarus pales in the shadow of the blaze left by Dave. Forever his fall remains omnipresent in their brains. Now more than ever, they remember his pain. Destined not to repeat such shame, the coalition of toads swore to maintain their derisive aim. Why’s it always a Dave?
One could only imagine the blasphemy that would befall an effort that fell foul of foul. A shudder possessed the two not-so-gentlemen at the mere thought of potential ramifications, but nothing phases the ice-cold Cruella who in contrast allowed herself to enjoy a snide snigger at their expense. One would not be remiss to say her face epitomized decay, rotten cracks her eyeliner. Her hair a nest in the truest sense, crawling with grease and creepies. A more dedicated eco-warrior you could not find. ‘Boys’, she shrugged with a sudden convulsion that saw her eyes roll backwards and her head rattle left to right; a chorus of feeble bones popping. A brittle swiveling twitch from the little sniveling… yeah. Not a Priti sight. Ingesting a lip-nested insect or two as the cannibalistic parasite loved to do (owing hugely her skeletal toothbrush frame to this exquisite high protein diet), a pious vision planted itself in the foremost catacombs of her ‘mind’:
Into focus came another erstwhile fetid fellow; he who just happens to be the highest-ranking sleaze this side of the sea. The last of a dying breed, a gargoyle who thrived on imbibing his own gargles of grease. Culminate a stink so repulsive, it put peers at ease despite their obvious envies, did this musty weasel of disease.
Although not a Tory by trade, the mongrel was member of a wider menagerie of malignant monarchs and other molesters of the sort. Mingling with cunts was always in his (and their) nature, thus he had many a cuntservative acquaintance he’d mingle among. They were all brothers (with a penchant for a cheeky embezzle here and there, such fun!) from different sides of the same ghetto. Cut from the same shit-cloth.
Above the ministers and lemmings that lauded him he would Lord it, and charitably allow them to bask in baths of crass when his carcass of lardness rolled into town – quite literally. Welcoming all devoted disciples, forked tongue lolling long, waving inflamed and bulging clammy paws aloft and strong, as needed to grip his bursting thong. Some flung themselves at his feet (Grant Shapps and Michael Fabricant being two of the keenest diving chaps– for it was widespread belief betwixt younglings of the coven this was the purest source of all scourge), some would rub his robes on their wart-ridden faces (here’s to you, Michael Gove!). Faeces would be– you get the idea.
These lackeys and lemmings that constitute the lesser arcana in the Cunstervative hierarchy, existing eternally below their beloved belligerents, knew the prophecy held a path far below power for them. Sworn to serve the wishes of the worst, absorbing animosity in the form of sponging pungency from senior monstrosities ailed their distribution of hostilities. The hand of the sleaze they be, necessary to do as their overlords please.
For, what is a captain without his crew? The ship would surely sink. The nasty party, famously, could not swim. Therefore, whippets wove their woe, breaststrokes aglow. In recognition of such slithering service, the glorified gang of sinister sycophants award their most dastardly devotees wings (No Red Rose Speedway) to reach higher sin and realize the true parasitic potential within.
Awarded the freedom of the sprawling utopian parish known amongst mortals as Woking for his countless deeds so depraved. ‘Twas an honor so bestowed upon him that he relished and would often nonce about with regular visits to local eateries, be they chains or independents – all hail his nourishing indiscrimination! A Duke amongst men (or more accurately; a sewage leak among singular doggy dungs) but not before being a man of todd, this elated doom-monger spewed not-so-shrewd views slating the in-tune. Heard through a voice of supreme shrill that assaulted the ears as if a spear (think Jess Glynne). Words wormed their way to the very spinal cord, no matter how bored the talk. A celebrated feat he’d fused in a potent innermost pool of spite and dissonance mixed with vibrant nepotism – and a dash of harassment for good measure. Achieved through the sacrifice of some estimated thousands of young and aspirational fledglings, the experiments ultimately found success manifesting in the fester he became known for manning. Prodigious potential did the chastening trio of swine so fine display during these testing times. ‘Rise and grind!’ was their morning moniker to signify subject’s sacrificial mortar and pestle thyme. So impressed was pukey-breath Duke, he took them under his leprous wings as their dark arts Maharichi. Let it be known; his impact on them will be felt forever.
