Deep in the dark suburbia of an online mind, the strangest distractions appear. A lofty, ironic sense of self-importance brews, its slow ugliness as not yet achieving its final form, blindness still seeping across the retina of once empathic eyes. The self-immolation of the mind begins and the idolatrous, tempting flame kindles — the desire to be greater than other men on Twitter. With every click of arrogant, self-serving appetite, the broadening smirk of a lip that knows better than its fellow surfer, the base desires rise higher than our antihero’s intellect. His humility tumbles like Satan’s fall to the clash of a harsh reply. 

Pornography is a Class A drug ravaging every major city

“Non-serviam” — he will not serve the truth if it is uttered from his newfound enemy. His sickness is deeply embedded now; rage trembles in every finger. Kanye West grows louder in his headphones. His eyes have reddened. To him, feminism is cancer to our culture. It is a problem — but he now perceives a false solution to its scourge: remedial hatred of every woman. Of every bitch who discombobulates him. Of the agents of the Matrix. Godless, paranoid and self-pitying, he now perceives the Top G who is based, redpilled and yes — still manages to hate women and use them at his leisure. All of the basedness without any correlating self-control. What new magic is this? 

This case study is not a mere “incel”. It is not someone who posts screen captured Tiktoks of art and heroism from a forgotten Christian age set to Two Steps From Hell’s most awe-inspiring synthesised orchestrations, whilst hastily closing an incognito tab of Belle Delphine’s latest calendar (don’t look it up, bless you). This is a new monster — a half-breed, spawned of the Incel and the Fitpilled, who has lost all sense of nerdish nuance or berating self-shame. This new creature shares the characteristics of a man like any other, but one who has encountered the self-realisation of his master, The Top-G. He knows that without doing 1000 push-ups daily, whilst making millions from pushing his girlfriends (yes, multiple) to do porn online (from which they must pay him a tribute for his masculinity), he cannot save Western civilisation. 

How did we get to this point? The answer is simple: pornography. It is a Class A drug ravaging the streets and bedrooms of every major city, affecting every man’s brain and every woman’s sense of self-worth, destroying more homes than heroin could ever dream of. Everyone has consumed porn in Western civilization today, even if they are completely innocent. Billboards, fashions, jokes, songs, attitudes stem from the damage that porn has done to society. 

This is not an exaggeration or an oversimplification of the issues affecting our culture. Sure, one can argue that the egg to the pornographic chicken is in fact contraception, and one might be right. However, the main emissary for the fall of today’s society is the saturation of pornography through all levels of society. Men who consume it are responsible for the greatest changes to masculinity. The derogation of manhood and the desire for instant gratification with no hardship, suffering or self-sacrifice can be directly traced to the pornographic mindset. This drug effeminises, emasculates and effectively tramples on the natural human purpose. Detailed studies show the untold and in some cases irreversible consequences of porn on the human brain and sex drive.

Tate is the final form of a culture turning inward on itself

Andrew Emory Tate knows this, all too well. His own brain has been warped by the same deviant power — but unlike Bilbo, a harmless character, who hides his addiction to the dark power of the One Ring and plays second fiddle to its importance, Tate, in the analogous guise of Saruman The Wise, has successfully harnessed the power of this addiction for his own purposes and created a new army to serve his complex. Combined with the authentic starvation of modern man from fatherhood or strong direction, his narcissistic malevolence spied opportunity, and he brilliantly seized his chance. 

Sculpting this insight in an entrepreneurial fashion, he rose to become the pseudo father figure for this new breed of lonely, perennially online men. Using them for their money, he would then berate them for the same sin he encouraged them to commit. Like the devil himself, the great accuser, who lures with the taste of luxurious sins — yet as soon as the sinner falls, points his gnarled and fiery finger in accusation — Tate sells a pornographic illusion and cajoles men for their final pennies in his former pyramid scheme. (This scheme changed to being just a waste of money after the weight of accusation forced it to drop its “affiliate programme”, called Hustler’s University — clue is in the name.)  Then he accuses his male victims of being broke coomers. The irony cannot be lost on the outside observer. Tate is the final form of a culture turning inward on itself, a maelstrom of self-induced self-hate. 

We must learn from our mistakes. To avoid the false prophet of Tate and his bot army, to avoid pornographied minds seeking escape from the agony of self-torture, we must eliminate the root cause. The normalisation of the pornographic must end. A cesspit of abuse, the industry of selling bodies via pixels is ripe for cessation. We are a society that has lost itself in chaotic pursuit of progress at any cost — yet in this area at least, those of all political persuasions can surely shake hands: we have entirely regressed. Feminists, wokeists, libertarians and traditionalists must unite across the deep divide of political discourse online and in real life to agree that porn is a common enemy. It adds nothing to society and takes away so much. You have had your warnings, now you’ve seen what it can do. Take your opportunity and hit “destruct” on this paralysing new drug that has warped the minds of generations. Stop the process before it is all too late. You have the power to break free from the cycle.