Black Death, anybody? Oops, I mean “Brexit”

I’ve removed myself from much of what’s going on with Brexit for one, big, fat reason: I don’t understand it.

Oh, sure, in general I do, but with something as complex as macro economics and breaking off from the European Union, I choose to stand in empathy with my British friends and relations and just…suffer in fear. (Although they kept the pound, didn’t they, instead of switching to the euro, yet another thing I don’t understand. You get it, don’t you? Just too complex. Wherever you look, confusion.)

Which is why I’m mentioning Brexit now, because Tanya Gold has a marvelous essay in today’s New York Times, called, “Another Day in Brexit Hell: Pray for Us.” She made me laugh.

I figure anyone who could make me laugh about something that makes me feel stupid must be shared with everyone I can get to.

Here are Ms. Gold’s pub nibble starter paragraphs. They should make you hungry for the whole thing:

LONDON — I wonder if this is what the Black Death was like. People wandering around with donkeys, crying, “Bring out your dead!” and painting crosses on walls, which was, I guess, like a medieval Twitter. #AllHopeIsLost.

Everyone I know is either a Brexit Denier — “It’s not happening,” they say. “We’ll have a People’s Vote! Another referendum! We’ll win this time!” — or a Brexit Apocalypticist — “It’s happening. We are doomed. Hold my hand and run toward the blast.” The only people who are hopeful are the people with the gallows, far-right supporters of a “hard Brexit” who marched through the streets of London on Sunday protesting Prime Minister Theresa May’s “betrayal” and carrying her effigy. They didn’t hang it. Presumably, that can wait.

Superbly funny, with guest appearances from a couple of surprising celebrities, and a dose of ungrammatical tweet.

In the comments, I picked this up and hand it over to us Americans — most of whom are thinking the same thing:

Pray for you? We’ll try, but we’re already on our knees over here 24/7 praying to survive our own Masque of the Red Death. At least you had Shakespeare. We never got further than Edgar Allen Poe. It’s looking grim.

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