24 Dec 2023 8 min read Satire

Charlie Brown’s War Journal: Promethean Incel

Love always prevails

As with prior Christmas Eve War Journals — which are inspired by Rorschach’s Journal in Watchmen and the OG Punisher’s War Journal from 1988 — you’re supposed to feel hopeful after reading this story. Even if the road to redemption is paved in madness. Hold onto your Santa hats — here we go.

Dear Journal,

All my life I’ve been laughed at, insulted, kicked around, and ridiculed.

My closest friend was a condescending scold.

I was routinely badgered, belittled, and bullied by women.

Plagued by low self-esteem.

Suffered male-pattern baldness before puberty.

Worst of all, my own dog despised me.

A man can only take so much, Journal.

I was beaten down, sexually frustrated, and sick and damn tired of being a laughingstock.

So I started a movement.

The term “incel” derives from a portmanteau of “involuntary” and “celibate.”

Its humble origins trace back to the mid-nineties, in Toronto of all places, where the word was coined by a young queer woman named “Alana.” On her seminal website she discussed the difficulties of navigating the dating market and described the challenges of securing a sex partner — particularly for people like her, who deviated from society’s heteronormative ideals and impossible-to-achieve beauty standards.

I could relate.

In 1997 Alana started a mailing list and built a supportive community for all people, of all races, and all genders, where anyone could share their experiences, and find hope and solidarity among likeminded individuals.

On the surface, it seemed perfect. But like every pathetic and ultimately ineffective progressive cause, the movement’s focus on “inclusivity” and other “woke” nonsense rendered it useless.

Worst of all, this allegedly “inclusive community” failed to recognize the real villains — feminism and female bodily autonomy, genetic determinism and Darwinian sexual selection, the Jewish-led global order — and diminished the plight of their true victims.

Men like me.

~~Straight, White, Christian~~ Men who’d been exploited, manipulated, and left behind while women, minorities, and other freaks from across the LGB-alphabet-soup spectrum seized institutional power throughout Government, Academia, and Corporate America.

With such a radical reimagining of our once great society underway, I wondered: who would take a stand against oppression?

Who would protect the vulnerable?

My crusade started simple.

I created a spartan blog, written under the pseudonym Charlie White, and covered everything from the chaos wrought by women’s suffrage to the globalist betrayal of the White working class. I documented how grotesque concepts like equal rights and sexual consent enslaved generations of realAmerican males.

I mean, how were men like me — born into upper middle-class security, and spared from the racial and gender discrimination endemic throughout the education and labor market — supposed to compete? If it wasn’t the ravenous yellow horde stealing our jobs, it was the gangs of debauched darkies defiling our women.

My so-called friends distanced themselves and disavowed my ideas. They said I changed. But they were the ones who willingly swallowed the blue pill.

Linus fashioned himself some kind of progressive “ally” to the extremist left. Lucy, Sally, and Peppermint Patty went on to elite colleges and universities — no doubt aided by affirmative action — and secured high-paying jobs on Wall Street and Big Tech. They chose to bury their heads in the Soros-backed sand. They chose to leech off the carcass of the American Dream.

Meanwhile, I was left to fester alone in a decaying Rust Belt shithole. Looked down upon by vacuous “Stacys” and “Beckys” who spent every waking hour lusting after hunky, well-endowed “Chads.” Forced to cycle through dead-end jobs for degrading pay until another diversity hire fired me for “insubordination.”

On the blogosphere I found disaffected compatriots. I came across race realists like Richard Hoste and traditionalists like Jordan Peterson. They saw how the corrupt, liberal elite neutered American values and redistributed power to the feminized masses. They validated my worldview. They encouraged me to think big.

Advocating for men’s rights and documenting these equity-based atrocities became my obsession. I honed my voice and refined my messaging until my vision became a battle cry for the abandoned.

In the early noughties I migrated hundreds of loyal followers to Reddit, commandeered the r/incels subreddit, and established a foothold for fallen and forgotten men across this godforsaken country. Over the next several years I exploited Silicon Valley’s techno-libertarian laxity and built an incel community hundreds of thousands strong.

We didn’t have jobs — because of the Mexicans and the Chinese — and our manhoods remained chafed — because femoids were superficial strumpets — but we had each other.

As our movement went mainstream, however, the state-backed media apparatus took notice, and attempted to undermine our mission. These baseless attacks attracted cabalist collaborators at the Anti-Defamation League and the Southern Poverty Law Center, and eventually put us on the radar of the fascistic femmes in the federal government.

They unjustly claimed we were an extremist sect whose ideology was rooted in misogyny and misanthropy. They said our movement was responsible for radicalizing legions of impressionable young men across the country. And they had the audacity to attribute a series of mass shootings to our tight-knit community.

