I arrived in Palm Beach on the wings of a dragon. It was revolting: cramped and sweaty, hundreds of parasites each clinging to the underside of one of the dragon’s slimy scales, smelly bare feet shoved on my arm rest while they waited for their so-called complimentary bag of peanuts.
It was almost as bad as Palm Beach itself.
I was the only real human on the dragon, the only real American man with balls and TESTES and the COURAGE TO SPEAK OUT and the bloodsucker pushing the alcohol cart up and down the aisle cut me off after only 3 vodkas because APPARENTLY I was being disruptive to the other passengers.
Oh, was I being disruptive, Carolyne? Was I? Was I rocking the boat of your convenient delusion that you live in a world where hollow Earth reptiles AREN’T IN TOTAL CONTROL of your lives and your spines? I’m busy trying to save your souls, here, you soulless bastards, so yes, sometimes I get a bit shouty.
I AM NOT SORRY!
After a half-dozen of the inhuman scum on the dragon with me tried to get me to sleep with them — they may not have souls, but they’ve got eyes, and can see what a virile hunk of patriot I am, and want to ride my freedom train — CHOO CHOO — the dragon walked us to our terminal, and belched us into the jetway. The flight attendant tick who fifteen minutes ago was threatening to call the air marshal on me if I didn’t just settle down and stop yelling at the shapeshifter who was pretending to be an 18-month old little girl with an ear infection was now thanking me for my business and wishing me a happy stay in Palm Beach.
I tell her it’s not too late to stop being a soulless tick, but she doesn’t know what to say to that.
They never know what to say.
I need to get a Taxi to get to the Palm Beach Convention Center, and as I look for the Taxi stand I do my best to avoid making eye contact with anyone around me. It’s like that scene in the Matrix, where Neo is walking down the street, and is distracted by the woman in the Red Dress and doesn’t notice that agent Smith has POSSESSED one of the people in the crowd he’s walking through, and shoots Neo in the head.
So I don’t want to get distracted by any beautiful women in red dresses, or, Good Christ, get drawn into a conversation with a fan. Look, human people, I get it: I do what I do to SAVE THE WORLD from the demonic forces on the verge of destroying it, and I DO MY BEST to give you the tips you need to save yourself, but I HATE talking to you.
I don’t have time to listen to you thank me for my tireless work to defeat the GLOBALIST AGENDA. And if you’re a Reptillian or a fifth-dimensional sulphuric Democratic Slipturian trying to infect my nose hairs with your godlessness or whatever, I don’t have time to listen to you threaten me for my tireless work to defeat the GLOBALIST AGENDA.
Sometimes my enemies, when they’re shapeshifted into the form of a voluptuous young woman in a Red Dress, or a voluptuous 80-year old woman in a Red MAGA hat, try to trick me into giving them my signature, and even though they claim they just want an autograph, I KNOW they want to use my signature to steal my power. And identity.
I challenge them, and fling some of the holy water I keep in my false tooth, and they disappear in a puff of acrid smoke.
None of these lizard fuckers can stand up to my false teeth!
The Taxi stand is outside the front of the airport, so I brace myself for the terrible weather here, and step through the doors.
MY GOD, Florida is a sweaty pisshole.
My beautiful fitted t-shirt goes from a bone dry heather to a soaking black sponge in an instant, and I am swarmed immediately by malarial, nanobot-carrying mosquitoes.
Why anyone would want to live in this pisshole is beyond me. Maybe if I was a Democrat, I’d like it here.
I don’t like it here.
As I wait for my turn to pay too much to a South Greneshian Goblin for a 10-minute Taxi ride to my hotel, the mosquitoes take their turn trying to infect me with their mind control nanobots from BILL GATES, but I’m not worried about them getting into my brain and hijacking my manly arms and legs and thoughts because I’M PROTECTED!
If you’re scared of the malarial mosquitoes, and don’t want them to infect your BRAIN with their 5G mind-control, here’s a recipe that’ll keep you safe:
Alex Jone’s Home-made Malarial Nanobot Vaccine
Take a cup of Greek yogurt, mix in two tablespoons of activated charcoal. This will force the anti-nanobot defences to ACTIVATE in a later step.
Set the yogurt mixture outside, in the sun, for 17 days.
After 17 days, bring it inside. This is VERY important: 16 days is not enough, and if you leave it outside for 18 days, YOU WILL DIE.