Young Sunak especially so, who found these teachings so profound, the halfwit epithet ‘Richi’ was embraced in perpetuum (which he thought to be incredibly witty). It was also around this time the swine swore an oath of blood, decreeing to enact the pact once the time was right and the moon full. The deed held in esteem the terror they’d righteously reap and thus appease the feudalistic desires innate to treacherous Tories one and bloody all. With his mass of invaluable contributions serving to stoutly advance the righteous cause, the distinguished Prince (of Woking) Andrew the Abject was rightly revered among his many a decrepit creature. ‘Was’ being the operative term..
(Ass)wiping excess wing remnants from her slithering lip, Cruella cooled off this churn of mind before she needed a chin-check applying by way of boot clawfoot Richi would eagerly supply. Just in time too – for many more names could here be raised, but at great peril of befouling this page thus must be omitted to keep the evil spirits at bay.
Just as this most berserk circle-jerk finally wraps up its trudging stir, so does the cesspit claim completion and culminate in a cerebral secretion. In a stuttering spit-enamored splutter that had to fight for its miserable existence, such a labour it was to muster, the misanthropic plump of fuzz squealed: “w-w-weady fwor g-g-g-go w-ww-w-wich-wichi!” His face somehow finding deeper shades of red to retreat into as result of such exaltation.
A grunt of amusement closely tailgated the fated claim, and wherever he was hiding in the vast remit of Barnard Castle at that present moment, Dominic Cummings stopped spit-shining his bowling alley smooth bare noggin’. Finally able to profligate his time in an endeavor spiritual and pure, Cummings now lured a precise shine from each specific square inch of skull he boldly boasted. And so he spent his days, drawing solace from his new-found sparkle. “If only my beloved blubber of Boris could sample this sheen of gleam,” he murmured at his sullen reflection, running his own puny delicate palm across the streamlined frost, but it just wasn’t the same. Tears toiled as this thought his mind spoiled, forever embroiled in his repugnant Lord’s trembling recoil.
The forlorn ponder afforded his former aide, who used to revel in this semester of twisted ritual, swiftly sought refuge in settings less poncy. Thoughts tended to treat b-b-bbBoris in the ilk of a readied whore; in and out. Cummings had worked his way up to master the must of a skunk, and Boris used to love running his meat hooks over that godly sphere of soft Andrex. Try as he might, Savid just couldn’t Javid the same shine, for his jagged scalp was cactus prickly and fungi wriggling. Bromsgross more like. Even Boris often grossed at the sight.
As summoned, favored son of the corporatocracy Shaquille-Wallet-Steal Sunak scraped his braille-bony back atop the crooked ceiling of the claustrophobic apothecary as he crouch-shuffled excitedly over to the fully fermented vat of foul pungent splendor in an awkward and mechanical motion, as which his lanky pistons only knew. Kneeled at the shrine, he produced from his inside pocket the Sacramental Spoon of Sinister Sycophancy (bequeathed to him as tradition on taking up the proud and fitting mantle of Cuntcellor of the Asschequer). The sacred ritual saw him scoop a fitting and lumpy gloop and raise it in a toast to the pest control this practice performed before condemning it to his internal pit of immune volatility. Ghouls are well-known to have incredibly resilient entrails as the gargantuan tosspot repeatedly proved. Infernal became any inhabitants, child or doll, hot or cold. Charred flesh or pureed death, his tum won any test.
“Down the hatch!” He proclaimed after shoveling in the savored swallow, as had become his signature celebration of this custom – showcasing his penchant for comedy once more. A luminous glow of green, radioactive in theme, radiated his being, the lanky bucktooth ghoul frivolous for all to see. Signaled this swallowing and subsequent stomach gargling, the noxious substance was set for dispatch. Licking his lips to ensure every fleck and morsel burrowed towards his torso, the Spoon was soon restored to immaculate stature in a flick of a crisp £100 note, whose fate flashed through its plastic eyes as it plunged to the floor. A muted gesture in the face of his favored burning of a touched note, but Richi’s rationale was wise beyond his ginormous ears and thus restrained his desire for a flicker of fire that would risk what is by many wished.
