a dinghy landed in dover today. carefully, expertly, and lovingly filled to capacity with niggers. they came as naked as the day they were born, save for their niggerhide loincloths and magnificent witch doctor headdresses, adorned with bones from their enemy tribes. their faces and bodies were decorated with ceremonial war paint and niggerblood. their skin was as vantablack as an octopus's ink. they came with few possessions, mainly a sacred satchel of shrunken heads, and a few machetes, which they flailed about wildly as they landed. a few disemboweled chickens, which these men had use to commune with the spirits were left behind in their boat. before they docked, the enriching cultural war cries could be heard echoing over the waves: a shrieking ululation that warns of impending doom. as they landed, the complex expressions on their faces revealed that their harrowing journey was powered by a long night of huffing africa's finest jenkem. their bloodshot, jaundiced eyes stared menacingly at the locals and those on holiday, with the thousand yard stare of a man who has killed and ritually eaten countless people, and can't wait to do so again. yet between their exchanges in a language so isolated that linguists have yet to study it, their smiles, filled with dripping blood, conveyed the ecstatic joy of men who had already completed the hardest part of their journey. they had finally arrived home, in jolly old england, where brits like them belong. here, there wouldn't be so much warfare against them, because their vibrant conquests would be met with cheers. tomorrow, another such boat will land, with even more such brits. and the progress will continue, until on one glorious day, they have finally saved are in haitch ess, the bloody best in the wurl
United States