AS ADULT babies Donald Trump and Kim Jong Un continue to see who has the biggest, hardest, longest missiles, we can only scan the horizons in desperation for Dennis Rodman.
He, you’ll remember, is the former basketball player famous for excessive facial piercings, rainbow hair, cross dressing, and attempting to marry himself while wearing a wedding gown.
He likes orgies, strip clubs, headbutting referees, and trying to impregnate Madonna (he failed).
He is also one of only three Americans to have met Kim Jong Un, of whom he says “I love him.
I love him.
This guy is awesome”, while simultaneously being a buddy of Donald Trump, who is “a great friend for many years”.
Oh Dennis, Dennis, where are you when the world needs you? As the short-fingered vulgarian, as he is unaffectionately known by Vanity Fair, squares up to the short-arsed maniac, whom the former says has been bigly and yugely out of order with his nuclear launches, who can save the world from two crazed narcissists with daddy issues?
While Trump’s father gave him a bankload of cash, Kim’s father gave him a country, yet it looks as though vaporising the planet is the only way to compensate for their shared feelings of inadequacy in the trouser department.
Run for the bunker, kids! Leave Grandma behind, she’s too slow!
Dennis, save us! Oh wait, you are.
News reaches us that Rodman is currently on a mission in North Korea.
That’s how he described his trip in the Washington Post – a mission.
Has he been sent by his great friend of many years, in an attempt to talk the awesome guy out of nuking chunks of Alaska? Already on his Twitter feed, Rodman has retweeted a photo of a lone fan with a homemade sign calling for the former Chicago Bulls player to receive the Nobel Peace Prize.
Is he really our only chance of deferring Armageddon?
No wonder women are glitter bombing their vaginas.
What else can we do, when it’s left to the ex Mr Carmen Electra to save us from a two headed weaponised blob monster, other than defiantly insert Passion Dust Intimacy Capsules into our ladyparts? Gynaecologists may be speed dialling 999 at our idiocy, but we ladies are past caring.
If the world is going to be brought to a mushroom-clouded halt by Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber, the only valid response is to go out with a big glittering bang.
However, should our saviour Dennis Rodman manage to achieve world peace by tactics unknown, we will be so overwhelmingly relieved at not dying horribly in nuclear meltdown that having vaginal inflammation and infection caused by the voluntary insertion of candy scented glitter capsules will be merely a detail.
We will be too busy rejoicing and supporting Dennis’s bid for the Nobel Prize.
This is the world in which we now live.
A world where none of the above is parody.
Are you screaming yet?