I’m sorry that you have Covid-19 emopression but damn it, you selfish reader, please do remember that Rupert Murdoch didn’t get a birthday party this year and unless the secret cryogenic lab comes online at Holt Street soon, he may not have many left. The snags were all lined up on the barbie at his $40M vineyard in Bel Air, too; the beer chilling in the last few chunks of ancient Greenland pack ice choppered in directly from the Arctic’s increasingly slushy frozen heart. A jaunty Kevin Rudd piñata had been lowered into easy reach and pre-beaten by expert Kendo masters to ensure the wizened old Sith Lord was not inconvenienced by having to repeatedly whack away at the effigy like some vulgar tabloid editor.
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