Manosphere VI: Double P and the Chakra Pussy

With Uncle Bob in the slammer and Camp Gramps proving as useless as ever, the President had become nothing more than a rudderless ship in a sea of uncertainty and vicious feminists. The last convention had been a complete and utter turd sandwich and the President was lost as to what to do next. He was so out of sorts that it had been twelve hours since his last massage. “Come on, chief. It’ll make it all go away,” said Camp Gramps.

“No, Gramps. It won’t,” said the President.

“Well I don’t give a fuck. You’ll always be my President,” said Camp Gramps.

“Thanks Gramps,” said the President and he stared at his phone, waiting for a notification. Nothing. He wanted to call Uncle Bob. Even just to fight. He didn’t care. Camp Gramps was worried. His hands had started to dry up and crack because he was no longer using the oils to massage the President’s most Presidential back. Camp Gramps approached the President who was at his desk, typing away on his phone. “What are you up to, chief?” said Camp Gramps.

“Just talking to chicks,” said the President.

“Oh, really?” said Camp Gramps and his eyes caught a glimpse of what the President was typing into the app. He didn’t see it all, but what he did see caused his prostate to swell and his anus to dilate like the eyes of a wild cat. The words cum and tits burnt themselves so thoroughly into the retinas of Camp Gramps that he let out a squeal that would have made the most pussiest of all pussies blush at how much they had to learn about being a pussy. “NO! MY PRESIDENT! WE CANNOT GO BACK TO THE OLD WAYS!” said Camp Gramps.

“I don’t care. I miss the old days,” said the President.

“No, chief. You are better than this,” said Camp Gramps and he ran out of the room looking for a landline. The Manosphere did not have one, so he ran back into the Presidential Suite and snatched the phone out of the President’s hand. “Hey! What are you doing?!” said the President.

“Chief, I’m calling for help,” said Camp Gramps.

“No one can save us. We’re FUCKED!” said the President, head in his hands like a mother who had lost all her sons in a war.

“Don’t worry, chief. I know some chaps who will help us,” said Camp Gramps.

“Who?”

“Double P and the Chakra Pussy,” said Camp Gramps and he winked at the President.

These guys weren’t new. They weren’t even strangers to the Manosphere. In fact, the President knew them quite well, he just hadn’t really given a shit about them when he had been winning. He was even on record calling the Chakra Pussy a retard. That had all been forgotten now. Things were at crisis point. The Chakra Pussy was a relationship coach with the voice of a helium addict and the soul of a middle aged and divorced mother of three that had recently started collecting cats. Double P had always been there. The President just hadn’t noticed him. They both arrived at the same time, but in separate rides. Camp Gramps welcomed them into Manosphere Headquarters with the grace of an aging lover. “Sweet beard, bro,” he said to Double P.

“Thanks, Gramps. I grew it myself,” said Double P.

“I want to go first,” said the Chakra Pussy.

“Sure thing, champ,” said Camp Gramps and he led the Chakra Pussy into the Presidential Suite. Double P stayed behind and tripped over his beard as he went to sit down on a sofa.

The President was completely bald when the Chakra Pussy lay eyes on him for the first time in months. The last time had been a video chat for one of the President’s poorly watched YouTube shows. “What the fuck have you done to yourself?” said the Chakra Pussy.

“Don’t question MY President’s choices,” said Camp Gramps.

“Gramps, that’ll be all,” said the President and motioned for the old bastard to leave. He ran his hand over the smoothness of his scalp. He smiled at the Chakra Pussy and then grabbed a handful of scalp and ripped the latex off his head. “What the fuck is going on, Prez?” said the Chakra Pussy.

“I was just fucking with Gramps,” said the President.

“Anyway, I have some ideas to save the Manosphere.”

“Wrong! I will save the Manosphere.”

“Right. Anyway, I propose steering the sphere into a new direction,” said the Chakra Pussy and he started to detail the appeal of new age bullshit like chakra alignment, oils, lotions, candles, spirituality without being religious and this all went on for over an hour. At the end of it all the President looked confused. “Well, boss, what do you think?” said the Chakra Pussy.

“I may not be a smart man, but I KNOW WHAT CHICK CRACK IS!!” said the President and he got out of his chair and grabbed the Chakra Pussy by the collar and threw him out. “Gramps, rip up his membership. He’s an enemy of the sphere,” said the President and for the first time in weeks he felt powerful again. Like the guy who had just been dumped by a five and finds out that twos won’t keep their hands off him, the President started to feel like his old self again. He told Camp Gramps to bring in Double P.

Double P stood in the doorway, chest out and ready to fight. The President nodded at him and he moved closer to the Presidential desk. They had known each other a while and although he had proven his loyalty when it mattered the most, the President didn’t really think he was the one to rescue the Manosphere. What other choice did he have though? The Accused was bigger without him. Uncle Bob could be facing death row. All the other guys that he had on the books were like the imitation brands bought in shithole countries at a fraction of the price that fell apart when they were needed the most. “Lay it on me, Double P,” said the President.

“That rhymed,” said Double P.

“Give me some skin,” said the President and they high fived. Camp Gramps looked on jealously through a crack in the door. “So, what have you got?” said the President.

“Two ideas. One is recycle the ideas that fucking guy came up with.”

“Solid. Even though he kind of took you under his wing in the beginning? You’re willing to do this?”

“Some of the shit he says makes me question my beliefs. I don’t like that, so fuck him.”

“Good man. That was a test. Give me some more skin. What’s the other idea?”

“Promote the fucking of fat chicks.”

“WHAAAAAT?!” said the President.

“Hear me out.”

“Get the fuck out!!!”

“It’ll make you money,” said Double P and the retarded rage face the President had conjured up from the depths of his autistic fury faded somewhat. “Most of the population is fat chicks. Tell guys to fuck them. It’ll make you a fortune.”

“What’s the incentive?”

“Some bullshit about getting with a fatty, making them thin and then you have a thin chick with the ferocity of a fat chick.”

“They’re ferocious?”

“Yeah, for cock. They don’t know when they’ll get it again so they hang on for dear life YEEEEEHAAWWW,” said Double P.

“Sounds promising. Anything else?” said the President.

“Yeah, we should all drive Jeeps,” said Double P.

“Sounds kind of lesbianic, but ok,” said the President. He sent Double P away and sat there staring at Zelda. The poster on the Presidential Suite wall was the only consistent thing in his life. The only thing that was still there. A tear rolled down his cheek and he wiped it away before it got caught in his facial forest. “No more tears,” he whispered to the walls. There was silence.

Thirty-seven minutes later, Camp Gramps glided in like a ballroom dancer who was high on life. “How’d you do, MY President?” said Camp Gramps.

“Good. We’re expanding the market to fat chicks,” said the President.

“Oh.”

“And we’re recycling the ideas that fucking guy came up with.”

“Oh no, chief,” said Camp Gramps and he felt his heart break over the realisation that dinner and dancing was dead.

“Why so sad, Gramps? This is our year to get unstuck,” said the President.

“Oh, nothing…it’s just…”

“Good. Shut up and rub my back. It’s fucking sore,” said the President and he took his shirt off. Camp Gramps turned and reached for the oil, a sadness so heavy it weighed him down like a nagging wife and ran through him the like dull ache of a broken penis. It was an emotion so intense that it was as if he’d been dumped by his eighty-seven year old girlfriend on his birthday and the promise of a toothless blowjob had slipped further into the realm of fantasy, contrary to what he had thought. “Hurry up, Gramps!” said the President and Camp Gramps looked up from his misery and smiled. Such is the life of a servant.

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