It's Not Right to Judge People by Their Looks, But in These Cases We'll Make an Exception: Just Some Weirdass-Looking Politicians
Look, it’s not fun to make fun of people’s looks. The true nature of a human being lies where you cannot directly see it. It hides away from prying eyes, revealing itself instead through deeds and words.
Well, even just based on those criteria, we know: Some people, politicians specifically, are ugly as fuck.
And for some of them that’s reflected in their ridiculous mugs.
Okay, okay, sorry. It’s a fact that politics, as practised by so many, can be a mean, low game, so it’s up to us always to take the high road.
Well, almost always. It’s Friday, and I dunno about you but I am too damn tired to climb the stairs to the high road.
Look at these weirdass-looking things:
Theresa, what in the everloving fuck are you doing with your body? Like, at least you’re laughing I guess—most of the time you’ve got a face on you that looks like you’re crouched over the lifeless corpse of a baby seal, your insatiable hunger mixed with a cold contempt for its pathetic, failed struggle—so in theory I should appreciate the change; but, what’s going on? What are these convulsions? Is there an exorcist hiding underneath the House of Commons? Who the fuck taught you how to laugh, Theresa? Rita Repulsa?
Wait, actually, hang on a minute…
There we go.
George W. Bush
I see you, George, you leering dead-eyed fratboy. You wouldn’t look out of place looming out of the deep darkness at Captain Nemo’s porthole. What is that gape-mouthed stare? Are you confused by something? Of course you are, you shark-eyed cuttlefish, you’re always confused aren’t you?
She Who Shall Not Be Named
Maggie, Maggie, Maggie—the shit are you doing with your eyebrows, love? I’ve never seen a more arrogant, snooty look of assumed superiority and contempt in my whole life. Did you ever meet a person you didn’t talk down to, you granite-faced serial killer?
Ah, never mind, Maggie, think I found the answer to my own question. This grease-covered molester glove of a man was worthy of your respect wasn’t he, Maggie? Who would’t love such a goblin-eared, pedo-‘stached harbinger of doom?
ARGH! Fuck me you gave me a good startle there, Sean Spicer! Nobody ever tell you you shouldn’t just appear at people’s back doors? I don’t care how severely you need a shit, Sean Spicer, you can’t use my toilet—not until you wipe that soured lemon enema look off your pinched walnut face.
Look at that overstuffed ham sausage; that fascist condom from outer space; that bloat-wrecked whale’s carcass. You look like someone left a balloon full of baboon’s blood on a window sill in the sun for too long, mate.
Still might be better than your buddy here though…
If you could put into a machine the concept of ‘posh entitlement’, mix in a bit of ‘aristocratic inbreeding’, and then pump out a human being based on that, you’d get George Osborne. Some context: that picture was taken when Osborne was booed at the Paralympics. The sequence of imagery detailing his reaction is a joy to behold. Watch as he takes the journey from ‘Suddenly having to deal with the repercussions of my actions’ to ‘I should really play along, ha-HA, human jokes are funny!’ to an external look of hollowed-out misery that finally matches his soul:
Hey, Cheney, every 80’s movie ever called. They need a villain. Preferably one who is capable of dislocating his lower jaw in order to vacuum up the souls of little children. You available? Or are you too busy shining that bowling ball of a head that weekend?
What in all that is holy is happening here, dude? You look like a sad, aborted lasagna sheet with two punched eye holes in it draped over a discarded cinder block.
Those of you across the pond who are lucky enough not to know who this sock puppet man-child is—stay that way. It only gets worse the more you know. I know, I know—how could it get worse than this anaemic, broken child’s toy? Trust me, it does. Bloodless little newt.
Anyone who’s ever had to deal with a debt collector or a hard-hearted bureacrat foreclosing on a house has met a Paul Ryan. The man is an archetype. There are legions of Ryans out there, their furrowed brows creating an empty pastiche of worried empathy; eyes huddling together close in a throwback to their neanderthal past; icy blue eyes frozen over like a lake filled with forgotten corpses. Before humanity crawled out of the primordial soup there was a Ryan analogue among us. When we’re finally living in an irradiated wasteland, reduced to a fraction of our number, huddled in an underground bunker, there’ll be a Ryan, making designs on the community’s last tin of shared beans, preparing a gutless spiel about how he alone should be allowed to lay claim to it.
I mean… Everyone’s already made the turtle comments, but this thing looks like a rejected Men in Black concept sketch. How many times has Mitch McConnell been reanimated by a dark Republican blood ritual? That shit’s bringing him back worse each time, guys, I’d let him just be on the next one.
It looks like a rat’s anus smelled something rotten. Picture the meanest, cruellest little rat skulking around in the sewers of New York City, wading through shit. Its nose is so fucked up after years of rummaging around in the effluence of a metropolis that it’s had to adapt to smelling things with its anus. One day, in the foulest, darkest corner of the sewers, it happens across John Bolton, gnawing on a cobbled-together trash sandwich, shitting himself as he does so. Even this rat has never seen anything so disgusting. And that smell?—even this rat’s anus recoils at John Bolton eating his trash sandwich and shitting himself, in the process somehow ending up looking exactly like John Bolton.
I drew that portrait in the header pic, not intending it to be a caricature. It just came out that way because this thing is a caricature of itself.
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