Taste test triumphant, a rapture of delirium descended – for ready it was deemed! Huzzah! Jeers all round. The three spat in the vat for good measure, further fermenting their gazpacho treasure. In a whir of demented noises, snot expulsion and hand-clamping motions they fulfilled the sorcerous prayer of pestilence for their cauldron’s gloop. {Specific details of this ritual so revolting and ungodly are better left untouched when considering the wellbeing of the dearest reader.}
What can however be safely exposed is the charming chortle they choked – arising from their deepest dreams of a nation depraved – that reached extinguish in a horrific crescendo, as is habit established following the ceremonious rite. The spooky synchronization shared by the three was eerily showcased in the instant silence each reclaimed, thus banishing their snippet of crude cheer to seek asylum in the scenic and glorious Republic of Rwanda. Where else?!
So piercing was the silence, it succinctly sliced through the ancient brick ruins forming the hallowed den and subsequently swept up through each floor of 10 Downing Street. First alert to the ensuing devastation’s birth, resident cockroach supreme Jacob Rees-Twat Mogg took delight in many a poncy blurt spreading the celestial word. Very straight like pencil, he was a twig-like entity of the crooked and volatile persuasion with bulging mechanical slits for eyes, he fronted the burgeoning resurgence of desperately boring, malignant twats that keep Britain so backward and antiquated. The puny toerag had long licked his antennae in anticipation of this apocalypse, for nothing was there he despised more than the luxuriant lives of working classes that writhe on manipulated state aid. Each breath of the oppressed a cold dagger to his breast, each dole check cashed an impromptu wretch he’d let out.
Religiously would he lock himself away to pray for plagues of abundance to clean this nation, so corrupted with disdain he became, an appointed minder dedicated their days flipping him upright again. Raging with ears housing flame, the seething little cockroach knew nothing but spite. A chap raised (or more accurately; lowered) on millipede pâté three times a day, prominence became him early as this taste he outgrew and added to a termite stew his very own parents. The spirit of punk lives on! Held highly in historical Tory folklore, this revered devouring a revelation in the street of Downing, instantly thrown was a right-wing crowning. Revolutionized was their thirst for imparting an immense demise, thus Reek-Mogg’s insidious appearance and outlook thrived and symbolized. As a righteous reward he was granted the prestigious position of resident cockroach, an honor so beautifully befitting.
Such jubilation at the plan’s progress literally overwhelmed the frail gremlin as he was thrust onto his back to writhe and squirm helplessly, and just as the stoic display of Tory togetherness and solidarity earlier in proceedings, cockroach Mogg’s struggle found a savior in some fantastic flippant assistance from Britain’s worst wig bearer; Dominatrix Raab. Corset hoarder of a garden rake frame and legs to die for, he strutted and pranced with gleeful grace. His round and dainty behind jutted and jiggled in the face of any MP that gave him chase. Into the boys locker room, he always won the race. With his thumb firmly plumbed in noble assholes (always under the omnipresent strict voyeuristic surveillance of Neil ‘the stroker’ Parish) across the spectrum of puckered, splattered, pinstripe tight or openly gaping, he could always lend a hand, and often did at the sensual request of roach-cock Mogg. In this instance Raab was severely saddened sodomy wasn’t on offer for he, but as the good Samaritan he is, riled to help alert the troops with astute toots of salute.
The misguided whippets shrouded in subservience that populated these halls of national devastation recognized the virtue rising out of the vigil. Like autonomous factory workers, they took to their lines, organized for their crime with military precision. Salivation befell them, urination escaped them – trouser legs doused again.
The plan was airtight and as well-oiled as the great Glowing Dome of Cummings (who would be eager to assert here his sublime shine is attained wholly independent of any oily balm or potion), thus it was time to bless the humble nation with the most splendid bout of salvation.
In a fashion one could only expect of three astute and intuitive traffickers of torment, a diplomatic decision decreed the double-distribution method they’d deploy: Foot and flight to spread the spite! This two-pronged approach for delivering mass misery stretched long and slime-laden, in homage to the tongue-forked roach who’d boast to toast a measure so gauche.
