So many questions abound about Piers Morgan.
Like: ‘Why is Piers Morgan?’
And: ‘For fuck’s sake, why is Piers fucking Morgan?!’
And: ‘Alright, time to end this nonsense once and for all. Whose Piers Morgan is this?’
Because I don’t know about you, but I keep losing track of which side of the Atlantic the attention-seeking anal bead is currently on. At first we had him over here—that’s where he started after all— running newspapers and hacking phones and doing his absolute best at irreversibly damaging public discourse. Then we pinged him over to you, where I think you gave him a TV show? Something like that. Either way I thought that was that. Seemed like a happy ending. For us anyway. But now he’s apparently back here again?! Shit’s exhausting, man. It’s like trying to keep track of a tennis game. A game being played with a compacted bolus of racist horse shit. And every time a racket strikes that bolus, a little bit of the shit flies off, landing on all of us. Let’s face it, America, batting Piers Stefan Pughe-Morgan back and forth across the pond is not doing either of us any favours. We’re just getting covered in him. Have you ever tried washing Piers Morgan off? Don’t bother. You fucking can’t. That shit stains deep. Can we just come together now, in the spirit of transatlantic imperial solidarity? Can we take a break from bombing the Middle East, and can we use that money instead to build this sexist twatgoblin an island somewhere in the middle of the ocean, equally far away from all of us? Send him there. Send Katie Hopkins there too. And that squint-eyed hateballoon you have in the White House. Then barricade it off from the rest of civilisation, like an anti-Wakanda, and let them have at each other as they will.
Let’s get that done, eh?
Speaking of islands, here’s Morgan trying to condescend a contestant from reality TV show Live Island and instead shooting himself in his own stupid racist ugly foot by confusing Pythagoras’ theorem and pi—and getting pi wrong in the process.