Manosphere V: Uncle Bob Strikes Back

Shit had hit the fan and flung all over Manosphere Headquarters and the President was goddamn angry. Hurtful words had been said and ever since Uncle Bob and the President had had their argument things had not been running smoothly. Distraught, the President had found himself with his phone to his ear on more than one occasion, listening to the dial tone on the other end. “Chief, it’s time to let go,” said Camp Gramps.

“I feel so empty,” said the President.

“You’ve got me,” said Camp Gramps.

“No offense, you’re a fag,” said the President.

“Oh chief, you’ve got me all wrong bro,” said Camp Gramps.

“Just shut up and rub my back,” said the President.

“Sure thing, boss,” said Camp Gramps and he opened his bag of tricks to retrieve the bottle of massage oil. There was a knock on the door. “Get that will you, Gramps?” said the President, his voice muffled by the new massage table he had recently bought with money not refunded from the last convention.

“I’ve got oil all over my hands, chief,” said Camp Gramps.

“Fuck!” said the President and he got up and stomped his way to the door shirtless.

On the doorstep was a severed head with a note stapled to its face. The President stood there staring at it as the sun warmed his body like memories of Uncle Bob warmed his heart, but then made him sad. He ripped off the note. It said he was a pussy and that his origami was shit. He scrunched the paper up into a ball and threw it onto the road. “Everything ok out there, chief?” said Camp Gramps.

“There’s a head on the doorstep.”

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!” said Camp Gramps in a pitch that pushed the limits of castrato in vocal range. He ran to the front door. “Who the fuck did this?”

“Uncle Bob,” said the President.

“WHO DID HE KILL??” said Camp Gramps.

“I dunno. Candy, Sandy or Brandy. Take your pick.”

“Oh my god! What the fuck is going on boss?!”

“It’s a sex doll head, Gramps. Calm your tits,” said the President. Camp Gramps sat down on the floor and regulated his breathing. Rocking back and forth he mumbled the words dinner and dancing over and over until he was able to stand up again. “What are we going to do?” said Camp Gramps.

“Nothing. It’s just sex dolls,” said the President and he went back to the massage table. Camp Gramps closed the front door, he left the head where Uncle Bob had placed it.

Over the following days, various body parts belonging to different sex dolls found their way to Manosphere Headquarters with notes attached to them ridiculing the President in a multitude of ways. An arm and two feet had been thrown through the front window within hours of each other one day and it was this incident that pushed Camp Gramps over the edge. “Chief, this has got to end. We should call the cops,” he said as he shaped the President’s beard.

“It’s just sex doll parts, shut up,” said the President and the silence that followed dug a hole in Camp Gramps’s heart and filled it with a sadness he had not felt since the last time he realised that the only person that needed to get unstuck was him. He’d had enough though. The initial joy he had felt when the President had exiled Uncle Bob had now become like candle wax on a birthday cake, just a lumpy and tasteless sensation at the back of his mouth. It was fucking up the sweetness that was being a servant of the President. He smiled though, because in that moment he came up with an idea so great it would be a guaranteed seller if he could turn it into a course. It would have to remain a secret though, because it involved a certain degree of dishonesty. He was able to reconcile this in his mind though because when it came to HIS President, nothing was off the table.

The social media accounts that Camp Gramps created in Uncle Bob’s name enraged the President to such a degree that on several occasions it looked as if he may in fact shit his pants. “HOW DARE HE SAY THIS SHIT!” said the President as he got so worked up that he punched himself in the balls three times, grabbed a cigarette and chewed it and then vomited on the floor.

“Calm down, chief. We’ll get him,” said Camp Gramps, alarmed at the effect his plan had had.

“He said I’m not the REAL PRESIDENT. Fuck him. This is war,” said the President.

“NO! We do this the right way,” said Camp Gramps.

“How?”

“We invite him over. Frame him for something,” said Camp Gramps.

“We should just fuck him up.”

“No, chief. We do this properly. I’ll get the others to come. The more the better. Camp Gramps called the Philosopher and the Agency Patriarch. Both of them declined to attend Uncle Bob’s framing. The Philosopher gave no reason. The Agency Patriarch on the other hand gave a detailed excuse that involved building a legacy for his descendants and setting boundaries for his wife. He also told Camp Gramps that feminists were always thinking about the President’s dick. Unsure what to do with this information, he hung up. Camp Gramps wasn’t surprised. He always suspected their commitment to the cause. The President called Uncle Bob and invited him over for a talk. This had taken place at the perfect time because Uncle Bob was on the doorstep of Manosphere Headquarters, placing more sex doll body parts with an insulting note for the President. “Well, what a coincidence,” said Uncle Bob as he let himself in.

“OH MY GOD WHO ARE YOU?” said the President.

“What? Prez? This is weird,” said Uncle Bob.

“GRAMPS CALL THE COPS A STRANGE MAN HAS BROKEN IN!” said the President.

“I’m one step ahead of you, chief,” said Camp Gramps.

“You guys are fucking weird and that’s coming from someone who dismantles sex dolls,” said Uncle Bob and he turned, but the President took him to the ground and held him tight. “What are you doing?!,” said Uncle Bob.

“I fucking loved you more than the others. We had something special,” whispered the President. Camp Gramps stood over them, trying to listen like a jealous girl whose boyfriend is saying goodbye to an ex that just won’t fuck off. “I loved you too, Prez,” said Uncle Bob.

“Well you fucked it,” said the President and they both lay there in each other’s arms as sirens became audible in the distance. A tear fell from the President’s face and into Uncle Bob’s mouth. They maintained eye contact until the police knocked the door down.

Uncle Bob stared out from the back of the police car. The President stared back, fighting back the tears that so desperately wanted to flood that glorious pubic beard that clung on his chin like mould on a pancake. Uncle Bob blew a kiss. The President looked around before catching it and putting it in his pocket for later. He watched the police car drive off, the lights painting the leaves of the trees that lined the street with red and blue. Camp Gramps put his hand on the President’s shoulder, “Looks like it’s just you and me, chief,” he said.

“No it’s not. Don’t touch me,” said the President and went back inside. Camp Gramps stood there breifly, trying not to cry at the President’s offhanded, but hurtful words. It was like treading water in an ocean of sadness and pain. He looked at his phone and snapped out of it. He smiled. He knew though, that he didn’t have long to delete the accounts he had made to frame Uncle Bob.

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