Despair. Ecstasy. Gloom. Soiled garments. A sanctimonious air. All were there: Groovy times in the dingy lair! No sweat broken; swathes of pestilent locusts were swiftly summoned at the robust call of Cruella’s caw. They sipped up the mixture and swarmed out to imminently deliver. Concealed among chemtrails bountiful and deceiving, the dignitaries of dire deeds enacted the doomsday practice. Weaving and heaving, infection-soaked victims receiving. Richi the Revenant rallied the unwavering waves of adulating whippets who rocked up and rolled out on the road of perdition, armed with vials of vile. Morale boosting booty slaps for all these good chaps as the Oaf of Blubber pawed them out. Wise were the whippets who knew this selfless offering would return their rewarding: For this pilgrimage would complete their holy metamorphosis, thus they’d assume their final form with wings earnt. Soon to be the true leeching locusts they are, draining us all then flying away! A higher cause there surely was not. ‘Deliverance will deliver us!’ droned the hordes of dedicated miscreants waddling off into oblivion.
So mote it be.
Wings flapped and heels tapped. Airborne and road-towed, they roved and sowed the seeds of their overlord toads. Minions infected millions. Gloop from the vat seeped into the brim of the public’s hat. The cauldron’s slop spread as wide as joy from Santa’s sled. Preying on the prayers of a pained population. The smear of vermin distributed amidst the non-discerning. Pest control was pristinely practiced. Pesticides arrived from the skies. Hell’s bells rang loud. ‘Hell’s teeth!’ cried civilians. Coughs became increasingly scoffed. Hounded in traps, many were caught SPLAT! like the rat. Their reign in blood sent many to seasons in the abyss. Few suffered the sore sufferance brought on through reluctance. None could sprout the sour spout of stout sauerkraut. Apocalypse rendered nigh. The cull was carefully counted. Renaissance au pestilence. And that was that.
Weakly, the thing waddled, covering the short steps in a time most becoming his fragmented mind. Following a deep and thorough scratch of his desperate sweat-soaked ass that seemed to muster all corners of his cognition thus temporarily halting progress. Further wheezes were perspired as was exhausted his charred lungs capacity entire, the two accompanying voyeurs entranced by this vulgar display of power, inspired.
Finally looming over the loot of their labour as it bubbled and boiled, he struggled to stick the stick in. Cracked back into a hunch, muscle memory attempted to haul the well-weathered stick upwards, seducing a steady stream of putrid saliva to escape its unfavorable incarceration – in tandem with the sleeks of spilled snot (the cauldron’s gloop kind) pouring out – unnoticed to the dolt, who in poetic tandem was also blissfully oblivious to the besotted snot stream. Who needs Nordstream anyway?
The struggle found solution and compounded solidarity in the ever-nefarious Cruella Patel (typifying the strong diplomatic union underpinning such a surefooted Government), who had to wrestle her hypnotic and understandably erotic concentration away from the crevice where such sweat crept, to help handling the hauling of the stick into its ghastly cradle of filth. The spirits of evil she appeased with this most helpful gesture manifested themselves in the form of a destitute canyon erupting across her face; a devious grin carved in the pumpkin scarecrow’s drooped traipse from ear to ear. The fissures that arose in wake of the eruption’s growth bloomed a nest gladly taken up by hordes of locusts and further foul winged beasts of the fly variety. Nourishment hath never been so near! This divine evolution evoked in her mind the time-old proverb: ‘Gift the witch a fly, and she may enjoy lunch. Draw a swarm to her lips, and her lifetime’s nourishment is wickedly fixed!’
Once, however, the stick was stoutly stuck in, it was subject to a spin most strained. This constituted a stir, or the closest thing to such the decrepit vessel of blood and bumble could muster.
Round and round it juddered, occasionally getting stuck in the mustard. Gloopy as custard, (though you daren’t douse your pie of apples in it!) source of the nation’s fluster, the stink of the slop emulated that of a rancid rot. Curdled with curses so spurious, and spilt salt sourced straight from the hollow cavern where a heart would beat had they been human creatures and not the repulsive chefs de torment that be this conniving gang of louts huddled in a herd of turd.
Such was the putrid reek of their long-perfected specialty, that as it rose up to violate each one’s enflamed, crust-laden snotholes – in much the same manner they had done to the lives of the nation they played with like big brother – it delivered a high so righteous and thriving they were instantly aroused. So much so, the decrepit three would have achieved stirring erections, had they had any balls.
