Manosphere III: Undercover Camp Gramps

The aromatherapy candle lit up the back corners of the room and threw their shadows against the wall. Camp Gramps stood to attention while the President paced back and forth in the dim light of the candle’s flame. “Are you ready for your mission?” asked the President.

“Yes, sir, my president,” said Camp Gramps.

“What is your mission?” said the President.

“To infiltrate that fucking guy’s team and bring it down,” said Camp Gramps.

“Excellent,”said the President and he wished Camp Gramps well and godspeed.

Things had deteriorated quite rapidly in the preceding months. The Manosphere had declined to such an extent that a rebranding was being considered. This was a rather fortunate problem to have because there were approximately two hundred and eleven thieving and grifting bastards within the sphere who had devised a course on rebranding. All the President had to do was pick the course. He had no intention of paying, even though he had no money anyway. Nine days had passed since he had sent Camp Gramps into enemy territory. He had still heard nothing from the old bastard and now his back was sore and needed a massage. A slight feeling of regret washed over him like a gentle breeze and then it was gone. He had attempted to employ Uncle Bob and the Agency Prophet to fill in while Camp Gramps was away, but neither of them were willing to use the President’s favourite oils. The President called them both faggots which they thought was quite ironic given what he was asking them to do.

Deep in enemy territory, Camp Gramps was on the roof of a house. Shivering as the wind stabbed at him like all the trolls on social media, he gripped the chimney. “Oh fuck!” he said to the night air and his words were carried off on the frost that they created for some other poor bastard to listen to. He wasn’t going to fit down the chimney. He oiled up his beard and slid off the roof. He landed on his arse, but was quick to his feet because the threat of haemorrhoids hung over him like a bad reputation. It made him think briefly of the gap that existed in the haemorroid course space. He made a mental note to revisit the topic at a later date, probably in the form of a video on his YouTube channel or some bullshit and cryptic tweet. He knocked on the door. “What the fuck do you want?” said the Accused.

“To make up. I’m sorry,” said Camp Gramps and the door slammed in his face. He knocked again but heard what he thought was the sound of a rifle being cocked on the other side of the door. It was only the door being locked. “TRAITOR!” said Camp Gramps as he ran down the street, his tears freezing to his face as the night air offered little resistance, like the last 80 something year old he had fucked. He had failed the mission and the thought of contacting the President with the bad news raped any sense of calm he might have been able to muster.

“WHAT DO YOU FUCKING MEAN?!?!” said the President.

“I’m sorry, chief. He threatened me,” said Camp Gramps.

“How?” said the President.

“He told me to fuck off.”

“Right. I’ll get my legal team together. He’s fucked now,” said the President and he dialled Uncle Bob. The conversation that took place between the President and Uncle Bob occurred without the utterance of anything that resembled a word until the President whispered, “I love you,” just before he hung up the phone. “Gramps, we can’t do shit. Being told to fuck off does not constitute a crime,” said the President.

“Well my feelings were hurt,” said Camp Gramps.

“Hug it out old guy. Come here,” said the President and they embraced, their respective beards tickling each other’s ears to the point of subdued giggling. Any fears of being exhiled from the Manosphere were put aside by Gramps as he clung tight to the knowledge that this was the most loved he had ever felt and would most likely ever feel.

Thirteen days later, with aromatherapy candles ablaze and fist deep in lavender oil, Gramps worked on the knots the President had developed in his shoulders. “We need a new approach, Gramps,” said the President.

“What do you mean, chief?” said Camp Gramps.

“As much as I fucking hate that guy, we’ve lost a lot of money since I started trashing his work,” said the President.

“Well, it’s vile, chief. Contradicts my theories of Dinner & Dancing,” said Camp Gramps.

“FUCK DINNER AND DANCING,” said the President and Camp Gramps let out a barely audible whimper. “We can still make money off his ideas. We’ll just rebrand it. That way we will start making the same money as before I kicked him out. I’ve got Uncle Bob looking for a doppelgänger to reintroduce this stuff,” said the President. Camp Gramps’s grip loosened on the Presidential shoulders and slowly slid onto his chest. “FUCKING HELL GRAMPS! NO GAY SHIT,” said the President.

“Sorry, chief. Your pecs look tight,” said Camp Gramps.

“We need another target though,” said the President.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there always needs to be a bad guy.”

“Well, I thought you were just stealing.. I mean taking his ideas.”

“DID I NOT JUST TELL YOU MY PLAN FUUUUCK??!”

“Sorry, chief. Sometimes I get confused and sad,” said Camp Gramps.

“Do we need a new bad guy?” said the President. It was true, the Manosphere could take the Accused’s ideas and use them while calling him names on social media, but he couldn’t reconcile this in his Presidential mind. Had something like this been done before? Had anyone ever eaten four pounds of steak while calling cows filthy pieces of shit? Had anyone ever promoted the Bible while calling Jesus a motherfucker? Had anyone ever repeatedly had sex with women while calling them demonic sluts? The President was lost. He decided to call the Philosopher.

The President explained the situation to the Philosopher. “You can still hate him. It’s totally fine. There’s nothing wrong with hating someone but using their stuff,” said the Philosopher.

“Yeah. Uncle Bob says that about women,” said the President.

“Except, you should add someone to your list of targets,” said the Philosopher.

“Who?”

“That fucking Body Language guy.”

“Ok, why?”

“He called me a fat cunt,” said the Philosopher.

“WHAT?!” said the President and he threw the phone against the wall. He started pacing back and forth like a meth head that had lost his shit on a particularly difficult door knob. “Gramps! Get the camera out! It’s time for a Presidential roasting!” said the President as he sat behind his desk. Camp Gramps fiddled around with the camera equipment and he was told to fuck off when he approached the President with the make up bag. “There’s a new villain I’m adding to my list, Gramps. Time to take him down,” said the President.

“Who?”

“The Body Language Expert,” said the President and Gramps pushed record on the camera.

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