Sam Gore

I see you, Rupert Murdoch. I see your whispery head, your hangdog expression, the malevolent balls of obsidian that function as your eyes. I see you shaking your head as you watch the exit polls come in, your flaccid jowls dangling, flapping about like the labia on a jogging Boglin. You can’t believe it, can you? You lead all those children up the mountain pass and fed their bodies to the Grand Shadow and it’s all been for what? A hung parliament and an even bigger fucking mess.