“A table for two, please,” Miranda Devine said to the maître d’ of the fancy restaurant where she was meeting her old friend Mel Gibson.
“Certainly, madam,” the maître d’ replied. “Is the lady expecting her husband?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Miranda Devine asked. She was appalled! “Hello? Do you even READ the news? Millions of England’s fatherless youths are drinking blood from the skulls of honest heterosexual couples and having gigantic same-sex orgies in which the lesbians all rub their vaginas against each other’s vaginas and the gay men all touch each other’s penises as we speak, and no one feels even a tiny bit guilty, and you have the GALL to imply that I’m in some sort of godless lesbian relationship, you mincing little faggot? I demand to see the manager!”
“I apologise, madam,” the maître d’ said, “I didn’t mean to imply that you were a lesbian.”
Miranda Devine stared at him scornfully. “I’m not interested in your politically correct bullshit,” she snapped. “Just show me to my table.”
The maître d’ led her to a table by the window. It was a beautiful table, carved whole from the trunk of an ancient oak and decorated with ornate renderings of Christian soldiers beheading gay lovers. It was Miranda Devine’s favourite table, and she couldn’t wait to share it with her old friend and confidante, Mel Gibson!
“The usual goblet of ash and crystal meth, ma’am?” The maître d’ asked.
“Fuck off, homo,” Miranda Devine snapped, which was her way of saying yes.
Suddenly, she heard the sound of breaking glass coming from the doorway and a man’s voice screaming! “You look like a pig in heat, you whore cunt,” it screamed, and a waiter went flying out of the window and landed in the road and a truck ran over his head. Mel Gibson was here! Miranda Devine felt a little thrill of excitement. Mel Gibson stormed into the dining room and unloaded his handgun into a woman who looked a bit jew-y.
“It’s so nice to see you, Miranda,” he said, “you look good enough to be raped by a pack of white men!” Mel Gibson always knew what to say. That’s how he had become a popular and successful movie star, Miranda Devine guessed.
“And if I was, I would carry the child to term and a raise it as a Catholic,” she quipped. Both of them laughed incredibly hard!
“And I would certainly not hide my heterosexual pregnancy in the closet and I would make sure that everyone I knew and also thousands of Daily Telegraph readers I didn’t know were very happy for me and I would probably write a column about it,“ she continued, even though all of that stuff was DUH obvious and unnecessary. Everyone in the restaurant stopped eating and said "DUH” and then left immediately so Mel Gibson didn’t throw them out the window.
Mel Gibson was disappointed. “I was going to make them blow me first,” he said.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m as tolerant as the next person,” Miranda Devine replied, “but I’m just so sick of having to put up with all these immigrants and fags getting married. I don’t think I should have to tolerate them? I am a Catholic, after all!”
“I’m a fucking Catholic too,” Mel Gibson said. “Maybe we should have a Catholic riot?” Miranda Devine agreed that it was a great idea, because she is a obnoxious jerk, so they went and had a riot and then Miranda Devine wrote another horseshit column that ended with a loathsome fucking platitude along the lines of “Individually, these things work themselves out. Allowances are made, extra effort applied. Love conquers all.” Of course she did! THE END.