Murdoch’s Minions were thick in business! The infinite wisdom inherent in this esteemed council; the innermost trio of the Eton Mafia, were well versed with recognizing the right levels of wrong. For they each are regarded top proprietors of such levels and it is these such levels that has posited them as proprietors of the top. ‘Stinking rich’ is the phrase that comes to mind, also an apt soubriquet for the ghoul that was he, the ghoul that he be, the Great Ghastly Necromancing Ghoul Rii-ii-chiiii-iiii!!!! (hold in a high falsetto, repeat the ditty three times with true conviction, face the moon directly with eyes closed and arms raised, leg tucked in tree pose. Correct recital shall see you summon the specter of a perished aristocratic imp. Harmless they may be, though verbally they will berate. Treat these imps with care or risk forsaking your glorious locks of hair).
Relentless ridicule would greet the flaunter of fresh and clean smells in Parliamentary congregation and by all honor of the Queen herself none would wish for such a fate! Previous perpetrators of this sacred code of stench have swiftly fallen subject to a sore ousting and serve many a season solitarily confined in the memorial bind of sour minds. ‘For a vile stench MUST be clenched!’ So proclaims the sacred code every Tory toad in their mind kept in tow.
Along a rocky, pothole-populated road, one of which he hath so proudly perpetuated, this hitching came to implode: Things had been going a desired level of diabolical for the right (dis)honorable pig-fucker, but the often-touted adage ‘all good things must come to an end’ found in him prominence, as the masquerade he’d manned so convincingly faded away and led him astray. Even Andy Coulson couldn’t correct such conservative capitulation! While the purest bred Tories are eternally fused with abhorrent aromas of abrasion (to put it lightly) from their very first breath, mere mortals, as he in question be, may wield a wicked whiff that hoodwinks even the most schooled in deceit, but just as it is so callously conjured it can thus suffer unravelling and reveal a rogue in their true clothes. Punishable by retirement and rerouting of shame through audacious blame; baptized in snide and angst, the scapegoat is born again.
Happily rolling around in shit he had been, constructing an aura obscene, as slimy Green(sill) as his appearance hath beamed. But happily never after got sick of sitting on the rafters. Alas, soon deserted was he! Plunged into the very austerity he had spread so merrily. A talismanic jewel at the head of the Cuntservative crown he was considered. Wreaking havoc without pittance, pouring the nation many a bitter. Bitter pills, hard to swallow that is, the kind Mr Wenger deemed Arsene. Spunky Dave did pave the pothole-laden way for our trio depraved, posters on their walls harping back to formative days. Days of dazing at Dave, swathes of idolizing gaze implanted dreams of devastating decay. Dreams they have elevated and brought into play. ‘It’s only one stir away!’ Downing Street whippets would often hear them say.
The tale of Icarus pales in the shadow of the blaze left by Dave. Forever his fall remains omnipresent in their brains. Now more than ever, they remember his pain. Destined not to repeat such shame, the coalition of toads swore to maintain their derisive aim. Why’s it always a Dave?
One could only imagine the blasphemy that would befall an effort that fell foul of foul. A shudder possessed the two not-so-gentlemen at the mere thought of potential ramifications, but nothing phases the ice-cold Cruella who in contrast allowed herself to enjoy a snide snigger at their expense. One would not be remiss to say her face epitomized decay, rotten cracks her eyeliner. Her hair a nest in the truest sense, crawling with grease and creepies. A more dedicated eco-warrior you could not find. ‘Boys’, she shrugged with a sudden convulsion that saw her eyes roll backwards and her head rattle left to right; a chorus of feeble bones popping. A brittle swiveling twitch from the little sniveling… yeah. Not a Priti sight. Ingesting a lip-nested insect or two as the cannibalistic parasite loved to do (owing hugely her skeletal toothbrush frame to this exquisite high protein diet), a pious vision planted itself in the foremost catacombs of her ‘mind’:
Into focus came another erstwhile fetid fellow; he who just happens to be the highest-ranking sleaze this side of the sea. The last of a dying breed, a gargoyle who thrived on imbibing his own gargles of grease. Culminate a stink so repulsive, it put peers at ease despite their obvious envies, did this musty weasel of disease.
Although not a Tory by trade, the mongrel was member of a wider menagerie of malignant monarchs and other molesters of the sort. Mingling with cunts was always in his (and their) nature, thus he had many a cuntservative acquaintance he’d mingle among. They were all brothers (with a penchant for a cheeky embezzle here and there, such fun!) from different sides of the same ghetto. Cut from the same shit-cloth.
