#theshitweek

[theshitweek-blog]

The Shit Week 3/5/2020

People are angry at Boris Johnson, a man about as trustworthy as a Catholic priest at a primary school swimming gala. Despite the UK Cornavirus death toll hitting over 27,000, Johnson and his clique of shit flinging terror-chimps enjoyed a case of champagne as a goat-legged aide was photographed hoisting a box of bubbles into No.10 this week.

What people don’t seem to understand is it is the birth of his son is purely coincidental and merely intersected Mr Johnson’s caustic awfulness at the picture-perfect time for the liberal left-wing media to spin a story. That is to say, despite the birth of a son who Johnson has bothered to name this time, this is not out of the ordinary. Behind closed doors, the Prime Minister would still be drinking sparkling wine out a recently deceased grannies shin bone that had been fashioned into a champagne flute. The birth of a new son came as a shock to all involved when doctors who were treating Carrie Symonds for a separate medical issue subsequently discovered she was pregnant. Symonds was admitted with a shattered pelvis after health officials suspected a filing cabinet filled with dented paint cans had repeatedly smashed her bottom half into pate. I will admit that the image of that libidinous hippo made of Babybell mounting a sacrificial human female is enough to make me want to crack open my skull like a boiled egg and scrape out the images with a jagged rock.

There’s a lot of talk from the government’s Scientific Advisory Group on Emergencies or SAGE about “the science” surrounding Covid-19. Membership of which includes one of the most powerful prime-ministerial lieutenants in political history. Think an irredeemable, more sinister and rat-faced Wormtail. A man with the all sympathetic inclination of a grease fire. According to reports, “the science” is being strictly followed to the letter without ever explicitly being specifically outlined. It brings to mind a boardroom full of hellfire and eggheads stood around one of those paper fortune tellers horny teenagers made at school. “We need more PPE. One, two, three…”.

A modest distraction in the form of frothing facebook outrage comes in the form of irredeemable conscience goblin, Becca Brown. An artist who has stockpiled over £2,500 worth of PPE for an elderly relative she is caring for. Brown refuses to fold to societal pressures of human decency and donate her stockpile in light of the wavering supplies NHS. As she concedes in earnest she needs the butter mountain of latex and face masks for her own medical protection and the proliferation of her “art”. Which of course, as privately owned commodities acquired through personal means Brown is absolutely within her rights to behave however objectionably distasteful she chooses to. All at the paltry cost of her immortal soul. The artist is curating an exhibition about the virus and calls the items the NHS caregivers use every day as thin layer protection as her "canvas". As well as scratching the names of the dead onto a neon pink tongue-depressor in Letraset, the artist is looking to kiln-fire the residual hatred she’s recently garnered into a ceramic dildo she can use to sodomise the homeless with while she burns fistfuls of cash and blankets.

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