Let's be Theresa May

Oh, god OP I love you so much for starting this!

Let's be Jeremy Corbyn. I'm the lunatic, Jew hating scum, who truly believes I am morally superior to Farage and Walker.

I'm the dancing.

I'm the other dancing.

I'm happier days.

I'm the blankly staring out the window, trying to understand the point of surviving a no-confidence vote. In order to accomplish what?

I'm the lunatic determination to ruin my country despite every credible piece of evidence pointing out that Brexit is a huge mistake.

I'm the alternative reality I inhabit where everyone thinks I'm doing a marvellous job.

I'm the Worst Prime Minister Ever crown snatched away from David Cameron.

I'm the strange inability to sack Chris Grayling.

I'm the appalling fashion sense that stops people talking about what an appalling human being I am. I got the idea from Boris Johnson's hair.

I'm the barely-veiled racism.

I'm the effigy of Maggie Thatcher on the mantel. I am being treated more poorly as time goes on - I was placed down rather roughly after being dusted the last time and it hasn't gone unnoticed.

The the bad judgment that made me rush to the side of Donald Trump when he was elected. That threw away my parliamentary majority. That delayed the Brexit vote for a month to no advantage whatsoever. That decided Plan B would be Plan A. That made me take this fucking job in the first place.

I am her hostile enviroment.

I'm the cynical decision to place a non-Caucasian politician in charge of the Home Office after its institutionalised racism row.

I'm the disbelief that I'm still Prime Minister.

I'm the stone where her heart should be.

I'm the shriek of terror I surely emit each morning when I realise I'm still Prime Minister, somehow.

I'm the inability to see the connection between the rise in crime and the thousands of police jobs I axed.

I’m the tall, grey bird she so closely resembles.

I'm the very low curtseys to Her Majesty.

I'm the fish slipping effortlessly down her gullet while she cackles like a ganet

I'm the weird curtsy everyone's staring at.

I’m the obvious halitosis and old lady smell...

I'm the bags under her eyes. British Air always asks if she wants to check me.

I'm the huge strings of garish beads she thinks make her look more human and relatable

I’m her deal!

I'm the Tracy Ullman sketches.

I'm her poor and gawdy choice in footwear.

I'm her hair, hoping for a Margaret Thatcher bob.

I’m Tracey Ullman making millions.

I'm her future, the first reject on Dancing with the Stars

I’m her ever loyal husband, Philip, standing by to provide comfort as she continually lurches to ever larger, more humiliating catastrophes.

I’m her future: the £85,000 and packet of Malteasers she’ll be offered for her autobiography, if that.

I’m the ‘special parternship’ she hopes makes her look good by comparison.

I’m her braying a borderline coherent answer to a question about food banks in PMQs: ‘Something, something Hamas IRA Wu-Tang Clan something national security something Venezuela 1970s something last Labour government.’

I’m her struggle to remember the names of her constantly revolving ministers.

I’m the thousands of cookbooks.

I'm the sacrificial lamb for Robert Murdoch and other Brexiteer would-be oligarchs.

I'm the blatant disdain in the room during audiences with Her Majesty.

That old bitch doesn't like me.

[post redacted because independent.co.uk thinks that links to their ridiculous rag are a bad thing. Somebody might want to tell them how the internet works. Or not. We don't really care. They do suck though. Our advice is that you should not click on the link and whatever you do, don't read their truly terrible articles.]

^^ I am the Freestyle Libre that transformed a strong and stable robot into a living, breathing cyborg.

I'm the deep denial that made her think her deal would get through parliament.

I’m the expensive clothes she manages to make look like they came from a jumble sale.

I’m her diabetes brought up whenever she needs sympathy.

R2 - It’s a thread about May. Start one about Corbyn if you feel so declined. Oh, and try to be amusing rather same simply pointlessly vitriolic.

Corbyn and Labour are not in power and absolutely not responsible for the complete shitshow all of us are living through now. I certainly have reservations about him. But I’m tired of Tories pointing at and ranting about Labour in some pathetic, utterly transparent attempt to direct attention away from their utter inability to govern. They are the ones that are meant to be doing that at the moment. They are not.

Thank you to everyone else for making me laugh on a cold day when I actually have to head to London and walk past Westminster.

Declined = inclined. Fuck autocorrect etc.

