Acrylic on wood, ready to hang.

Signed on the front.

It must be true. I saw it on the Tele. No wonder Hollywood aren’t churning out the blockbusters 90’s style no more. Lol. All the big actors and fakesters are on the news. He’s down! He’s down! QUICK! MAKE-UP! MAKE-UP! ANYONE GOT A BOTTLE OF TOMATO SAUCE?
…
Title Fight Night at the Prime Time Tele Theatre Company.
Sponsored by your friends at Big Pharma.
Keeping you safe and defected.
…
DING DING DING!
And in the right corner. The Lord of Lockdown, the Hammer of Main Street, The Fist Pumper, The Jabby-Jab Thumper, the assassin-dodging Vax-Daddy Golden Calf Patriot.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Go home!
And in the left, the Stroppy Sloppy Poppy with the thousand yard stare, Mr Trip Up The Stair, our very own go-slow, where-do-I-go, Can-I-Sniff-The-Hair-Of-That-Ho, Great Replacement Golden Calf Open-Border Pro.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Go home!
…
Such heroes. Such fighters. Such sneaky blighters.
Such short memories.
Too many have forgotten the lockdowns and mandates these crooked screen-acting hawks they call politicians imposed on those that could least afford it. The all-out assault on the working poor. Get the shot. Got to get the shot. It’s a beautiful shot. Get the Big Pharma needle or taste the sidewalk.
…
He took a shot for democracy. Well, a splash of the ole’ ketchup under the podium anyway. And yes, well the coerced working poor took a shot too, only theirs was under extreme duress, coerced for their livelihoods. Democracy; the cheeba pipe dream that never was.
Any year. Any country. Any fixed election.
Whichever secret-handshaker selected to win,
We always lose.
…
The world is their stage.