The hysteria was laughable.

As if there was any connection between someone 1) self-identifying as an “incel,” 2) writing and recording numerous misogynistic manifestos on social media, 3) declaring their life worthless and expendable, and 4) murdering civilians with an assault rifle then committing suicide.

The suppression intensified.

Reddit heavily moderated then ultimately banned our r/incels and r/braincels forums. Countless techie sycophants followed suit and “de-platformed” our voices en masse. The walls were closing in, but our mission was far too important to sacrifice to the tyranny of the double-X defectives.

The Deep State was clearly executing a conspiracy against us, and I needed to fight fire with fire.

Enter: QAnon.

For years people have tried to unmask the eponymous Q. Countless theories and wild speculation abound.

Journal, I’ve never acknowledged my alter ego. I remain reluctant even as I write these words. But the burden of truth has become unbearable…

I created QAnon, Journal.

I, Charlie Brown, am Q.

To this day, those words defy comprehension. But my intentions were pure, Journal, and my methods were sound. See, I crafted the ludicrous conspiracy theory to focus attention on the real conspirators — the cocottes in Congress and the whores in the DOJ — so I could deflect scrutiny away from our critically important cause.

Did I really believe a satanic cabal of child-trafficking Jewish lizard-people secretly ran the entire world? I mean, I couldn’t disprove it.

But cogency wasn’t the point, Journal. Reddit, Facebook, Twitter (pre-Incel King), YouTube, and the rest of the censorship class was choking the life out of our community.

If I was ever going to create an incel paradise — free from the horrors of tolerance and the nightmares of consent — I needed to seize control of our dry-dicked destinies. Since we remained bounded to the toxic bosom of neoliberalism, that meant I needed cash.

In a ~~desperate~~ shrewd move, I licensed QAnon’s IP to useful idiot Alex Jones in exchange for a 25% cut of his future advertising and merchandise sales. He agreed, and within a few short months I acquired the seed capital necessary to construct our deus ex machina. The tool which would liberate our cause and complete my life’s work.

ChuckStack.

A 100% free speech platform for incels, by incels.

Following a successful pilot program, I flew to San Francisco and pitched the business to the Bioshock Stans at Andreesen Horowitz. They bought in — logic, judgement, and valuation be damned.

Finally, I’d secured the necessary resources to launch ChuckStack at scale.

By applying the most cynical and fallacious possible interpretation of the First Amendment, ChuckStack went supernova, providing a safe harbor for incels, White supremacists, neo-Nazis, Covid-19 denialists, conspiracy theorists, and critical thinkers of all stripes.

Our immediate success frightened the cuckolds in the corporate press, and drew unnecessary and disproportionate scorn from the women-respecting establishment. This despite welcoming Salman Rushdie and George Saunders to our community!

But, most importantly, ChuckStack provided an unregulated platform for society’s most sex-starved people to espouse humanity’s most dangerous ideas.

Many years have since passed, Journal.

ChuckStack remains a fledgling business with a dwindling cash position, no path to profitability, a nonsense valuation, and a regretful investor syndicate.

But those details are of little consequence.

I, Charlie Brown, the ultimate Beta, won.

I flipped society’s feminized systems on their fallopian tubes and beat the corporatists and the fascists and the Marxists and the baby vessels at their estrogen-laced game.

I’m a hero, Journal. A legend. An incel Achilles.

And yet, as I dictate my memoir on this lonely Christmas Eve, I don’t feel happy.

I don’t feel joyous. Or cheerful. Or satisfied. Or contented.

I don’t feel holly, or jolly, or merry.

I feel hate, Journal.

And rage. And contempt. And disdain. And despair. And remorse.

See, I convinced myself my life had been unfair and unforgiving and unfulfilling. I claimed people demeaned and mistreated me. Perhaps that was true. Or maybe I played the victim card to justify my difficult lot in life.

Either way, instead of finding compassion and dignity and empathy, I bathed my brain in bile. I washed my soul in spite. I degraded and debased women. I resented and reviled my fellow humans.

I spent my life immersed in hate, Journal, because I was desperately longing for love.

Why was I so foolish?

How had I been so blind?

By focusing on what makes us different, I ignored what makes us special. By fixating on those who hurt me, I shut out those who’d embrace me. By dehumanizing others, I dehumanized myself.

Hate can’t beget love, Journal.

Only love creates love.

I remembered that when I saw a lonely little tree swaying in the frigid winter air. The brave fellow sparked a memory of that poor, pathetic Christmas tree I chose for our school play long, long ago. The one I nearly killed. The one Lucy excoriated and emasculated me for selecting.

I recalled those crushing feelings of worthlessness and self-loathing after I flubbed everything up — again. But then I remembered how Linus nursed the little guy back to life. With care. With compassion. With love.