Dystopia is in serious trouble, folks. We just don’t win anymore. We don’t win at canned goods. We don’t win at siphoning. We don’t even win at board games while we’re riding out nuclear dust storms in classy gold-plated fallout shelters. Some stupid Monopoly rule book is gonna tell me where I can and can’t build hotels? I don’t think so.
We certainly don’t win at repopulating the earth. Believe me, I know a thing or two or three-wives-four-mistresses-and-five-Miss-Americas about repopulating, and let me tell you something, people — specifically you, Karen — we simply will not win at anything ever again, ehh-nee-thing, if we don’t do something about Karen’s low-energy attitude towards repopulating with me. And fast.
We just don’t beat anyone anymore! Hell, when’s the last time we won against that pack of feral Labradoodles that live over in Fred and Donna’s townhouse? When’s the last time we beat those hypoallergenic morons at anything? Seriously, when? You’d have to go all the way back to before they ate Fred and Donna. Sad!
Speaking of eating people, we gotta do something about all these cannibals. Let me just say this: these cannibals are seriously bad guys. Out there, running around, eating the old and the weak and the fat and the juicy and the slow-footed dummies too stupid to find terrific hiding spots. You know, people tell me “you are what you eat,” and these cannibals are out here eating losers. You do the math. I’m sorry, but I like people who weren’t eaten.
And look, have I considered cannibalism myself? Of course. Who hasn’t? I mean just the other day I was looking at my beautiful daughter and thinking, you know if I weren’t her father, sure, I’d probably take a taste. You know, just a nibble. Maybe a little nosh. I mean, come on, you’d be crazy not to; just look at that body! We can no longer afford to be PC here, people, unless PC stands for Potential Cannibals.
I’ll tell you who else we don’t win against: mutants. Are you freaking kidding me with these guys? These mutants are out here eating our lunch. Some with two or three or even four mouths at a time. These people are freaks. They’re monsters. They’re hideously deformed abominations unto God, arms coming out of their foreheads, blood coming out of their… wherevers… and some, I assume, are good people. Ask anybody, I have many fabulous mutant friends. The mutants love me. Some with two or three or even four mouths at a time. They’re terrific. But they gotta go.
Look, I will turn this barren, apocalyptic hellscape around so fast it’ll make your head spin. Not literally, like those creepy head-spinning mutants they got now, but whatever the opposite of literally is. Laterally? Either way, I can assure you, I will build a wall so high and so slippery that even those radioactive Spider Lives Matter thugs won’t be able to get over it. And I’ll tell you what else: not only will I build a wall, but I’ll make those smug, fancy-pants Labradoodles pay for it.
It’s morning in Dystopia, folks. I know it can be hard to tell because of all the fire raining down from the skies all the time, but, trust me, it’s morning. And together, I and only I can make us win again; especially if certain people — I won’t name names, but I’m also not not naming you, Karen — start treating me fairly on this whole repopulating-for-the-good-of-the-species thing. I am laterally the only one who can make dystopia great again. Besides, I’m pretty sure it was you fat slobs who elected me the first time, so technically this is all your fault anyway.