Oh Michael. Where to start? You look like a broken Pob sculpted from a block of pork luncheon meat by a furious Geppetto. A Geppetto who’s given up making the perfect real boy and can’t afford one of those highly dubious Chinese sex dolls. The meat isn’t even Spam. It’s Ye Olde Oak, from fucking Lidl. Slightly more salty, fatty and mottled.
You look like the product of a sympathy wank into a defective jelly mould, you chinless pin eyed fuck. You’re a Gerald Scarfe wet dream, a Danny Devito to a Chris Evans Arnold Schwarzenegger in a shit Twins.
You’re the knitted Christmas jumper from a demented Nan, a lost sock on a Monday morning. You’re fucking diet Pepsi.
You’re an architect of misery in a dystopian post Brexit nightmare, an adulterer of education and an expert denier. You’re a fucking crinkle headed smug faced wry smiler, and a mildly surprised climate change denier.
You’re a cunt.
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