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Brexit Is Like Watching Your Uncles Have Sex – Johnny's Brexit PC Suicide Watchtower

And Other Statements from a Mind Maddened by Brexit

This is what Brexit looks like

Happy Brexit everybody! So this what the future looks like. I was promised pink hoverboards and killer cyborgs but instead we’ll be arguing about Brexit as our crazy little island sinks into the rising tides.

How long until someone shoots somebody? Who’s the most likely person to be assassinated? And when will people start asking questions about the absence of William Hague since the rumours of the young boys? These are all questions that we aren’t allowed to ask, or answer, in the modern world of faux freedom of speech. Instead we must only talk of Brexit.

For heaven's sake, don’t even think about drawing a Hitler moustache on a picture Benjamin Netanyahu. No-one is allowed to have a conversation anymore and that’s probably partially why we’re in this god awful mess.

I voted remain, woohoo! I feel so good about it. But this "people’s vote" that the usual suspects are touting has irreparable division written all over it. Blair, Campbell, Mandelson, Osborne, and Cameron are circling their chalk pentagram and saying their magic Crowley words again. I don’t want to leave or remain anymore. I want something in the middle of the two.

Leaving is obviously for knobheads and remaining is definitely for cock-weasels, so let’s not do either. In fact, let’s pass legislation to make it illegal to talk about remaining or leaving. We should bring back capital punishment as the automatic sentence for the crime.

Brexit is like watching two of your uncles having sex, or like wanking at a family funeral. If you’re enjoying Brexit then you’re probably into some dark shit. I’m calling the cops!

When I was a kid we never used to talk about Brexit. We used to talk about nice things like Colonel Gaddafi and Saddam Hussein. Whatever happened to those guys? Maybe they’d know how to do Brexit? Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that everything is turning to ash in my mouth and suicide suddenly seems like a viable option, all because of Brexit.

I went to the shop and we talked about Brexit, I went to work and we talked about Brexit, I waited in a dimly lit alleyway with an erection and we still ended up talking about Brexit. I used to be young before Brexit, chocolate bars were almost double the size, and people used to smile and laugh. But now, nothing. Everybody’s sad and angry, forever, all because of Brexit.

Sex after Brexit is mainly made up of tears and shame. Every time you close your eyes and thrust you can only see visions of Jacob Rees Mogg explaining away a customs union, or Theresa May spouting the opposite of whatever she said the year before. Ejaculation is almost impossible.

All the babies born after Brexit will become automatons for the will of the people, but none of them will even know what it all means. You don’t need to know what things mean in the post Brexit world. You can have anything you want once we’ve left the remaining leavers remain, and all that jazz. You just have to speak gobbledygook and you’re a genius in this brave new world.

How about an appropriate joke? I won’t even mention Brexit. A gammon walks into a bar, and the barman says "you can leave!" and the gammon says "easier said than done!"

Did you like it? I made it up on the spot. It’s easy enough to do as Brexit is one long joke that seems both eternally funny and internally painful.

Has anybody noticed how high Dominic Raab was while he was Brexit Secretary? Or how drunk David Davis was when he was in the same post? The new guy must be off his face by now. I’ve not bothered learning his name because it’s like remembering individual snowflakes, they’re beautiful, but they’re gone so quickly.

We should press all of the red buttons immediately. Everything ends. Life is simply suffering. Brexit is forevermore. Winter is coming. Amen.

What about this one? A remainer walks into a bar and the barman says "you can leave" so the remainer leaves. Then he comes back in again like nothing happened.

Anyway, I can’t just sit around here talking about Brexit 24/7. I’ve got skyscraper windows to walk out of and pavements to splatter myself upon. I leave you with no more jokes, no more sunshine, no more butterflies. I leave you with Brexit. A protest vote gone wrong.

I probably won’t kill myself just yet. I have cats to feed, and they rarely mention Brexit. Talking of pets. Pet food has gone up loads since the referendum.

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