Above the ministers and lemmings that lauded him he would Lord it, and charitably allow them to bask in baths of crass when his carcass of lardness rolled into town – quite literally. Welcoming all devoted disciples, forked tongue lolling long, waving inflamed and bulging clammy paws aloft and strong, as needed to grip his bursting thong. Some flung themselves at his feet (Grant Shapps and Michael Fabricant being two of the keenest diving chaps– for it was widespread belief betwixt younglings of the coven this was the purest source of all scourge), some would rub his robes on their wart-ridden faces (here’s to you, Michael Gove!). Faeces would be– you get the idea.
These lackeys and lemmings that constitute the lesser arcana in the Cunstervative hierarchy, existing eternally below their beloved belligerents, knew the prophecy held a path far below power for them. Sworn to serve the wishes of the worst, absorbing animosity in the form of sponging pungency from senior monstrosities ailed their distribution of hostilities. The hand of the sleaze they be, necessary to do as their overlords please.
For, what is a captain without his crew? The ship would surely sink. The nasty party, famously, could not swim. Therefore, whippets wove their woe, breaststrokes aglow. In recognition of such slithering service, the glorified gang of sinister sycophants award their most dastardly devotees wings (No Red Rose Speedway) to reach higher sin and realize the true parasitic potential within.
Awarded the freedom of the sprawling utopian parish known amongst mortals as Woking for his countless deeds so depraved. ‘Twas an honor so bestowed upon him that he relished and would often nonce about with regular visits to local eateries, be they chains or independents – all hail his nourishing indiscrimination! A Duke amongst men (or more accurately; a sewage leak among singular doggy dungs) but not before being a man of todd, this elated doom-monger spewed not-so-shrewd views slating the in-tune. Heard through a voice of supreme shrill that assaulted the ears as if a spear (think Jess Glynne). Words wormed their way to the very spinal cord, no matter how bored the talk. A celebrated feat he’d fused in a potent innermost pool of spite and dissonance mixed with vibrant nepotism – and a dash of harassment for good measure. Achieved through the sacrifice of some estimated thousands of young and aspirational fledglings, the experiments ultimately found success manifesting in the fester he became known for manning. Prodigious potential did the chastening trio of swine so fine display during these testing times. ‘Rise and grind!’ was their morning moniker to signify subject’s sacrificial mortar and pestle thyme. So impressed was pukey-breath Duke, he took them under his leprous wings as their dark arts Maharichi. Let it be known; his impact on them will be felt forever.
Young Sunak especially so, who found these teachings so profound, the halfwit epithet ‘Richi’ was embraced in perpetuum (which he thought to be incredibly witty). It was also around this time the swine swore an oath of blood, decreeing to enact the pact once the time was right and the moon full. The deed held in esteem the terror they’d righteously reap and thus appease the feudalistic desires innate to treacherous Tories one and bloody all. With his mass of invaluable contributions serving to stoutly advance the righteous cause, the distinguished Prince (of Woking) Andrew the Abject was rightly revered among his many a decrepit creature. ‘Was’ being the operative term..
(Ass)wiping excess wing remnants from her slithering lip, Cruella cooled off this churn of mind before she needed a chin-check applying by way of boot clawfoot Richi would eagerly supply. Just in time too – for many more names could here be raised, but at great peril of befouling this page thus must be omitted to keep the evil spirits at bay.
Just as this most berserk circle-jerk finally wraps up its trudging stir, so does the cesspit claim completion and culminate in a cerebral secretion. In a stuttering spit-enamored splutter that had to fight for its miserable existence, such a labour it was to muster, the misanthropic plump of fuzz squealed: “w-w-weady fwor g-g-g-go w-ww-w-wich-wichi!” His face somehow finding deeper shades of red to retreat into as result of such exaltation.
