"Aha!" said the Prime Monister, "we will have the poor scrap with the destitute for scraps! We can't lose!"
"Yes, Prime Minister!" said Humphrey, his voice lowering to a pained whisper, "a small volcanic island. Got it." His face convulses as he turns to leave. He stops, adding through a grimace-grin, "It's just that there's a tiny difference between running a nation and preparing a Monty Python sketch, Sir."
"We're saving by killing," said the billionaire prime minister, "math, you see. Math is king. Pennies make pounds! Every yuppence, I mean tuppence, not spent on baby formula stays in the bank, money lice matters! I mean, money matters!"
Prime Minister, in a fateful twist we have come full circle to the start of social darwinism, "Please Sir..."
Prime Minister, feeding kids is my church; so how about you sit there on a pew and listen to the choir.
The Prime Minister had never met the pale wan children of the underclass, under-tall and under-fed, yet he led educated men and women to make their lives all the worse.
The Prime Minister considered feeding the poor children of his nation, adjusting his posture slightly to allow his roast beef to digest.
The problem with faking empathy, Mr Prime Minister, is that you can't actually navigate properly without it. After a time you'll find yourself lost in the storms of fate because your compass is only pointing toward your own desires.
We had hoped for a Prime Minister that would chose not to starve poor children during a pandemic, but there you go, I suppose the lunches at Eton were too good and regular for real empathy to develop.
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