Woman forced to read man’s fucking life story to get muffins recipe

I’ve always loved satire articles. When I was a boy in Sicily, my grandma used to make satire articles for our entire family.

Today, most satire articles are store-brought from satire chains, which I always find disheartening. Sure, it’s easier to get your snarky jabs at Boris Johnson from a big multinational satire company, but ask yourself: is it cheaper? The answer is no. At The Lampoon, we pride ourselves on how cheap our jokes are.

That’s why we make our spoofs, hot takes, and not-so-subtle digs from scratch, every day. A small, dedicated team, we’re proud to call ourselves a local business. We operate out of a sex shop right in the city centre, where we hot-desk with a BDSM dominatrix, just like grandma did.

Okay, now on with the article.

*Clears throat*

A local man inspired the ire of bakers everywhere today by putting too much emphasis on CHARACTER LIMIT EXCEEDED

How to make Margaritas

To make margaritas, you will need:

  • Middle age
  • At least two divorces

Margaritas need tequila. If you have relatives round, don’t say that, or one of them will invariably pipe up with “I think I need tequila”. You’ll find yourself having to laugh politely, or worse, genuinely laughing. With that laugh, you will surrender any claim to being young and free.

You can find tequila in any good supermarket, or a field where year eights are drinking. I tend to opt for the latter, as they’re usually too drunk to notice you’re stealing it. The recipe also calls for lime juice, which in my experience year eights don’t drink. They usually think that ‘lime juice’ is either a Class A drug or homophobic slur. Either way, they tend to be on-board, but it isn’t particularly helpful.

Add tequila and lime juice into a glass, with some orange liquor. For the uninitiated, orange liquor tastes like a Terry’s chocolate orange, if Terry’s chocolate oranges were haunted.

Finally, add some salt around the glass. I know it’s disgusting, but look at you. You used to have dreams and aspirations, and now what are you doing? You’re standing in somebody else’s kitchen wearing an apron that says “I love cooking with wine: sometimes I add it to the food!!!” You’re holding a jug of alcohol you think you’ll hate over six empty glasses. You’re oddly reluctant to pour, as if there’s some part of you in that jug that you’ll lose when you separate it into portions. And the truth is, there is, and you will. You’re going to do it anyway. I know it, you know it, the whole street knows it. So put salt around the glasses: it’s what you deserve.

Best served with lots of friends and even more tequila 😉

Beans on toast: a rah’s guide

Do you want a taste of fine dining like daddy buys you back home, but on a budget of 50p? Well, here at The Lampoon we’ve got you covered! We’ve searched far and wide, through deep jungles and crowded Tescos, to bring you this ancient recipe, adapted from a scrap of sacred parchment. Let’s get cooking!

For the first key component, I prefer only the finest dark notes of a full-bodied and double-roasted slice of toast. Often this effect can be achieved through your standard counter-top toaster. However, for the connoisseur, it should be roasted on a spatula held above a pocket lighter. Imagine you’re planning to jack up a gallon crumbs directly into your taste glands.

Then, you’ll need to open the tin: for the best results, do it like Jamie Oliver. First, make an insertion down the spine of the can, before cracking it in two like the neck of your first victim. This is done to separate the moist and subdued notes of the precious beans from the tasteless aluminium rind.

Now, like all the most delectable varieties of canned beans, the first two inches of the contents shall be just watery juice and nothing else. Some say this is due to companies wanting to save money, which is of course nonsense. In actuality, it is to make sure the beans arrive firm and perky. Ideally, they’ll stay as fresh as the day they were picked off the buds of the bean vines, down in the Heinz region of France.

This liquid, often referred as bean nectar, can be poured away down the sink or saved and added to instant coffee to make something which tastes better than instant coffee.

You can then add the beans to the toast hot or cold. Alternatively, serve them in a tumbler with two cubes of ice and a slice of lemon. Some may add a continental accoutrement by sprinkling a thin veil of cheese atop the dish. I prefer to snort a line of grated Parmesan before sitting down for my meal.

And there you have it: a meal to keep a rah going when he’s down to his last few thousand pounds.