Below is another guest post from Thomas Manwise, to which I have only made minor additions. You may recognize him as the author of this piece previously on this site. And we’ll have another work of his coming out later tonight.
In what we might call the far-right, you will find many men and women who work tirelessly on behalf of White People. Whether it is through activism, intellectual critiques, or spreading the truth about the feral nature of nibbars and the vileness of Jews, they are slowly but surely building a movement that stands up for White People in a world that has been taught to hate them. Pro-White activists, organizers, leaders and thinkers who all make massive personal sacrifices on behalf of us should be venerated and supported.
I must warn you though; you need to be careful about who you support, as there are many self-interested actors who pretend to be far-right while contributing nothing that is actually useful or worthwhile to the movement. These ““people”” are typically referred to as ‘grifters’ and are only here to take your money because they are too lazy or stupid to work a real job. You can typically identify grifters by their appearance, since they are usually fat, repulsive slobs that do not embody the right-wing virtues of physical and spiritual well-being.
However, grifters taking your money while contributing nothing is not the only reason why you must avoid them. Recently, I had a harrowing experience with a grifter that almost cost me not only my life savings, but my life. Here is my story:
One day, I was scrolling through right-wing Telegram looking for awful shit to buy my best friend BuckFlackPeople as a joke gift. Last time I did this I bought him a George Floyd toy, but he ended up liking it so I knew I had to get him something well and truly and tasteless. After about thirty minutes of scrolling around, I came across this Telegram channel called “Beardson Beardly” which was advertising some shit merch, mostly consisting of t-shirts.
I cringed at the awful designs; the artwork was too good to be ironic and too bad to be aesthetically appealing. I was particularly interested in a t-shirt that had a poorly drawn smiley face with a cigarette in its mouth. The smiley face was surrounded by the following words: freak, weirdo, loner, doomer and incel.
I thought the shirt would be perfect as a gift for BuckFlackPeople as he’s none of those things: BuckFlackPeople is a totally normal dude with friends, a loving wife and three kids. The only thing about him that could be considered remotely freakish was his deadlift, which was 650 pounds without lifting straps or a belt. So I put the shirt in my cart and kept on browsing. By the way, the shirt was 24.99 USD, which is a total rip-off for a shirt that was probably manufactured in some jungle Asian sweatshop.
Besides the terrible merch, the channel had videos of a bearded man with round glasses doing your average soyboy behaviour like playing with Pokemon cards and eating disgusting, greasy fast food that was only fit for consumption by the fattest nibbars in the most ghetto cities in America.
I then took one long and very hard look at the man behind the channel, Beardson Beardly, otherwise known as Matt Evans. I felt like I had seen his face somewhere else before, and I gasped as I realized where. Beardson Beardly had a striking resemblance to Ronnie McNutt, the man who had become a Tiktok sensation in 2020 when he used a single-shot rifle to turn his face into a rafflesia flower while streaming live on Facebook. Beardson looked so similar to Ronnie McNutt that he could pass as Ronnie’s long lost twin. And no I am not joking, just compare photos of the two yourself to see the resemblance.
Once I finished buying the shirt, I did some digging afterwards and found out that the similarities between Beardson and Ronnie did not end with their shared appearance. Apparently, Beardson’s wife had left him for a nibbar, similar to how Ronnie’s girlfriend Equinox Autumn left Ronnie for a nibbar. They were also both nerds and proud of being nerds, having dedicated large portions of their lives to consuming Jewish intellectual properties like Star Wars and DC movies.
I was now convinced that Beardson Beardly was in fact a reincarnation of the deceased McNutt, or perhaps a version of Ronnie from an alternate universe. However, I learned that Beardson is actually a far, far bigger loser than Ronnie was when he was alive. Although Ronnie was a cuck who loved anime like My Hero Academia (which is a trash show which has a fandom full of pedophiles), he served in the army and worked out at the gym regularly. He also regularly attended church and worked an honest job at a Honda plant for many years.
Beardson Beardly, on the otherhand, was a disgusting pervert, having threatened to anally rape a mulatto girl for leaving his political movement. He also had this habit of saying that he hates all women at one moment, then simping after them the next, which shows that he is a hypocrite with no principles. He also kept on saying that he was a devout Catholic, but then what kind of Traditional Roman Catholic would make excuses for smoking weed while playing video games on a mousepad in the shape of 2B’s butt from the game Nier: Automata? Not to mention, of course, that there wasn’t a single photo of him at any parish. Personally I’m a Lutheran, but if I were a Catholic I would be appalled at the notion of being associated with such a revolting wretch of a person. As a racist far-right extremist myself I didn’t want to be associated with somebody as pathetic as Beardson.