A grunt of amusement closely tailgated the fated claim, and wherever he was hiding in the vast remit of Barnard Castle at that present moment, Dominic Cummings stopped spit-shining his bowling alley smooth bare noggin’. Finally able to profligate his time in an endeavor spiritual and pure, Cummings now lured a precise shine from each specific square inch of skull he boldly boasted. And so he spent his days, drawing solace from his new-found sparkle. “If only my beloved blubber of Boris could sample this sheen of gleam,” he murmured at his sullen reflection, running his own puny delicate palm across the streamlined frost, but it just wasn’t the same. Tears toiled as this thought his mind spoiled, forever embroiled in his repugnant Lord’s trembling recoil.
The forlorn ponder afforded his former aide, who used to revel in this semester of twisted ritual, swiftly sought refuge in settings less poncy. Thoughts tended to treat b-b-bbBoris in the ilk of a readied whore; in and out. Cummings had worked his way up to master the must of a skunk, and Boris used to love running his meat hooks over that godly sphere of soft Andrex. Try as he might, Savid just couldn’t Javid the same shine, for his jagged scalp was cactus prickly and fungi wriggling. Bromsgross more like. Even Boris often grossed at the sight.
As summoned, favored son of the corporatocracy Shaquille-Wallet-Steal Sunak scraped his braille-bony back atop the crooked ceiling of the claustrophobic apothecary as he crouch-shuffled excitedly over to the fully fermented vat of foul pungent splendor in an awkward and mechanical motion, as which his lanky pistons only knew. Kneeled at the shrine, he produced from his inside pocket the Sacramental Spoon of Sinister Sycophancy (bequeathed to him as tradition on taking up the proud and fitting mantle of Cuntcellor of the Asschequer). The sacred ritual saw him scoop a fitting and lumpy gloop and raise it in a toast to the pest control this practice performed before condemning it to his internal pit of immune volatility. Ghouls are well-known to have incredibly resilient entrails as the gargantuan tosspot repeatedly proved. Infernal became any inhabitants, child or doll, hot or cold. Charred flesh or pureed death, his tum won any test.
“Down the hatch!” He proclaimed after shoveling in the savored swallow, as had become his signature celebration of this custom – showcasing his penchant for comedy once more. A luminous glow of green, radioactive in theme, radiated his being, the lanky bucktooth ghoul frivolous for all to see. Signaled this swallowing and subsequent stomach gargling, the noxious substance was set for dispatch. Licking his lips to ensure every fleck and morsel burrowed towards his torso, the Spoon was soon restored to immaculate stature in a flick of a crisp £100 note, whose fate flashed through its plastic eyes as it plunged to the floor. A muted gesture in the face of his favored burning of a touched note, but Richi’s rationale was wise beyond his ginormous ears and thus restrained his desire for a flicker of fire that would risk what is by many wished.
Taste test triumphant, a rapture of delirium descended – for ready it was deemed! Huzzah! Jeers all round. The three spat in the vat for good measure, further fermenting their gazpacho treasure. In a whir of demented noises, snot expulsion and hand-clamping motions they fulfilled the sorcerous prayer of pestilence for their cauldron’s gloop. {Specific details of this ritual so revolting and ungodly are better left untouched when considering the wellbeing of the dearest reader.}
What can however be safely exposed is the charming chortle they choked – arising from their deepest dreams of a nation depraved – that reached extinguish in a horrific crescendo, as is habit established following the ceremonious rite. The spooky synchronization shared by the three was eerily showcased in the instant silence each reclaimed, thus banishing their snippet of crude cheer to seek asylum in the scenic and glorious Republic of Rwanda. Where else?!
So piercing was the silence, it succinctly sliced through the ancient brick ruins forming the hallowed den and subsequently swept up through each floor of 10 Downing Street. First alert to the ensuing devastation’s birth, resident cockroach supreme Jacob Rees-Twat Mogg took delight in many a poncy blurt spreading the celestial word. Very straight like pencil, he was a twig-like entity of the crooked and volatile persuasion with bulging mechanical slits for eyes, he fronted the burgeoning resurgence of desperately boring, malignant twats that keep Britain so backward and antiquated. The puny toerag had long licked his antennae in anticipation of this apocalypse, for nothing was there he despised more than the luxuriant lives of working classes that writhe on manipulated state aid. Each breath of the oppressed a cold dagger to his breast, each dole check cashed an impromptu wretch he’d let out.
