Boris Johnson and Donald Trump have been seen reconciling their differences, and have been seen bonding over their respective, probably temporary, importance in their respective, previously, great nations. While reconciling one of the four time traveling "
Sexualtimenauts", with their/its offspring means silently placing their hand pads together, allowing their ganglia to unfurl and entwine, beginning a rhythmic hum in unison as electricity pulses around and through their naked bodies as they either transfer "timedata" or they will be pulled through a tear in the space time continuum where they will enjoy a raucous Whovian adventure through time and space, which often results in additional bonding, though, occasionally, estrangement, which, with the distance it creates, generally results in a truer, more honest, bonding, and at some point during that story arc, additional adventures!
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| The father and son take a commemorative photo after a very 80's adventure |
While to the outside observers this reconciliation has only begun over the last few months, because of their use of time travel, they have been drawing ever closer for nearly 936 years from their perspective, and they have been able to keep them a secret by beginning them in one of Trumps many derelict properties, or a for cash, by-the-hour, hotel Johnson owns and operates next to the docks just outside of Glasgow, though they generally end with the duo separated, and trudging naked, covered with seaweed and coastal debris on the beaches of their respective nation muttering their mutual catchphrase " I gotta stop doing this", with a grin that lets you know the two are lying even as they say it and will be meeting up again soon, for another adventure, or a timedata transfer, or they will initiate a rape dance reminiscent of the mating rituals of other parasitic worms, as nothing is below them, except, occasionally, angrily, each other.
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| These face-only image displays their countenance as they gain the dominant position in the rape-dance, and the other will be laying a clutch of "time-eggs" in three months, probably at a comically inopportune moment |