The more I read on him, the worse I felt about having spent twenty-five bucks on that shitty t-shirt. Just everything about him was terrible in some way, from his dietary habits to the messiness of his room to even his taste in video games, which was mostly bland mainstream shooters like Call of Duty and Fortnite. Knowing that Beardson, a single 35 year old man with no kids, plays a children’s game like Fortnite made me feel genuinely depressed at the state of modern masculinity. However, I eventually decided that I was wasting too much time looking into this guy’s pathetic career as a political streamer, so I decided to log off and go to bed.
Two weeks passed with nothing eventful happening. Every day I would go through with my daily routine. Wake up early, go to work, eat five meals with at least 30 grams of protein with each meal, study philosophy and Holocaust revisionism, and rigorously work out.
I was in the middle of my fourth meal of the day when my phone rang. It was a Google Nest package alert. I made my way to my door and opened it to find a small brown box on my porch. I brought the small box inside and opened it to find the Beardson t-shirt that I had ordered. I set it aside on my table as I had to pick up my laundry from the laundromat. I drove out to the laundromat, which was run by filthy pajeets. However I had no other options since it was the only one in my city. When I arrived, I noticed smoke coming from inside the laundromat. I walked inside, covering my nose and mouth to see a pajeet using a Class C fire extinguisher on one of the dryers.
“What the fuck happened here?” I asked the manager.
“I’m sorry sir but it seems that we burned your laundry,” the pajeet manager said in his curry accent.
I was mad as fuck since all of my shirts were in that dryer. I told the pajeet that I would be calling my lawyer to sue for damages. The towelhead seemed nonchalant at first, but he pissed his pants as soon as I told him that my lawyer was a guy named Jord who was one-eighth Jewish. I then stormed off. The only clothes for my massive, V-tapered upper body I had now were my Murdoch Murdoch “Nice Guy National Socialist” pajamas (which I currently had on) as well as the Beardson Beardly merch. I noticed that the pajamas were darkened because of the smoke, meaning that they too were now no good. I rushed home to see if I had anything else I could wear since I was supposed to meet up with my girlfriend Brenda later tonight. I checked the closet to find that I only had pants and no spare shirts. So I put on a pair of jeans as well as the t-shirt, telling myself that I would just buy new clothes the following day.
However, as soon as I put the t-shirt on, I received a text. It was from Brenda. “Hey Anthony, I’m sorry but I’m breaking up with you. I’m sorry but I don’t think I can love you anymore.”
I was alarmed and confused as fuck as Brenda and I have been going steady for the past 7 months and there was nothing that I could think of that would make her leave. I tried to call her but it didn’t go through. She must have blocked my number, I realized. I also got a notification on Instagram that said my account was temrporarily suspended for sexual harassment and that I had lost over 1000 followers on Instagram, all of which were women.
“What the absolute fuck?” I said out loud.
Although I was heartbroken, I told myself that I would get over it. I then told myself that I had to workout. My tank tops had been destroyed, so I had to train in the Beardson Beardly shirt. My workouts are brutal, even by the standards of other Adolf Enjoyers. Today was leg day, so I decided to try and cheer myself up by doing one of my favorite exercises: weighted lunges where I would repeatedly kneel on the neck of my human size George Floyd toy while listening to the “Women crying for 10 hours” compilation as my training music.
I put 2 plates on each side of the barbell in my home gym and got under the bar. However, as soon as I unracked it, I shrieked as the weight nearly crushed me. I barely escaped from underneath the bar, letting the weight clang onto the floor. That’s weird, I thought to myself. Usually I had no trouble doing 225 pounds on lunges for reps, but I told myself that it must’ve been because I was feeling depressed after Brenda broke up with me. So I took the 45s off and decided to do 135 for high reps. But the same thing happened once again: the weight nearly crushed me.
Now I was really weirded out at my startling lack of strength. For those weak, faggoty twinks that don’t lift or exercise, it is not uncommon to see a woman squatting 135 pounds for reps. I then wondered if it was a problem with my form, so I took off the two remaining plates, leaving only the bar. I managed to do a couple of lunges, but I felt like puking after only doing four lunges. The bar, which was only 45 pounds or approximately 20 kilogram in metric, felt like 315 pounds or 140 kilograms.