Put the yogurt in a blender, and mix it with 1/2 cup crushed peanuts. Blend until smooth.
Start vigorously rubbing the yogurt mixture on your cock, and when you’re finished, take the jizz you just made and smear it on your face.
Let the activated jizz rest on your face for 3 hours. When the jizz absorbs into your skin, you’ll be protected from the nanobots, no matter what Bill Gates had planned for you, the slimy fuck! As a bonus, the jizz will give your skin a nice glow.
And that’s how you can protect yourself from the evil 5G nanobot mosquitos. Good luck, patriot!
I made it to the front of the Taxi line, and got in the back seat of a five-legged Snarrlon Beast and asked the Greneshian Goblin piloting it to take me to my hotel
I know what you’re thinking: was I really trusting a Greneshian to actually get me to my destination, and not steal my teeth and leave me in a ditch somewhere? Greneshians are even worse than Altraschoids! Sure, that’s a concern, but if the alternative is Uber, well … if you knew what I knew about Uber, you would set fire to their head office and dance while the CEO’s children burned. I’d rather be a victim of a creepy, tooth-eating Greneshian than have to deal with the Gig economy.
My God.
I was in town to be a headline speaker at FreedomCon, the biggest conference for people who actually GIVE A SHIT about the state of the world, for people who want to reclaim the COUNTRY and defeat the globalist donkey cocks from the 9th dimension.
That’s not a metaphor, by the way. I saw talking donkey cocks entering our reality one time through a portal behind a Five Guys in Portland. I killed them all before they had a chance to tell me what they wanted, but it was scary and I WAS HARD.
So FreedomCon had a schedule of presentations that everyone was going to give, but all anybody’s talking about is Trump. I mean, obviously, it’s a major world event. Would it be literally the only thing people talk about? Would anybody be giving the speech that they had their assistants write with ChatGPT over their lunch break, or would they just wing it?
Ann Coulter, who I love and think is absolutely hilarious, was scheduled to talk about “Trump Was Yesterday: Why The GOP Needs to Move On,” but I didn’t think she was enough of a troll to still give that speech. She’s too kindhearted to ever do anything like that.
Seriously, off-camera she’s, like, the nicest Nazi. All the hate crimes are just for show.
Jordan Peterson’s talk was “Why Liberalism Fails: Democracies In History’s Dustbin, From Nazi Germany to North Korea to Trudeau’s Canada.” I’d been looking forward to that one, actually, but now I figured Jordan would probably just spend his hour sitting on stage, crying silently.
Shame, but maybe there’s an opportunity there to sell some tissues with a picture of Jordan’s face on it? Or maybe a handkerchief to catch Leftist Tears?
Man, that joke will never stop being funny.
The convention halls were filled with all sorts of great conservative products, like a set of dinner plates with different pictures of AOC’s butt on them so that every time you’d eat your dinner, you’d be eating it off of her butt, which would really make her look foolish; there was a Bernie Sanders body pillow — he looked so tired and confused in the photo they used, it would look amazing tucked under my covers; and there was a masturbation sleeve that looked like Joe Biden’s face. It even had a hole on the other end, too, so we could finally screw him like he’s been screwing the American people for the past 4 years. Just really great stuff that would just utterly trigger the Libs because they don’t understand comedy.
Let’s Go Brandon!
Let’s Go!
I should explain: the reason “Brandon” is a brilliant joke because it lets us conservatives — who are obviously under relentless assault by the mainstream media — make fun of President Joe Biden in a safe way that Liberals don’t understand and can’t stop. We may be saying “Brandon,” but actually we’re meaning “Joe Biden.” We may be saying “let’s go,” but we’re actually meaning “fuck.” So when they think we’re saying “Let’s go Brandon,” we’re actually saying “Fuck Joe Biden.”
They don’t realize we’re making fun of him. It’s great!
We are clever people.
Amid the variety of top-notch conservative products in the main hall, there were a bunch of memorials for Trump. Obviously. Some people had set up little shrines in the aisles, and some of the people had given up their booths to give people space to just sit and talk about all the ways Trump had made their lives better.
All these people were being open about their feelings, and grieving about the loss of someone very important to them, and crying freely with no judgment. It was really touching, and because it was happening in a safe space for conservatives, it wasn’t woke, homosexual, transgender, or vegan. It was very refreshing.
