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The Terrible Hell of Being a Remainer

LONDON - England - Life living in a perpetually outraged Remainer hell. What it is like to be in this catatonic state of angry delusion?

One cannot imagine such delusion, such a level of brainwashing that whatever happens, they stolidly do not accept the loss of the EU Referendum, these poor sad fools, one can only feel pity for their blind ignorance and totally deranged misguided vitriol.

The streets are now awash with communist Remainers, as they pledge allegiance to their Marxist programming, these automatons programmed by their soviet masters, so intricately, a divine inspirational testament to the art of washing brains immaculately.

Triggered Remainer eyes, have you ever looked in triggered eyes? They have some sort of purpose, the soul of the subject has long departed, but the program is still there, and these monstrous robots, these useful idiot fuckwits all move in unison, buzzing bastardly angry bees with their hive radio-controlled Marxist mind.

“Stop Brexit!” the deranged mutants shout, and all in the name of their form of ‘democracy’ a malignant tumour of a bastardization of something they will never understand.

When Marxism rears its ugly head, it portrays a putrid past, one that has led to the deaths of hundreds of millions of people throughout history, and yet these horrid ghastly robots have spawned all over Parliament Square again, to show us all they still exist in this world today.

Their Momentum, the Soviet Corbyn Agent Cob, who laughed at victims of atrocious IRA bombings, who attended the Hamas meetings with ardour, he is their leader, their saviour and of course the master trigger Bolshevik, senior programmer.

Amongst the vile insidious treachery, the champagne socialist Lineker celebrities are fawned over, dead eyes and a thousand-foot stares celebrate their entrance from their mansions and Bentleys, these are the icing on the cake for a festival of Marxism so hypocritical and morally wrong that to have these vicious celebrity cunts attending such a morass frenzy of communistic masturbatory ejaculation of their Marxist diatribes, soaking the eager crowds with sickening globules of sycophancy, brings an air of dastardly shame to the proceedings.

Over the tannoys, the Chakrabarti chants begin, urging the Bolshevik Remainer Commissars forward, to march, the workers of the party, the red army blood cell coloured workers move through the arteries, a virus upon the land to mock the Cenotaph, and throw eggs at the fallen soldiers who ironically fought for their freedom to do so.

There is nothing but hatred and menace spewed from these deranged beasts, they hate Britain, they hate democracy, and they do not respect the vote of the people. They are the mob, this is how they mete justice, through treachery, and treasonous self-hatred, their communist religion is one that invades their suppurating carcasses and empty minds leaving no room for anything else.

One day, one can only dream of these creatures swept up from the streets, and placed in dustbins where they belong, or flushed into sewers, or neatly packed up in rows on the slabs of morgues. Returned to a place where silence only greets them, and their Marxist god hails them to join him in the eternal sleep they deserve so dearly.

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