“I must’ve caught something,” I mumbled to myself. “I need to go see a doctor.”
And so, I got in my car and drove to the doctor’s office. However, when I arrived, the nurse at the front desk ignored me. No matter how I tried to get her attention, she would just pretend that I didn’t exist. When I finally forced her to pay attention to me by screaming at her, she threatened to call the cops on me unless I left.
That pattern continued for the next few days. Everywhere I went, women would ignore me. I couldn’t even order food as the waitresses would just pretend that I didn’t exist. I also developed this strange aversion to bathing and lost almost 30 pounds of muscle, which made me look like a skinny-fat loser. I cried as I looked at myself in the mirror. I had no girlfriend, no muscles, and no self-esteem. Nothing.
After a few days of being ignored, I was on the verge of suicide. I guess that’s it, I thought. I grabbed a replica Ronnie Mcnutt single-shot rifle from my gun cabinet and started to live stream on Facebook. I was going to kill myself just like Ronnie McNutt. However, I knew I could not be seen wearing the awful Beardson Beardly merch since my death would be memed heavily if I did so. I removed the t-shirt and pressed the rifle up against my chin. But before I pulled the trigger, my phone began to ring, playing “Over the Horizon” as the ringtone. I decided to answer it just to make my death as similar to Ronnie’s as possible. I was shocked to see that the call was from Brenda.
“So you wanna talk to me now?” I said.
“What are you talking about Anthony? Why haven’t you answered any of my texts or calls?” Brenda asked.
“You’re the one who broke up with me,” I replied.
“Um, what are you talking about?” she said. “Are you drunk by any chance? Anyways, let’s just meet up at my place in an hour or so. I’ve been waiting to watch the new episode Euphoria with you,” Brenda said, then hung up.
I was dumbfounded as to why Brenda would just suddenly want to get back together. I also got a sudden torrent of Instagram notifications. I checked my Instagram to see that it had been reinstated and that my follower count was back to normal. As I walked outside, confused as fuck, my neighbour Christina waved at me as I exited despite the fact that she had ignored me for the past two days. I waved back and saw that she was blushing a bit. I then realized that my eight-pack abs and chiseled pectoral muscles were now back and on full display.
I noticed that I smelled quite a bit from not having showered in the past couple days, so I went and took one. As I lathered and rinsed, I wondered about what had just happened to me. When I got out I realized that I had not gone out and bought new shirts after the pajeets at the laundromat had destroyed my old ones. Come to think of it, all of my troubles with women had started when I first put on the Beardson shirt. When I emerged from the shower, I knew that I had to experiment with the piece of shitty merch.
I opened up my DMs with Brenda. I left my phone unlocked, on a table and in plain sight. I could see her texts and my replies. I then put the Beardson shirt on. Instantly, I was blocked. I checked my Instagram to see that, as I had predicted, all of my female followers had unfollowed. And as soon as I took off the shirt, Brenda unblocked me and all of the women refollowed my Instagram.
That’s when I knew for sure that the Beardson Beardly merch was the reason why I was ignored by women. I texted Brenda that I had an urgent matter to attend to and that I wouldn’t be able to make it to our date, then went back to my office and turned on my PC.
I went back on Beardson Beardly’s Telegram telling all of his subscribers about my experience with his merch. I also left a 1 star review on his website saying that Beardson was a cucked incel and his shirts looked like they’d been designed by some autistic jungle gook.
This clearly pissed Beardson Beardly off as I received a private message from him saying, “Hey man, why are you leaving such awful reviews about my merch, you fucking queer? I’m one of the biggest leaders on the Dissident Right dude.”
I nearly burst out laughing as I read that. I replied by typing, “Beardson, you aren’t a leader dude. A leader is somebody who actually organizes events and activism, like Mark Collett or your boss, Nick Fuentes, who mind you isn’t even good at it considering how many people he got arrested at January 6th. You’re a grifting live streamer who makes barely above minimum wage off of your superchatters, half of whom hate you.”
Beardson responded immediately, saying, “Well I’m a thought leader. I invented the Woman Question and Hardcore Hetero Incel Gaming.”
