The Day I Force-Feed Piers Morgan a Vegan Sausage
On the day I force-feed Piers Morgan a vegan sausage, Piers Morgan will cry a single tear, his mouth full to bursting with an oogy foreign foodstuff, and I will say, “How does it feel to be the foie gras now, BITCH?”
Piers Morgan will say, “Please - no more sausage.” But I will be the one with all the power over the disgraced former editor of the Daily Mirror, and will calmly make him eat more sausage. And I will crow: “Ha ha, Pier (I will call him Pier throughout the ordeal), you snivelling clam, you called it sausage! So you admit that it is, in fact, a sausage!”
“Or-ride or-ride, sdob, Ibe sorry, ig ig a foffage”, Morgan will say, his mouth full of vegan sausage, which is actually made of meat like every other sausage in the world but made to taste like tofu so that liberals can enjoy owning rightwingers.
“What’s that Pier?” I shall say, with a cheery wink. “I couldn’t quite hear your mouth sounds just now from all the veganism in your face.”
“I seg, ig ig a foffage, I wud wron!”, the toadying lackey to the racist 45th President of the United States will burble, his chin all sweaty and glowing like an oily red quarry. “Pleab, no bore.”
“But Pier,” I shall say - the male ITV chatshow host will be seated on a stool in the middle of a grey and abandoned bus hangar, while I prance around him in my ugly cruelty-free clothes like a demented, gay Rumpelstiltskin cackling in front of his fire in the forest at night - “but Pier, don’t you understand? There is literally no end to veganism, now!”
The wire-haired James Bond aficionado with the face of a slighted blancmange will dryly cough down his remaining chunk of sausage, and splutter: “What? WHAT?”
“That’s right Pier Morgan,” my reply will ring out with sex-with-men-having glee, reverberating against the dusty walls of the bus depot, “every food item is vegan now. Didn’t you know? The fish you like to eat so Englishly on a Friday, in a crispy hen-foetus casing, with slices of squishy, squishy spuds - that is now vegan. It is a potato now. Fish is potato, and so are chips. What I am saying is: your fish and chips is potato.”
“No.”
“Oh yes. And the bacon granules you sprinkle on your Cheerios in the morning? Those are now elderflower. Lamb is quorn, beef is mushrooms, chicken is salsify and milk is a thin chamomile tea. Biscuits are parsley. Cake is wood, just bits of tree on a plate.”
“Stop it.”
“Fondue is polyester now, Pier.”
“NO, NOOOOOO, stop, help!”
“Open wide Morgan,” I will chuckle, my eyes shining with all the merriment afforded to me by having recently convinced Sam Mendes to cast Dame Maggie Smith as the next James Bond, “it’s time for another bite of vegan sausage.”
Piers Morgan will say, “Please - no more sausage.” But I will be the one with all the power over the disgraced former editor of the Daily Mirror, and will calmly make him eat more sausage. And I will crow: “Ha ha, Pier (I will call him Pier throughout the ordeal), you snivelling clam, you called it sausage! So you admit that it is, in fact, a sausage!”
“Or-ride or-ride, sdob, Ibe sorry, ig ig a foffage”, Morgan will say, his mouth full of vegan sausage, which is actually made of meat like every other sausage in the world but made to taste like tofu so that liberals can enjoy owning rightwingers.
“What’s that Pier?” I shall say, with a cheery wink. “I couldn’t quite hear your mouth sounds just now from all the veganism in your face.”
“I seg, ig ig a foffage, I wud wron!”, the toadying lackey to the racist 45th President of the United States will burble, his chin all sweaty and glowing like an oily red quarry. “Pleab, no bore.”
“But Pier,” I shall say - the male ITV chatshow host will be seated on a stool in the middle of a grey and abandoned bus hangar, while I prance around him in my ugly cruelty-free clothes like a demented, gay Rumpelstiltskin cackling in front of his fire in the forest at night - “but Pier, don’t you understand? There is literally no end to veganism, now!”
The wire-haired James Bond aficionado with the face of a slighted blancmange will dryly cough down his remaining chunk of sausage, and splutter: “What? WHAT?”
“That’s right Pier Morgan,” my reply will ring out with sex-with-men-having glee, reverberating against the dusty walls of the bus depot, “every food item is vegan now. Didn’t you know? The fish you like to eat so Englishly on a Friday, in a crispy hen-foetus casing, with slices of squishy, squishy spuds - that is now vegan. It is a potato now. Fish is potato, and so are chips. What I am saying is: your fish and chips is potato.”
“No.”
“Oh yes. And the bacon granules you sprinkle on your Cheerios in the morning? Those are now elderflower. Lamb is quorn, beef is mushrooms, chicken is salsify and milk is a thin chamomile tea. Biscuits are parsley. Cake is wood, just bits of tree on a plate.”
“Stop it.”
“Fondue is polyester now, Pier.”
“NO, NOOOOOO, stop, help!”
“Open wide Morgan,” I will chuckle, my eyes shining with all the merriment afforded to me by having recently convinced Sam Mendes to cast Dame Maggie Smith as the next James Bond, “it’s time for another bite of vegan sausage.”
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