Religiously would he lock himself away to pray for plagues of abundance to clean this nation, so corrupted with disdain he became, an appointed minder dedicated their days flipping him upright again. Raging with ears housing flame, the seething little cockroach knew nothing but spite. A chap raised (or more accurately; lowered) on millipede pâté three times a day, prominence became him early as this taste he outgrew and added to a termite stew his very own parents. The spirit of punk lives on! Held highly in historical Tory folklore, this revered devouring a revelation in the street of Downing, instantly thrown was a right-wing crowning. Revolutionized was their thirst for imparting an immense demise, thus Reek-Mogg’s insidious appearance and outlook thrived and symbolized. As a righteous reward he was granted the prestigious position of resident cockroach, an honor so beautifully befitting.
Such jubilation at the plan’s progress literally overwhelmed the frail gremlin as he was thrust onto his back to writhe and squirm helplessly, and just as the stoic display of Tory togetherness and solidarity earlier in proceedings, cockroach Mogg’s struggle found a savior in some fantastic flippant assistance from Britain’s worst wig bearer; Dominatrix Raab. Corset hoarder of a garden rake frame and legs to die for, he strutted and pranced with gleeful grace. His round and dainty behind jutted and jiggled in the face of any MP that gave him chase. Into the boys locker room, he always won the race. With his thumb firmly plumbed in noble assholes (always under the omnipresent strict voyeuristic surveillance of Neil ‘the stroker’ Parish) across the spectrum of puckered, splattered, pinstripe tight or openly gaping, he could always lend a hand, and often did at the sensual request of roach-cock Mogg. In this instance Raab was severely saddened sodomy wasn’t on offer for he, but as the good Samaritan he is, riled to help alert the troops with astute toots of salute.
The misguided whippets shrouded in subservience that populated these halls of national devastation recognized the virtue rising out of the vigil. Like autonomous factory workers, they took to their lines, organized for their crime with military precision. Salivation befell them, urination escaped them – trouser legs doused again.
The plan was airtight and as well-oiled as the great Glowing Dome of Cummings (who would be eager to assert here his sublime shine is attained wholly independent of any oily balm or potion), thus it was time to bless the humble nation with the most splendid bout of salvation.
In a fashion one could only expect of three astute and intuitive traffickers of torment, a diplomatic decision decreed the double-distribution method they’d deploy: Foot and flight to spread the spite! This two-pronged approach for delivering mass misery stretched long and slime-laden, in homage to the tongue-forked roach who’d boast to toast a measure so gauche.
Despair. Ecstasy. Gloom. Soiled garments. A sanctimonious air. All were there: Groovy times in the dingy lair! No sweat broken; swathes of pestilent locusts were swiftly summoned at the robust call of Cruella’s caw. They sipped up the mixture and swarmed out to imminently deliver. Concealed among chemtrails bountiful and deceiving, the dignitaries of dire deeds enacted the doomsday practice. Weaving and heaving, infection-soaked victims receiving. Richi the Revenant rallied the unwavering waves of adulating whippets who rocked up and rolled out on the road of perdition, armed with vials of vile. Morale boosting booty slaps for all these good chaps as the Oaf of Blubber pawed them out. Wise were the whippets who knew this selfless offering would return their rewarding: For this pilgrimage would complete their holy metamorphosis, thus they’d assume their final form with wings earnt. Soon to be the true leeching locusts they are, draining us all then flying away! A higher cause there surely was not. ‘Deliverance will deliver us!’ droned the hordes of dedicated miscreants waddling off into oblivion.
So mote it be.
Wings flapped and heels tapped. Airborne and road-towed, they roved and sowed the seeds of their overlord toads. Minions infected millions. Gloop from the vat seeped into the brim of the public’s hat. The cauldron’s slop spread as wide as joy from Santa’s sled. Preying on the prayers of a pained population. The smear of vermin distributed amidst the non-discerning. Pest control was pristinely practiced. Pesticides arrived from the skies. Hell’s bells rang loud. ‘Hell’s teeth!’ cried civilians. Coughs became increasingly scoffed. Hounded in traps, many were caught SPLAT! like the rat. Their reign in blood sent many to seasons in the abyss. Few suffered the sore sufferance brought on through reluctance. None could sprout the sour spout of stout sauerkraut. Apocalypse rendered nigh. The cull was carefully counted. Renaissance au pestilence. And that was that.
Lo And Behold, The Equinox Of The Sods Is Told