‘I mean, we’re really supposed to listen to ancient scrubber lesbian bands while dumping on Kylie?’,
ECISIONS, decisions. What’s a girl to do? If you’re the sort of person who reads miserable, pointless newsprint, then you probably already know that the boss lady job is up for grabs at
I know, I know. It won’t be a real job in, like, two minutes. The sort of people who “read” newspapers are, face it, either dead or fading fast, and we’re all better off without the geriatric musk. I’d have to be a loser to want that gig, right?
You are so wrong. Do you have any idea how many potential abuses of privilege come with being a boss lady? The party invites! The front row for the spring collection! The handbags you can promise to bring “straight back” before forgetting! “No more stories about nuclear disasters. No more sour outburts from the feminazis in The Ticket”
Looking back, I am so glad my recent political career didn’t take off in the way many of you had hoped. The more I think about it, the more I realise that a newspaper editor’s life is just the life for me.
Now more than ever, you need me as your editor. As a lady I’m already halfway qualified. And I’m passionate about news. Not the coma-inducing stuff about bonds you have buckets of in this rag. Hell, no. I mean real news. Who was that skank Jordan was with last night? How happy is Posh to finally get a baby girl? How mad is she that certain lesser Spices have attempted to upstage her with pregnancies of their own?
The ordinary Patrices and Patrishias of this country have had enough already with the bond markets and Colonel Gadafy. Last week I saw that same blurry footage of the tsumani at least 14 times. The story was everywhere, like a huge, encompassing wave of some kind. No matter how many times I shouted “I know!” at my iPad, no helpful app appeared.
As your new editor (I’m dropping the and bits) I promise to stop this kind of over-reporting. From now on it’s a big deal for two days. After that, if you can’t produce a tragic kitten-in-a-bucket who survived the swells, then it ain’t news no more.
Newspapers don’t have to be depressing. If we put our minds to it, the can deliver all the news that’s fit to blog straight to your phone with a zoo baby guaranteed on every scroll.
No more stories about nuclear disasters. No more sour outbursts from the feminazis in The Ticket. I mean, we’re really supposed to listen to ancient scrubber lesbian bands while dumping on Kylie? Did I miss a tsunami here? Because, where I live, The Slits need husbands while Kylie is a shining example for anyone who wants to grow old without resorting to reading newspapers.
Just look at all the things Kylie has done to liberate the gays. As anyone who was lucky enough to see her playing the bongos on that guy’s buttocks last Wednesday can attest, Kylie is a class act. We want to read pieces about what a goddess she is.
So here is the real news: even in her 40s, Kylie is still getting around that stage almost entirely unaided. You go girl.
On pages three to five, a tribute to Knut the late polar bear in pictures.