text: With the election just days away Leftie Lucy faces Rye T Tie Tea, a battle for the soul of the country. Never in the country’s circular history has the nation been so divided. Leftie has accused Rye T of importing voters from the 1940s to supplement his shrinking voter base. Tie Tea in turn asserts that Lucy has artificially inflated her numbers by giving every slice of avocado toast a vote. Capital Will, named for our forefather Will I Am the Read, looks like the scene of an impending battle to rival Sekigahara. Banners declaring Rye T the Forever Fuhrer flutter in the winds of change. Their slogan: Rich enough to tan better, smart enough not to , has been spelled a thousand ways across the bare chests of grown homophobes cosplaying as the Village People. On the left, an army of the world’s last hippies have been braiding flowers into their armpit hair and singing for the future of a world they say is doomed. Their placards, written on recycled Amazin(c) boxes, declare that while there may be a Planet B, it’s not granting Visa so we should probably look after our world a bit better. Far from catchy. Our representative in the field, Doug Out, had this to say; “I honestly don’t know why you sent me here. I’m in a field and it’s corn as far as I can see in every direction. Looking up and up or down and down, I see nothing else.” Rob Mi is between the armies of the left standing on the right and the quiet majority on the left of the right wingers. Quite a B-team selection when you start looking at them. “Thanks Mike Rofone, yes I’m here in the backyard of democracy with Conan Mi, no relation. He’s campaigning on behalf of Rye T Tie Tee. Conan, why is that?” Holding out a microphone wrapped in an advert for plastic surgery, Rob’s liposuctioned hand holds it out to Conan who’s wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with Only judge can god me . “Rye T’a conspiracy theories really work for me, Rob. As a middle aged man haunted by the legacy of my efforts in high school, the idea that all of my problems can be blamed on people trying to move to this country to make a better life for themselves through hard work is comforting.” “So escapism is what you’re voting for?” Rob asks. “Exactly. I don’t want to have to think about policies or statistics. I just want someone who’s going to channel my anger into a vote that gives multi billionaires tax cuts.” “Because if slavery taught us anything,” said Rob, flashing whitened teeth, “it’s that the rich care about the poor.” “Exactly.” “Thanks, Conan.” Rob turns to the camera. “Now it’s time to cross the street. As you can see, the police are out in force to stop these two sides meeting in battle. What’s truly startling isn’t just the fact our police have machine guns, it’s that Rye T’s supporters are carrying weapons that make the police guns look like water pistols.” While Robert wades through boys in blue, it’s time for a word from our sponsor. Fast Fashion is the brand made for kids, by kids. Bulk order more than ten items for a vial of the blood, sweat and tears of the toddler who made your adorable ensemble. Fast Fashion, don’t feel guilty, we don’t . Back to Rob. “Thanks, Mike. As you can see I’ve gone from skinheads to dreadlocks. One has to wonder how so many white men can wear this much tie dye without forming a reggae band. Rainbow And Arrows is his real name and he hasn’t showered in weeks. Rainbow, do employers ever question your sanitary habits?” “Not really Rob, I’ve been part of a militant vegan group for the last six years, freeing dairy cows in the wild.” “How’s that going for them?” Rob asks. “They can’t breed without artificial insemination and they require C-sections to give birth.” “So your actions condemned them to die?” “They’ve been bred to the point of extinction, Rob. I’ve been helping them die with dignity.” “I’m sure they thank you as they’re ripped apart by predators. Great talking to you, Rainbow. Maybe you should have a shower when all of this is over.” “Nah, gotta save water, man.” “Is water facing extinction as well? That’s news to me.” “We’re running out of fresh water. Don’t you know?” “Nope, Rainbow and honestly I don’t care. Back to you in the studio, Mike.” Thanks, Rob. Here in the studio we have political commentator and Troll Rights campaigner Lai Bellous. Hot off the press tour for her book Real Trolls Don’t Taunt, Lai has a lot to say about the election. “That’s right, Mike. Thanks for having me on the show.” “You’re welcome, Lai. Thanks for coming. Back to Rob Mi at the rally.” “But,” says Mrs Bellous, as the screen cuts to Robert Mi. “Things are really hotting up here, Mike. And I don’t mean that in a sexist way. The midday sun is really cooking us all. I’m seeing a lot of melanoma in the making as protestors on both sides start to look like cooked lobsters. Doctor Alan Webster has no PHD but does sell slimming medicine online. Alan, why are you voting for Rye T?” “The man’s a genius, Rob. You know he is because he says so.” As he pumps a righteous fist, Alan exposes a sweaty armpit. “It’s always helpful when politicians self diagnose their own brilliance.” Robert nods, flashing veneers that cost him a fortune. “He’s gonna sort out the law too, man. This country is too soft on crime. Criminals walking free left and right. He’s gonna fix that.” As he fans himself with his shirt, Alan reveals the tips of a swastika across chest. “I know what you mean, Al. Seems like there are people everywhere who should be behind bars. Hateful people who idolise violence against anyone different.” “Exactly!” Yells Alan, prodding Rob’s chest. “Kill ‘em all I say.” “Great talking to you, Doctor Alan Webster. Now it’s time for the weather with Rainie Diaz.” Thank you Rob. Enjoy the sun, that’s all I’ll say. It’s going to be raining cats and dogs tomorrow. Starting light with Shih Tzus and kittens but moving up to Alsatians and Maine Coons by the afternoon then Saint Bernards and cougars all night. I could tell you the weather across the continent but let’s be honest, our viewers don’t care. Back to you Doug Out, what’s going on there? “I’m still in a field, moron. Nothing’s happening here.” That’s what you get for sleeping with the boss' wife I guess. Back to Rob. The camera shakes, pushed down towards feet as screaming and yelling fills the microphone. “Yes, Rainie. Thank you,” his voice muffled and coming in gasps, Rob lifts the camera lens back towards his face. “It’s all kicked off here. The left and the right have met in the middle, and it’s carnage. The police are starting to guard people from a paramilitary unit with rocket launchers on one side and wiccans throwing fireballs on the other. There’s a certain irony to men wearing Blue Lives Matter clothing gunning down officers for a chance to attack political rivals. Likewise I can see a lot of vegans out there cooking meat, even if it’s human.” Blood splatters Rob from behind as the rattle of automatic gunfire becomes a drumbeat over screaming vocals. “FOUR MORE YEARS,” scream men and women red in the face from sweat and blood. Bodies lay across the street, intertwined. “Our thoughts and prayers go out to the families, and to those lost,” says President Rye T, bowing his head. As always happens, the dead rise, reincarnated by the lackluster words of an indifferent figurehead. Guns never hurt anyone, not permanently at least. You can trust the National Pistol Association on that, they don’t have an agenda. That’s all we have time for I’m afraid. Maybe in another life I’d tell the truth but that’s not what pays. From everyone here at Ain't It Drool News, remember, if you’re hunting deer, buy Drummond’s armour piercing rounds, because there are too many deer in Kevlar now.