Breast Intentions
The new leader of the Green Party has a particular set of skills.
A confession: I’m overwhelmed by the strangest compulsion—to vote for the Green Party.
From what drug-induced delirium has this urge erupted? Green Party policies are a collection of mutterings one endures at 3 a.m. in some random bloke’s kitchen, as you hoover up lines of mutant-strength gak and plot to gallop across continents with whoever has the largest bag of coke.
Am I drawn to the vague abstract nouns of hope and change? No. Am I seduced by the four-day week? Nope. What about the insane maximum 10:1 pay ratio, which would award tea ladies at Premier League football clubs a cool £30,000 a week? It’s certainly not the tax on steaks, the tax on flights, the tax on holidays, the tax on that which moves, or the tax on that which does not move. It’s certainly not net-zero—the questionable idea that we regress to the dark ages whilst China and India light their cigarettes off of burning pyres of rubber tyres.
The Greens are not my natural home. Aside from the admirable ban on factory farming, the rest of their platform reminds me of smoking low-grade hash through a Pepsi can during Physical Education.
Their weird glorification of temporary idiocy—commonly known as ‘youth’—isn’t my cup of chai. Nor their conviction that schools should ‘teach the whole person’ — that is, how to pack a bong and scribble woeful free verse poetry.
Even on the solid territory of drugs do the Greens disappoint. They’d legalise most of them but not, as I have long advocated, replace half of all high street coffee shops with legal, state-funded opium dens. Mercifully, the Greens support assisted dying, the only industry we’d have left if they ever seized the balance of power.
This week, the Greens elected a new leader. Zach Polanski is 42, a vegan (naturally) and lives in Hackney. Polanski fits the nuttier slice of this particularly fruity party like a Savile Row-tailored hessian sack.
Polanski is what you’d get if you cultured a Green Party leader in a petri-dish. On the TV, his head lolls above a neck that has never known the satisfying order of a tie. His frozen half-smile is that of a man who wonders whether you think his wife is attractive and whether you’d consider dropping your car keys into this fruit bowl.
Polanski lives in gentrified Hackney, where sickly white progressives bemoan Britain’s colonial sins whilst sipping matcha lattes in bougie cafes that pushed up rents and pushed out the natives.
I once found myself marooned in Hackney Wick. Outside the Tube station, a free verse poem about Palestine insults a helpless brick wall. Seeking refuge in a warehouse-style pub, a green-haired sylph ignored my order. “You should try this one from Queer Brewing.” Yes, it was gluten-free. Across the chilly, steel expanse, beached on a deliberately distressed table of scaffolding poles and boards, sat a forty-something hipster in Dickies overalls. He suggested his girlfriend’s ‘bad vibe’ was due to ‘mercury in retrograde.’
Polanski’s Hackney is a microcosm of a Green Britain in which we cannot turn on the lights as Mother Gaia is taking a mental health day. It is a Britain in which Wellness Officers patrol the desolate streets, swinging ethically sourced wooden clubs over the heads of climate deniers and those guilty of ‘not reading the vibes.’ It is a Britain in which the greeting, ‘How are you?’ meets not the customary ‘Fine, thank you,’ but a lengthy exposition over one’s generational traumas and inner truth. Life in Green Britain is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and mercifully short.
The youngish Polanski is not, to his merit, a career politician. In a previous life, he enjoyed a career in hypnotherapy on London’s gold-paved Harley Street.
Back in 2013, The Sun newspaper was still in the giddy midst of its longstanding mastomania (mastos – breast + mania – madness). The Sun sent Kasie, 32A, to Harley Street in its rendition of the Camino de Santiago.
“This is an extremely new approach,” assured Polanski. “But I can see it becoming popular very quickly, because it’s so safe and a lot cheaper than a boob job.”
Zach sits Kasie down on the couch and commands her to relax. She visualises a perfect world not free of idleness, ignorance and want, but one in which she flaunts an ample bosom. He asks Kasie’s unconscious to release growth hormones to her breasts.
“Imagine you’re in a movie,” he says. “I want you to make the image bigger and brighter so that it fills the screen. Now step it up and feel what it is like having your new breasts. Are you walking differently? Do you look happy?”
Zach then shifts his healing powers to Kasie’s unconscious, directly asking it questions: “Would the unconscious be willing to support this process?” After each question, he politely thanks the unconscious.
Kasia’s nipples reportedly “tingle.” She feels “heavy and revived.” To maximise the process, Kasie, cup-size now TBC, visualises herself laden with what Pornhub calls ‘big naturals.’
Over the next few days, Kasie reports a hankering for bananas. Zach assures her that the unconscious is craving high-energy fuel to balloon her bust.
“I measure my bust after three days,” says Kasie. “I’ve grown from a 32-inch chest to a 34-inch chest.” She panics. What if her breasts (now at 36 inches) don’t stop growing?
After ten days, her growth “grinds to a halt”. She emails Zach.
The great titty whisperer reveals the inner workings of the unconscious. Apparently, Kasie’s unconscious was a rather cautious chap. Zach, the master diplomat, struck a bargain: a ten-day limit to their mammarian experiment. Incidentally, Kasie told Zach that her breasts grew for ten days and not a moment longer. A coincidence, I’m sure.
And so, as a tireless campaigner for the awareness and appreciation of breasts, I must vote Green. My unconscious mind demands it so. If Zach Polanski can make Kasie’s cup runneth over, imagine what this Dionysus-made-flesh could do about the housing crisis.
Her milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard... subsidized by the taxes of the people and the Greens!
Think of it, assembly lines...
It would give Hobart a run for the money.
Funniest thing I’ve read in weeks!