VALENTINE’S DAY is upon us again. Scented candles, satin sheets, massage oils and silky-smooth soul music ready for action. It’s time for love!
For those without a special somebody, there is always the option of Tinder or Grindr to find a bit of casual romance. But if you happen to be an involuntary celibate (commonly referred to as an incel) then neither love or a stolen naughty moment is going to be a Valentine’s option.
Sad, lonely and vengeful, the chauvinistic entitlement of inceldom is brought crashing back down to earth with a catastrophic bang every year on this designated day for lovers. Knowing everybody else is doing it whilst they are getting no action triggers these extreme right wing losers.
So we thought we’d share what life is like on this special day for right wing incels…
You walk through town and see couples holding hands everywhere. On outdoor benches you see kissing, cuddling and tenderness, whilst you mope around like a wet blanket, too frightened to shed a tear having been taught by your peers that alpha males don’t cry.
You’re afraid of having your fragile snowflake self questioned. For fascist incels like you, Valentine’s Day is your own personal hell, sentencing you to twenty-four extremely painful hours to suffer the anguish of not being desired. This lack of interest in your is more than likely due to your public schoolboy demeanour, bad fashion sense and latent stone age chauvinism.
For Identitarian alt-right boys strutting the streets for last-minute love and hunting down glamorous females to lose their virginity to, heads will indeed turn, but unfortunately they will be turning away from you and your outdated expectations of pre-defined gender roles.
Shunned like the bubonic plague in your UKIP blazer, red MAGA hat and Generation Identity badge, there’s a definite leftist, liberal conspiracy against you. Why else would beautiful, clever intelligent women reject your toxic advances? What’s not to love about sexist right wing ex-public schoolboys with a burning sense of entitlement who dress like Jacob Rees-Mogg and believe women should be chained to the kitchen stove, seen and not heard?
Your heart is pounding, your head hurting, and it’s only four o’ clock in the afternoon. The threat of another lonely Valentine’s night looms. You goosestep up and down like Caolan Robertson with a camera, gurning like Nigel Farage as you furtively eye every girl in your warpath with the futile hope they will take pity on you and take your virginity from you.
Hunting for Laura Southerns, Laura Loomers, Holly Hendersons and Lucy Browns, all you manage to encounter are uninterested (enlightened) woman who don’t know their alt-right from their alt-left. Women who have resolutely failed to swallow the red pill and fall madly in love with your peculiar self. Some even threaten to call the police if you don’t stop following them…
Potential Aryan goddesses averting your ogling gaze are instantaneously labelled ‘Chad’ loving ‘Tracys’, or ‘race mixing feminist slag traitors against the natural order’ (You are not a happy alt-right bunny.) Frothing furiously, you dive into the nearest Wetherspoons hoping for pseudo-intellectual engagement about the Darwinian masterplan of masculine dominance.
Unfortunately your phone rings continually, killing off any hopes of chauvinism and toxic masculinity. (Mummy’s left your fish-fingers out on the table. They’re going cold.) Dashing home as fast as your legs would carry you, ‘cucked-out’ in a cold sweat, trying not to gaze at masses of loved-up couples strolling past you along the street, your worst fears have come true – the most romantic night on the calendar will once again be spent alone with only your Birds Eye loving mother and Paul Joseph Watson for company.
You should have known all along there was zero chance of an emergency bunk up for wounded-heart patriots, but yet again you wasted your time and effort dreaming of the impossible.
The New World Order set you up for a fall, and you fell for it hook, line and sinker – Globalism, Clinton, Obama, Islam, transgenderism and chemtrails all conspiring to prevent you losing your virginity.
Frothing about Asians who are lucky enough to have arranged marriages, seriously believing black men are better endowed than your tortured self, you stroll through the front door to find the anticipated fish finger dinner stone cold and Mummy no longer talking to you. Your last hope of a bit of human contact has dwindled to nothing. Even Mummy is fed up of you.
Since your parents divorced after the stockmarket crash in 2008, their business and most of their wealth lost, your social mobility ever-dwindling, the chances at you finding a ‘Traditional’ wife are approaching zero. Trad wives want a husband who can provide for them, not a man who lives in his mother’s basement and whose longest relationship to date has been with a jar of hand cream.
How you long to be rich. The yachts, the champagne, the racehorses… You could hang out with your hero Tommy Robinson at Ascot. You wouldn’t even need to attract a wife if you were rich, you could just buy one. (Not a foreign one of course, a nice English girl with a boob job.)
Sadly though you’re just an amateur shitposting grifter regurgitating yesterday’s half-baked conspiracies on YouTube and staving off repeated attempts by the Job Centre to entice you into gainful employment whilst draining away Mummy’s life savings savings drip-by-drip. A few more bulk orders of Infowars’ ‘Brain Force and DNA Force’ and all her savings will be gone, without you ever getting anywhere near the dizzy heights of becoming a fully-fledged Proud Boy.
Skulking downstairs to the basement like a snowflake, you leap into the computer chair and head for the safety of your incel subreddit, ready to log onto social media as you do each year, to send death-threats to famous people in loving relationships. Before you can so much as enter your password, your life size wall portrait of Adolf Hitler comes to life, calling you to strip off and lay across your unmade, stain-peppered single bed, ready for action.
Undressing in a stupor, reaching violently into your drawer for your favourite sock… F*ck the commies! It was time to “Make Micropenises Turgid Again”. Fantasising you were losing your cherry in a Nazi orgy, visualising Eva Braun in a corset drawing you closer to the point of return, you hear the angry words of Elliot Rodger ringing in your ears: – “NO FAP, CLARENCE!!! NO F*CKING FAP CLARENCE!”
But it’s too late, your prized sock damp and sticky, your masculinity culled. Worse still, in the fleeting moments of fantasy, you visualised Mark Collett rather than his swastika-tattooed ex-girlfriend finishing you off, threatening your entire hetero status as you collapse on the bed black pilled into a sorry flaccid soyboy mess whilst your beloved real life alt-right heroes are unashamedly at it like rabbits. Even Jack Posobiec.