Who Will The Guardian Go For Next?
The Guardian still has some names on its hate list to put a red line through.
First The Guardian came for the News of the World, and I did not speak up because I had no particular thirst for the sexploits or drug habits of famous idiots. Then they came for the London Metropolitan Police, and I did not speak up because I spent much of my teenage years high, and so I did not like the police. And then they came for David Cameron, and I did not speak up because I am a product of middle class liberalism and so am programmed to hate David Cameron, the colour blue and an unregulated market. And then they came for me, and I said, "hey, why don't you pick on these guys instead? There are still some names on your hate list that you haven't crossed off yet." And so they did (might).
THE PRESENTERS OF THE POPULAR TV SERIES TOP GEAR
Conspicuously upper class advocates for environmental apocalypse. The Guardian obtains Tipex-daubed Top Gear scripts and emails sent between the programme's production team. Thousands of copies of the next morning's first edition are pulped mid-run, as Guardian staff work around the clock to ensure that the legend: "FOOLED THEM AGAIN LOL ;)" is splashed across tomorrow's front page.
The terminally sycophantic Top Gear audience learn that the parts of the show where they all have a stupid race and Jeremy Clarkson wins are completely scripted. They are enraged. Using Richard Hammond's nickname "the hamster" as a grim starting point, the mob dispatch the trio in accordance with their place in the mammalian food chain. Hammond is put in a sack and slammed against a wall, James May is blasted out of existence by angry dairy farmers, and Clarkson is taken back in time to the 17th century and chased through the woods by guffawing, horse-riding royals who later hog-tie him and use a spit to find a shortcut through his digestive system (via his arse).
Lecherous self-server whose lust for power is matched only by his madness for pussy. Lulzsec hack the Vatican's email system, and make The Guardian aware that Pope and Prime Minister have been colluding to keep condoms away from Catholics because Berlusconi "prefers doing them all bareback and I'm rich enough to support more illegitimate children than even I can create anyway".
Berlusconi's role in fuelling countrywide epidemics of unplanned pregnancies and STDs is revealed. News travels fast, as the hashtag #ildouche trends globally on Twitter (via Jon Snow). The Vatican panics and adopts a familiar policy of self-preservation at any cost, assembling a kangaroo court to mete out punishment to the deposed PM. After some deliberation, it's decided that Berlusconi must go to the San Siro stadium which houses the football side he owns and admit to the crowd there that he is a gay. Not content with his contrition, and displaying a wry knowledge of the torture techniques employed by their nation in the past, the mob hands Silvio a canister of Castrol oil and demands that he lube up.
Afterwards Berlusconi, driven half-mad by the petrol fumes and the collapsing colonnades of his own, shattered libido, stumbles within lobbing distance of the onlookers and their signal flares. The flares are thrown and the oil sparks – Berlusconi and his gigantic balls are alight, and now they have exploded. Every one of the capacity 80,000 crowd is drenched in his semen. Happily, this prompts a period of national soul-searching that eventually drags the country into the 20th century, towards a newer, more tolerant Italy.
Haunted looking hack prone to bouts of sociopathic solipsism. Moir writes a column titled "Guilty? Moir?" about how she's hacked the phones of every child in the country whose parents are on benefits, and says the fact that she remains unpunished for it shows just how little anyone really cares about phone hacking. She then drifts into an aimless soliloquy about her horse, before returning to the original thread of the article to call MP Tom Watson a "stupid spotty fucking politics twat".
Hopefully they just burn her or something.