Boris Johnson was recently admitted to a mental institution for retired politicians.
“They drove me out! I wanted to stay! I was the bloody Prime Minister of all of the Britons!”
Yes, Mr. Johnson, you keep saying that. Are the Britons in this room with us right now?
“I made more money than you will ever know! I own houses all over the world. I have bank accounts no one will ever find. Me and the King like to go clubbing in Greece for boy-toys.”
I see. And this king fellow … does he wear robes and ermine and a crown?
“Of course he does – he’s the bloody king. He’ll get me back into Parliament. I won’t have to sweep the floors – I went to Oxford or Cambridge Analytica or Blackrock … one of those VIP schools where the next generation of scum learn to kill without killing, steal without stealing, and hate without hating. It’s those fucking migrants! They don’t want me to Brexit the British! It’s a good plan – I am The BoJo – why does The Edge get his name but you’re trying to steal my identity – I have a comb – stop looking at me like that – I can brush my own hair!”
Let us leave this bastion of sanity and good hygiene and return … to Parliament.
