Holy shit. Camp Gramps looked good. Oiled up and smelling a million bucks, he wrote some bullshit into the multiple social media accounts he had stacked with fake followers and looked at himself in the mirror one more time. He was the lighthouse in choppy seas. The firm hand on the shoulder that said, “Don’t worry. She saw it, bro”. He was the lavender motherfucker waiting for you in the dark to tell you that anything you didn’t like the sound of was a hunk of shit. Mount that steed of delusion, brothers. Ride her into the fantasy world of your creation and be the White Knight that no book or individual had the right to tell you was wrong and self destructive. Don’t forget the purple trimmings and be proud. He ran his hand through his hair and winked at himself. He was running out of ideas. Shitloads of abuse dominated his inbox because his theories and fantasies simply did not work when applied in the real world. The President had lost interest in him. This whole Tradcon lie was wearing thin and losing him business. He flexed in front of the mirror and muttered the word “unstuck” then said, “STABLE”. He wanted to make out with himself, but he’d done enough gay shit already.
He sat on the couch, shirtless with the pedestal fan blowing through the hairs on his chest and head. Fuck, he was beautiful. Words would not appear for him. They hung out in the back of his mind with dementia and delusion, laughing at him and occasionally throwing him a bone. With phone in hand, he started to type something. Ladies, stay classy. Tattoos are for whores. Send. Camp Gramps stared at his phone and waited for the likes to roll in. Nothing. He called the President. The phone rang sixty-nine times before the Great One picked up. “MAGA,” said the President.
“Yeah, chief. I need some ideas,” said Camp Gramps.
“Is it MAGA?” said the President.
“I need some ideas to trick motherfuckers into following me.”
“Semen retention. I hear that works. And MAGA.”
“The semen retention thing doesn’t work for me, chief.”
“Have you ever experienced a sunrise while enveloped in the gentle caresses of a rosemary and lavender oil candle?”
“No. Fuck you. MAGA!” said the President and he hung up. Things had not been great between them of late, especially when the realization that they were both essentially without substance had hit home. Too much had been said about that other guy though to turn it all around now. Camp Gramps wasn’t even in a position to steal his ideas. Like all great women before him, Camp Gramps had demonized the message with the messenger and fucked himself in the process.
It came to him while he was blow drying his hair, looking in the mirror. Bits of candle wax clung to the hairs on his chest. He liked how it felt. He then realized it looked like someone had jizzed on him, so he ripped the white clumps off in a violent manner like the single mother who snatches her child from the biological father because it’s her child and nobody else’s. He thought back to his happy place. The dance floors of the 1970s where disco dominated like the rash on disease riddled genitalia. The dicks had sideburns and the pussies, well they were pussies because they were furry. How could he profit from this though? That was the easy part. All he had to do was make the alternative a problem. He scanned through the recent themes that were being thrown around the Manosphere. Semen retention was out and would require too much creativity to link it to hairy vaginas. Sunning your balls was more of the same and hadn’t worked out for him either. The descended nature of his scrotum caused his entire sack to be pan seared on the hot concrete the one time he had tried it. Then he saw porn. A retard could make the link. Hairlessness was favored in the world of modern porn. Camp Gramps did some mental gymnastics and sent out the eighteenth commandment of the rules to life pertaining to him: if you like hairless vaginas you have a porn problem. Boom.
Reactions were mixed but his DMs were ablaze. A hurricane of hairy muffs congregated within the confines of his private messages with offers of revealing themselves to him. Camp Gramps high fived himself and wrote in his journal: I think I just got myself unstuck.
Three of them came to his door at once. The frilly black lace of loneliness that he wore like a widow’s shroud had been cast aside briefly. Ethel, Mabel and Pearl were there to fix that. “Welcome, ladies. Would you like a drink?” he said.
“I just want to show you my muff,” said Pearl.
“You call it a muff? I call mine a pussy,” said Mable.
“GIRLS! IT’S A CUNT. A HAIRY CUNT!” said Ethel.
“Ladies, stay classy. Can I interest you in a bit of dinner, followed by dancing, followed by some essential oils?” he said.
“Yeah, fuck that,” said Pearl. It was as if they were able to communicate without words because while he turned around to glance at himself in the mirror, wink and do that gay thing with his hand to make it look like he was firing a pistol at himself, all three of these geriatric harlots had stripped naked and stood there waiting for Camp Gramps’ appraisal. “FUCK!” he said. Pearl’s went down to her knees. A thick bush of steel wire with flecks of black. Mable’s extended northward up to her belly button. A vicious and inhospitable blanket of white and thorny hair. Ethel stood with her feet so far apart she looked like she was preparing to do the splits. Her hairy muff occupied the under regions of her taint and arsehole. That was as close together as her legs would go. It took a good foot from her real height. Camp Gramps almost fainted and admitted to himself, but no one else of course, that he wasn’t unstuck like he had previously thought. He was fucked. Not being able to ever admit he was wrong though, he soldiered on like a hero and a fuckwit at the same time. The cognitive dissonance was threatening to sink him. Like everything else that he had demonized previously, he could not muster the dignity to admit he was wrong. He prepared to have his face exfoliated by the pubic abominations that stood before him. “Well, what are you waiting for?” said one of the geriatric shrubs. Camp Gramps didn’t know who said it. He missed the President.
He woke up and they were gone. His face felt scratched up like someone had dragged it along a road. Pubic hair like dental floss and tiny steel wires lay between his teeth. He tried to pull them out but they cut his gums. The faint taste of blood filled his mouth and he looked up to see his favorite pomegranate scented candle and oil set had been stolen. “CUNTS!” he said to no one because no one was listening to him now and probably never would again. He picked up his phone. More pubic hairs stuck out between the lines that made up his fingerprint. “Ladies, what’s your favorite fashion accessory?” he typed. He pulled out the silver pubes. Tiny flecks of blood appeared on the tips of his fingers and thumbs. Camp Gramps looked in the mirror and cried. “FUCKING HYPERGAMY!!!” he said loud enough for everyone in his street to hear, but nobody did. Not even the dog that was taking a shit on his front lawn.