May. 2nd, 2008

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It's one of those mornings when you pry your eyes open and Oh god.

He seemed so witty and dashing only last night! A blond Adonis, so infectiously cheerful, the life and soul of the party.

Nothing of this remains in the face currently mashed into the pillow barely a foot from your own. A viscous ribbon of drool runs from the corner of his cherubic mouth. Last night that pout was sexy. Now it reminds you horribly of a Cabbage Patch Kid.

Dimly, you remember how delighted you were at his interest in you. You fight the urge to gnaw your own arm off at the shoulder.

Maybe we just passed out. Maybe I didn't...
...hang on, I've got a campaign sticker on each nipple. Oh
shit.

He sighs contentedly. As his noxious morning breath washes over you, you realise there's no escape: you've woken up in bed with a smug, moronic, bigoted Thatcherite named Boris Johnson.

Enjoy the next five years, suckers.

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