I facepalmed as soon as I saw that text. “Beardson, do you even know what I ‘thought leader’ is? It’s somebody who actually engages with intellectual ideas, like Keith Woods. That or somebody that writes or edits books, like Joel Davis or Andrew Joyce. Never once have I seen you speak to your audience about political philosophy, history, or economics. And as for you supposedly inventing the “Woman Question”, Mig-Tao has been around since the early 2000s.”
Beardson sent a smiley face emoji with his next text. “That still makes me the creator of Hardcore Hetero Incel Gaming.”
I replied quickly. “Why the fuck are you so proud of calling yourself an incel? Do you even know what the origin of that term is? It’s a combination of ‘involuntary’ and ‘celibate’, meaning that incels are losers who want to have sex with women but can’t. If you’re just a guy who doesn’t want to have sex with women, say that you’re just celibate; that you choose not to sleep with women because you don’t want to. It’s that simple man.”
I chuckled as I waited for Beardson to type out a response. When it finally came, it read as follows: “Hey man, I’m not really a political guy. I’m a heterosexual gamer and a Christian, not a political activist. I’m one of the most prominent guys in America First, but I’m just here to entertain my audience as a gamer, man. I contribute a lot to this movement by streaming and engaging with my chat and going to AF Pack and hanging out with guys and networking.”
“Bruh,” I typed out. “Beardson, that’s like saying you contribute nothing to your movement. You livestream and go to conventions and that’s it. Your existence reminds me of the way nibbars live, which is by leeching off of White people through welfare and harming our society through violent crime. You leech off of your movement by buying Pokemon cards by collecting super-chat money and selling awful merch, all the while directly harming your movement by doing stuff like threatening to rape women, running away from Louis Theroux when confronted about threatening to rape women, and generally being a slob of a human being.”
Beardson was obviously pissed now. “Are you some sort of troll wignat? You fucking faggot? You fucking wigger!”
My reply was swift and decisive. “Beardson, do you even know the meaning of the words you are writing? Wigger is a portmanteau of two words, just like incel, and is a combination of ‘white’ and ‘nibbar’. It’s a slur that is directed at White people who act like nibbars or like stuff that nibbars like. Examples include smoking weed, liking rap music and bragging online about owning an expensive pair of shoes, all of which are things that you like doing, Beardson. You seem like much more of a wigger than me or anybody else you call a wignat.”
“None of those things are true!” Beardson replied.
Upon seeing him trying to deny his nibbar-like behavior, I sent him the clip of him trying to justify himself smoking weed to his audience as well as Telegram posts about him attending a Kanye West concert and buying a pair of expensive Jordans.
He responded with a single, final line of text. “I know where you live.”
I laughed this off and told Beardly that he was a bigger waste of space than the average nibbar. I then continued on with my day, finally going over to Brenda’s, where we watched The Greatest Story Never Told instead of Euphoria. After getting home, I decided to get some sleep.
I was awoken by banging at my door. I checked the time to see that it was 3 AM. I checked my phone which was connected to the Nest cam outside my house. My eyes widened, it was Beardson Beardly and behind him I could hardly make out a dark figure who towered above Beardson, who was at the very most 5 foot 4 inches.
“Hey you bitch ass punk ass bitch, how dare you mock my incredible merch, I designed them myself. Do you know how long those took to make?” Beardson Beardly said. His voice was whiny, sounding like that of a wounded chihuahua. “You better open this door so I can give you a real ass whopping you punk ass bitch!. You faggot!.” Beardly said as he began to pound on my door.
“Ouchie, my hand hurts,” Beardson said despite only pounding on my wooden door twice. He paused, then turned to ask the dark figure something. “Hey George, buddy, could you please break this door down?” Beardson said meekly. “If you do, I’ll let you facefuck my ex-wife.”
“Cracka she be my bitch now, but sure thing mane since ya said dat da pale cracka dat live in dis place be racist and shieet.”
The tall dark shadow behind Beardson struck my front door, destroying it in a single punch. I was now getting worried. I knew that a manlet like Beardson would obviously bring help since even a girl in grammar school could beat him up. I locked my door and armed myself with the McNutt single-shot rifle. Thanks to the Nest cams that I had around the house, I could see exactly where Beardson and the man that he called “George” were doing. I began to laugh uncontrollably upon seeing that Beardson didn’t even reach George’s shoulders in height.
Eventually, they walked up to my bedroom door.