After I made it out of the hall, a short, very unserious man with a big bald spot and even bigger beard approached me, looking smug and surly. The name on his lanyard was “Hello, I’m Cody Johnston,” and he was standing on a little portable bridge.
He looked up at me — even though he was standing on a bridge, he was still much shorter than I am, as my height is exactly average, so I’m taller than half of all men — and smirked childishly at me. “Well well well, my nemesis. We meet at last, Ben! Are you afraid because it’s finally happening?! I have a clean yarmulke for you, if you soil the one you’ve got on.”
I had no idea who he was. The name didn’t ring a bell, but I get a lot of people trying to take a shot at me every day, so he could be some obsessed YouTuber who Tweets at me a dozen times a day trying to get my attention like a little obsessed freak, and I wouldn’t know. People like that are a dime a dozen.
Basically, I’m popular, and nobody knows who he is.
“I’m a bit busy now, I’m trying to make it to a session that’s about to start.” I pointed out, civilly.
“Well well well, if it isn’t the shoe on the other foot, Ben, hmm? Very well! I shall let you pass, if you answer my riddles one.” He said, like a weirdo.
I get this a lot.
“Sure, take your best shot. But remember, if you’re going to come at the king, you best not miss.”
“Oh, I’m practically a sniper, Ben. Pew! Pew!”
What a damn weirdo. “What’s your question?”
“Uh, right. Sorry.” He said, fumbling through a stack of papers that didn’t appear to have anything on them except for what I think was “Mrs. Cody Shapiro” written over and over in a handwriting so bad it made me wish phrenology was still a thing. After way too much time spent rooting for whatever he thought would take me down, he finally asked: “What’s the difference between sex and gender?”
I sighed. Even for someone like me, who’s really good at debate and who really enjoys it, knocking down low-hanging fruit like that can get boring.
“Men can’t become women.” I said.
The shock of my words hit Cody like a pellet gun to the face: he recoiled, violently, as if I’d just hit him with my big arm muscles. “My God, you’re RIGHT!” He said, obviously. “I’ve been so blind!” Then he fell to the ground, rocking back and forth, and wept.
Everyone who’d been minding their own business up to that point stopped what they were doing, turned toward us, and they all clapped.
Before I left this poor, sobbing wreck of a man to consider all of the bad life choices that had caused him to be so dumb, I knelt down beside him, took out my Leftist Tears mug, and scraped some of his Leftist Tears into my Leftist Tears mug.
I’d enjoy them later.
I made it to the hall about ten minutes before Jordan’s talk was set to begin, so I found a seat in the preceding talk. That topic was about being a persuasive female conservative, or something. I don’t know, I hadn’t read the sign on my way in the room. I didn’t recognize the speaker, either: she had bright blonde hair, a year’s worth of red lipstick on her face, and an outfit that looked like she got it out of a “how to look like every other conservative woman online” guidebook.
I’m not being sexist when I describe her like that, by the way, or when I say that all of the women on FOX, Newsmax and the like are interchangeable to me. That’s not sexist, because that’s why they were each hired: they’re generically attractive women from the lower 48 states, spinning the same folksy wisdom, with the same effortless spunk on tap.
It’s a product that sells.
The Blonde Woman told a joke about a Democrat getting stuck in a wet paper bag, and winked at the audience as she did. The embarrassingly small crowd ate it up. They loved her, even though after the talk I bet none of them would have been able to pick her out of a police line-up.
Again, I’m not being sexist: they’re practically designed to look the same. It’s like they were all grown from the same vat or built in the same factory.
Eventually she finished, got a polite round of applause from most of the audience and an enthusiastic cat call from the loneliest man in the room, and left. A few minutes after that the room filled to capacity in anticipation of Jordan and his electric hour of weeping.
His session started, and he began giving a really thought-provoking explanation of why North Korea is actually a democracy – did you know they call themselves the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea? – but he just couldn’t keep it together, and started talking about Trump, then crying. He got a standing ovation, even though I’d seen him cry better on his show for The Daily Wire+. I’m not being biased when I say that, either: I’m his boss.
Jordan’s talk might have ended predictably, but as with all of these kinds of conventions, the interesting stuff, the important stuff, would all be happening in the hallways between sessions, and in the speaker’s room. That’s where I was headed, partly because I had my own talk to get ready for, but also because the speaker’s room was where all the cool kids would be hanging out, and what am I if not a cool kid?
Let’s Go!
Brandon!
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Chapter 2 - FreedomCon