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While you were asleep: One Nation implodes, pimp to run for GOP, world looks to Shakira to save us

Well, it’s nonsense for breakfast again I’m afraid. One Nation self-destructed, a pimp won a seat for the Republicans and the official World Cup song is officially bad.

 

 

Burston quits One Nation, drops a bomb…sort of?

Brian Burston, the man made One Nation famous for seemingly being less cray than the other two has flown the coop, but not before dropping a molotov cocktail solely constructed of low hanging fruit. Upon packing his things, Burston suggested that the party should now be called “Gone Nation”.

 

 

Which, ok. Let me rap to you, BB. We all dream of that grand walk out moment, where we quit our jobs with a sharp strut and an even sharper piece of wit. Something that articulates the pain they’ve heaped on you, and will also live forever in the parlance of the forgotten employee.

You went with Gone Nation. 

Yeah. I guess.

 

 

Nevada’s greatest pimp represents the Republican Party, continuing a grand tradition of the grand old party.

The general reaction to the news that Nevada’s greatest pimp will be contesting a seat on behalf of the Republican party has been met with widespread friction.

 

 

I’m unsure why. If he ran here someone who labels themselves the ‘Barnum of Booty’ would surely secure the largest voting base in the nation – the donkey vote. We’d have Prime Minister Booty, a rolling character who’d turn Kirribilli House into The Best Little Whorehouse on the North Shore, harking back to the good old days of ‘Straya when the head of our nation knocked back schooeys in a blazer which stated what country he ruled, while simultaneously outing all those who decided to keep the economy running in the wake of a meaningless boat race.

 

 

Nevertheless, the sanctity of politics has come into question on the sweating, heaving back of a smut merchant.

I think we’re being a smidge naive – for two reasons.

A) Everyone in politics either gets fucked, or does the fucking. At least with him, we’ll get to choose. Yes, we’ll have to pay for it, but that’s par for the course ever since the OG pimp of democracy, Cleisthenes, set up his stable back in 560 BCE.

B) Think of the electoral puns. Climax. Come one, come all. Work the slot for America. I could go all day. I can’t, but, you know.

He’s putting Nevada on top.

Hof goes deep into the electorate.

Give the Democrats the shaft.

 

 

World discovers that the World Cup song isn’t that good. Bring back Ricky, ffs.

The most lasting legacy of the FIFA World Cup (other than nationalised disappointment) is the earworm that is played to death over the month to come. Because it is a far superior athletic pursuit, we’re usually blessed with bangers beyond reproach. But, for every Waka Waka (eeh ehh), there are those who are memorable for being completely forgettable. Sadly, the 2018 Russian vintage is a trifle tannic.

Warning: The Big Smoke takes no responsibility for the number of gooey corpuscles that may drip from your ear parts during your witnessing of this video.

 

 

I mean, yes. It wasn’t that bad, but it wasn’t that good either. They even roped in poor Ronaldinho to salsa the festering turd up. The man has enough troubles. Two wives, Copacabana beach football, galaxial tekkers – just leave him be.

Now, considering that the song isn’t up to borscht I’m wondering if history will repeat as it did in 2014, as the FIFA powerbrokers whitewashed Pitbull’s dour tripe with a fresh coat of Shakira yellow. Pardon the temperature of my hot take, but if they are to re-do the World Cup song, surely there’s only one number that Vlad should dial.

 

 

 

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