The Big Woop's Nefarious Plot to Undermine Capitalism

Funny story written by TM_Dealer

Tuesday, 10 February 2015

The national magazine sold exclusively by the homeless, Big Woop, has faced many damning criticisms in its time.

Allegations abound of aggressive selling techniques which are harming the Universal Beltway Interest of Our Common Humanity and/or that of the Golden Pigsty (or, if you prefer, of the Houses of Perishing in Warminster).

And you have you forgotten already about the millions of people arriving from abroad PURELY to sell the Big Woop, illegally vote for New Labour, and unilaterally pester Richard Littlejohn for fun money at the Cocaine Exchange in Leeds? (Or maybe Rod Liddle, at a push.)

To say nothing of tedious stories, crap photos and generally substandard journalism (according to some, at least).

But perhaps the most damaging one of all, the final and conclusive death blow, is the realisation that most Big Woop sellers are actually do-gooding SWP Trots in disguise.

Yes... these clap-ridden-war-memorial-pissing-pub-crawling-vomit-warriors-without-a-cause are determined to bring down the bourgeois empire of mainstream petty-bourgeois individualists who arrogantly disdain to recognise the single, unitary interest of The-Nation-In-General and The-People-As-A-Whole.

But how?

Well, duh! OBVIOUSLY, by parting wishy-washy liberals™ and well-meaning conservatives™ from their money, thus maliciously preventing them from lining the pockets of Unaccountable Global Corporations™ and Despicable Sub-Human Kleptocrats™.

But some have no qualms about participating in this sinister plot, as one conspicuously benevolent prole-enabler told me in his rough-and-ready-working-socialist-working-man's-accent™:

"I say, old chap, it is simply spiffy-bums in my chum-chums," quoth Baron Jimmy P. Lenden-Steele.

"Harrah! It is that when thou hast run out of one's money for the public house and shan't face actually trudging one's melancholy bum-bums into the library for a studypoos...

"One can can simply just earn a smidgen more money by putting on one's uniforms, grabbing a few ware-wares so sell in one's boo-hoo-nesses...

"Then afterwards, it is simply time for yum-yum in my tum-tums, a banging Stella or ten, darling... why, HOORAYYY!"

His last night's co-fling just gaped gothically, narcotically and (I thought with a degree of horror) smilingly at me and murmured:

"No matter how bad my hangover is, we've always got enough money to get pissed again… ahhh... suck me off, prole... I've always dreamed of f***ing a pleb, and banging him into oblivion... that's what socialism is all about, mate..."

I broached the sensitive topic if whether what they were doing might just be fundamentally immoral and manipulative. I felt my guts churn as The Trot-Without-A-Name reached to down in solidarity to grasp me in a comradely and cold embrace:

"Well, we have to bring the system down somehow, bourgeois comrade….mmmmmmm... I wouldn't mind wrapping my tongue around an earthy, rugged little working type like you…


But wee Jimmy was less conciliatory, wary of a woolly social-democratic compromise™, and perhaps generally out of his typically hyper-egalitarian, caring-sharing mood.

"Harrah! Harrah! Harrah! Harrah! Toodlepip! Tranport this bourgeois idealist simpleton beyond one's visage! Pray refrain from dividing the workers!"

Not much work being done by these archetypically hardworking Trots thought, it seems.

So... perhaps the Undeserving Rich do exist after all?

Whoops... bugger. That's sheer ideology! Never written such bourgeois crap in all my life!

Moral of the Story:


The funny story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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