We're the fashion-forward layers turning the heads of delighted onlookers whilst protecting fresh-faced TM's modesty as she makes her morning coffee run. We do hope that R47 is flaunting the soon-to-be rage of the high street — the short-sleeved navy thing worn atop the tight-sleeved puffer thing — and craning the necks of awestruck Londoners this cold, cold morning.

im the horrid wig atop her head

I'm her puppetmaster.

I'm the idea that will make Brexit work.

I don't actually exist.

I’m the patch on her arm. People think I’m for diabetes but I’m actually a double dose of Fentanyl that never seems to kill the yellow-toothed bitch.

I'm the inability to have children which also blighted my predecessor William Hague.

I'm the used Tenalady that has more personality and likeability than that cunt'll ever have.

I'm the Joker-esque smile and head-wag she uses whenever Jeremy Corbyn is speaking in the House.

I'm her shrivelled up, dried up gash. I've not had a dick inside me since Arlene Foster had me over the table at Chequers, the fat slag.

I'm the doomed debate happening right now.

I’m the Net-A-Porter account and her online shopping addiction.

I'm the vapid catchphrases she seems surprised that people hold her to.

I’m her recurring speechs that all blur into one.

I'm the no-deal that will send Britain to the dustbin.

I'm her hair that looks like a wig fashioned from the contents of a vacuum cleaner

I am the long legs. Gurrl could have been a Rockette. But, no. She decided to destroy the United Kingdom, instead.

....

I'm her endless mindless repetition" "May I say to the Honorable gentleman, if he wants to leave the European Union with a deal, he'll need to vote for the deal."

I'm the plants.

I'm that permanently awkward look on her face, as though she's just farted and is unsure if anyone's noticed.

I'm the shamelessness.

I'm the grey pallor of her skin.

I'm a dignified resignation. I'm clearly in the wrong thread.

I'm the person at home wondering if she's evil or incompetent.

I'm the compulsive tendency to announce speeches, turn up at least fifteen minutes late, and then say nothing of any significance whatsoever.

I'm her quavering voice trying to sell a DOA deal for the umpteenth time.

I'm her attempts to seem personable. I am never successful.

I'm her vestigial tail.

I'm the cup of tea serenaded by her weary sighs as another disastrous day ends.

I’m the oblivion waiting for her right after the resignation and the moment her car disappears from 10.

Im Lord Buckethead, fancying my chances in a rematch.

I'm the 20pt lead she squandered in history's worst election campaign.

I'm her tear-stained satin pillow - barely dry from previous evenings' wailing.

I'm 'my deal or no brexit', her current catchphrase. I have replaced 'my deal or no deal' and the long forgotten 'strong and stable'.

I'm the P45 she meekly accepted in the middle of her Conference Leader's speech.

Hating the Papist Rees-Moggs as he tries to unseat her and drag Britain back to the 19th Century.

I'm the DUP MP at R84 -- the only type who has used the word 'papist' in the last two hundred years.

I'm the sad fact that November 2018 now seems like hopeful, halcyon days when all was possible.

I'm the last time she was taken seriously.

I'll be the dazzling and meaningful career she hopes to have after resigning.

I unfortunately won't be happening.

I am the hand that will never be properly washed.

I'm the desperation to stay in power, no matter my extreme incompetence.

I'm the biggest government defeat in parliamentary history.

I'm the dignity-sparing resignation that didn't happen.

I'm R2. I'm one of the 4 people who think that the TIG is a good idea.

I am Jeremy Corbyn grinning at how well it's all turned out.

Mayday!

I am the most recent poll which I hope is ruining her walking holiday.

I'm her smelly snatch.

So what happened? Did you Brexit? We never hear any of your news here in the US.

No Brexit. Tory party collapsing in polls. May gone walking.

I'm the lectern being readied for a speech.

I'm 'Let me be clear...' and then the following lack of clarity.

I'm 'taking back control of our borders, laws, and money'.

Does her pussy stink?

I'm the meal on a tray served to her at 11pm at the British embassy in Brussels, while the other EU heads of state discuss how long of an extension to grant this time.

I am not going anywhere. Ever.

I'm the high-visibility safety vest she wore over Easter.

I am her dry white knees.

R100 good one R105 her sense of fashion, how can anyone take her seriously? Nobody does.

I am the tears she shed for the first time in public.

Not for anyone else's misfortune, no, of course not -- but for herself.

I'm the cat she moved out of the way before her resignation speech.

I'm her desperate, empty striving.

I'm this one laudable act in her entire miserable, wicked life. And even the motivation for me came out of a narcissistic desire to be remembered for something positive.