A Fictional Portrayal of the Great Manosphere Split of 2019

The Autist thumped the table in a retarded rage. Camp Gramps massaged his shoulders and whispered, “Easy up there, chief. You’re going to win this.”

“He has to go!” said the Autist.

“You’re the man. This is your show,” said Camp Gramps.

“FUCKING OATH I AM THE MAN CAMP GRAMPS!” said the Autist. He calmed down somewhat and regulated his breathing to a point where he only looked mildly retarded. “We have to kick him out,” said the Autist.

“I agree wholeheartedly,” said Camp Gramps.

“I’ll text him..no, wait. I’ll announce his expulsion via video announcement.”

“Maybe, I could interview you. You know, like a news program.”

“Nope. It has to be a speech. I’m the goddamn president,” said the Autist. He got up from his massage and put his shirt on. He thanked Camp Gramps on his way out.

Uncle Bob had just pulled his dick out of his high end sex doll when there was a knock on the door. He picked up the doll, punched it in the face and then went to the front door. It was the Autist. “Write me a speech,” he said.

“What about?” said Uncle Bob.

“About kicking him out.”

“Who?”

“That fucking guy!” said the Autist and he started shaking.

“Oh! That guy. Good idea. The shit he says is going to fuck your customer base,” said Uncle Bob.

“Just say he betrayed us. I don’t want to attack his ideas. We can still use them after he’s exiled.”

“Sure, leave it with Uncle Bob,” said Uncle Bob. The Autist paced around Uncle Bob’s house while he fingered away furiously on his typewriter. When he was done, the speech was twenty minutes long and detailed a betrayal so serious that it warranted an immediate exile. Although the speech never mentioned the crime specifically, the words “traitor” and “fraud” were so numerous that if all other words had been removed, the speech would have still clocked in at twelve minutes. “This is fucking sweet, Uncle B,” said the Autist after one read through.

“I know,” said Uncle Bob.

“Gotta go,” said the Autist and he kissed Uncle Bob on the lips and ran out the door.

Back at Headquarters, Camp Gramps did the Autist’s make up in preparation for the recording. He listened to the Autist read through the speech. “You know, I’m totally on board with kicking him out. I’m just not sure whether we can substantiate these claims you’re making,” said Camp Gramps.

“Fuck off, Gramps,” said the Autist in between sentences.

“I mean, I despise his message because it contradicts my fantasy of dinner and dancing, but do you have evidence for these claims?”

“FUCK OFF GRAMPS!” said the Autist. Camp Gramps finished applying the make up and retreated to behind the camera. Things had been tight of late. Expected cash flows had not materialised and the Autist had had to cut corners. He could no longer afford to pay his regular cameraman so that job had gone to Camp Gramps. The Autist broadcasted the speech live with a total of twelve viewers. It received a seventy-six percent thumbs up rating and the chat room was ablaze with praise for the president. Those that had been maligned by the Accused started emerging from the shadows. Without the overbearing weight of behavioural psychology debunking their personal philosophies to contend with, fat cunts that the Autist had had a long standing relationship with felt hopeful of what lay ahead for them.

After a few drinks with Camp Gramps, the Autist sent a text out to the gang to let them know he was still the president. He accidentally added the Accused into the group text. “What are you talking about?” texted the Accused. The Autist was confused. He was certain he had banished him earlier via video to the entire planet. It wasn’t his problem if the dumb fuck hadn’t tuned in. He was at a bit of a loss as to how to respond. He called Uncle Bob. “Just call him a traitor,” said Uncle Bob.

“Cool,” said the Autist and he hung up. Summoning all the demented rage within him he finally replied to the Accused, “TRAITOR!!”

“What?” texted the Accused.

“Just fuck off! Your negativity is costing us money,” texted one of the fat cunts.

“FRAUD!” texted the Autist.

“I HATE YOU. YOU FUCKING ANUS. I TOOK FOUR 80 YEAR OLDS TO DINNER AND DANCING SO FUCK YOU!” texted Camp Gramps. The Autist looked up and said, “Settle down Gramps. You’ve taken it too far.”

“I’m sorry, chief. It just really burns me up. I’m going outside for some air.” With Camp Gramps out of the picture the texting war continued. “TRAITOR!” texted the Autist.

“Fuck you, I love single mothers and will marry them if I want to,” texted another retard from the shadows. The Accused stopped responding after that.

Later on, the Autist was getting Camp Gramps to work his shoulders again. The stress of the day had taken its toll on his muscles, even though he had won a decisive victory. “Our audience will expand rapidly now, Gramps,” he said.

“No doubt, chief. You’re so tight. I’d really like to oil you up,” said Camp Gramps.

“NO GAY SHIT!” said the Autist.

“What are you going to do if he branches out?”

“Huh?”

“You know, if he starts his own gig with those other ghouls that sided with him.”

“He can fuck right off. I’ve been doing this since I was seven years old and no one else puts together a better $3000 a head circle jerk than I do,” said the Autist.

“Spot on, chief. Now turn over and I’ll massage your chest,” said Camp Gramps.

“NO GAY SHIT!” said the Autist.

A week later the Autist was going through his channel stats while taking a shit. Camp Gramps was massaging his shoulders with rose scented oil. It was an odd scene, but one that had become more common now that the Autist had solidified his role as president. The Accused had started his own channel and it was outperforming the Autist’s by a rate of over fifty to one. “These figures are bullshit!” said the Autist. Camp Gramps merely grunted. Ticket sales for the next circle jerk had also been low. “Fucking ingrates. I get rid of the toxicity and how do they thank me?” he said. He thought about what Uncle Bob had said about how to continue the battle for the sphere. “What’s your next move?” said Camp Gramps in a laboured tone that resembled that of a someone running on a treadmill.

“Pretty simple. I go on the attack.”

“Total war?”

“Precisely.”

“And how will you go about that?” said Camp Gramps.

“I’ll just continue to call him names on social media,” said the Autist and a shit hit the water. Camp Gramps continued rubbing oil into his shoulders.

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