(Fuck the polar icecaps man, let’s wipe out the ‘Goths. I never have understood the huge pants the with the equally huge plastic chains dangling from their belt loops. The makeup I get, and even the music is understandable even if it is fucking horrible, but the clothes – c’mon man. Wipe them out. Here’s some fun from those wacky fucks over at newsbiscuit.com – FATS)
While most people are enjoying the current warm weather, climatologists said yesterday that a long hot summer could spell doom for one of Britain’s most unusual monochrome inhabitants, the Goth.
‘Goths are shy, retiring creatures that thrive best in gloomy autumnal weather,’ said Dr James Barnett of the University of Warwick. ‘Drought conditions aren’t an issue since they rarely wash, but they are poorly equipped to deal with high temperatures as they can’t take off their black jeans and duffel coats. Many also suffer with restricted vision as the heat causes their sweaty, greasy hair to form a lank immovable curtain they can’t see beyond.’
Britain’s Goth population, identifiable by its distinctive eye markings, peaked at around 90,000 in the 1970s, but since then has been driven out of urban habitats by more aggressive, faster-breeding species like Chavs. While some Goths are expected to hibernate until the weather gives everyone less to be cheerful about, there are fears that some could spontaneously combust in the summer sun leaving behind only a pair of smoking 18-hole Dr Martens.
Conservationists have now established a sanctuary in Whitby Abbey and are seeking to lure distressed Goths there by means of artificial darkness, playing Southern Death Cult records around the clock and a Tim Burton retrospective at the local Odeon.
But some believe the project is doomed to failure. ‘This is how evolution works, sadly,’ said Dr Richard Dawkins. ‘A species that cannot adapt to change and shows more interest in self-harming than in breeding is bound to die out. I keep telling people but no one seems to get it. Why doesn’t anyone understand me?’ he screamed, tearfully storming upstairs to play Bauhaus records and write poetry in his room.