“Open this damn door, you motherfucker!. You faggot!.” Beardson shouted like an autistic child. “Or else I’ll have my friend smash it down. Hell, you know what, George please smash it down.”
The door suddenly broke down and Beardson and his partner in crime appeared. I could now finally see who it was as the light shined across him. It was the criminal nibbar, George Floyd.
“How the fuck? I thought that that nigga monkey was dead,” I said. “And I thought even somebody as low as you wouldn’t associate with a felon gorilla like him.”
“I rebooted him after I collected his reboot card from where he died,” Beardson Beardly said. “George Floyd is now my best friend.”
“Just like how you like to collect Pokemon cards despite being a 35 year old man, you cuck,” I clapped back.
This angered Beardson as his face became bright red like Ronnie Mcnutt’s face after he shot himself.
“And why would you bring back such a useless piece of trash? George Floyd might be the only organism in the history of the universe who is more useless than you, Beardson,” I asked.
“When my wife was about to divorce me, she told me that she wouldn’t leave if I figured out how to bring George Floyd back to life so that she could sleep with him. Well, she divorced me regardless and took all of my furniture and Pokemon cards and is now pregnant with George’s baby, but that doesn’t change the fact that George and I are a dynamic duo. Like Obi-Wan and Anakin or Batman and Robin or Ash Ketchem and Pikachu.” Beardson explained.
I nearly died of cringe as Beardson made three bugman pop culture references in a row.
“Also I buy muh pale nigga Beardson his cigarettes and shieeet,” George Floyd said, patting Beardson on the shoulder. “Ya see, he be too short ta buy them himself cuz da clerks at da convenience stores tink dat he be underage or sumting like dat because of how short he is, know what I’m sayin’?”
“Anyways, enough of this, I will kill you for mocking me and ruining my image!” Beardson said, his face burning red with manlet rage.
“Ruining your image?” I said. “You have done that yourself, Beardson!.”
George Floyd charged at me at an incredible speed and threw a punch. I was able to block it, however the force of the punch alone sent me flying out my window. I landed out on my front lawn with minor injuries as George Floyd jumped down from my bedroom window. The nibbar had inhuman speed and strength. A nibbar like Floyd was the ultimate opponent for any based racist chad. I noticed that Beardson had walked out from the front door holding my single-shot rifle.
He wants Floyd to weaken me and then finish me off himself, I thought. I traded blows with George Floyd as Beardson fired at me with the rifle. Although Beardson played a lot of first-person shooter games, his aim was atrocious because his flabby arms were too weak to handle the recoil of the rifle. However George Floyd was slowly overpowering me due to his roided out buck nibbar strength, so I had to think of a plan quickly.
I then came up with a way to make the two of them fight each other.
“Hey George,” I said, pulling out my phone when I got an opening. “You said that you were tagging along with Beardson because I was a racist right?”
“Yeah dat be true,” Floyd replied.
I grinned as I got the clip to load. “Well I am a racist, but what about Beardson?”
I then showed George Floyd a clip from Beardson’s stream, where he was ranting about how he could say the word ‘nibbar’.
“Ah shiet, what da fuck be happening here?” George Floyd said, looking at the clip and then at Beardson. “Did you be sayin’ deez mean thangs about us niggas?”
“George, what the fuck are you doing? Kill that racist, George,” Beardson said, pointing at me.”You’re my friend, right George?”
“Ah shit, I don’t take no orders from a bitch ass racist cracka like you,“ George Floyd said as he punched Beardson, knocking his glasses off. “You be a racist and shieet mane.”
“Ouch oh shit ow, I think you broke it, my nose!” Beardson Beardly said as he began to cry like bitch. “Goddamn George, I said you could facefuck my ex-wife and all,” Beardson whimpered.
George Floyd shrugged. “Don’t matter. She be an ugly ass bitch anyway and you a bitch ass too mane. I want da sex with sum hot ass White bitches know what I’m saying, yo ex-wife be too ugly n’ shiet,” the nibbar said as he kicked Beardson in face causing his collection of Pokemon cards to fall out of his pockets.
“See mayne you a grown ass mayne but you still be playing with Pokemon cards and jerking off to cartoon girls from video games n’ shiet, you bitch ass cracka.” George Floyd walked over to the Pokemon cards and began to rip them to shreds.
“No please not my exes and shiny!” Beardson shrieked like a bonobo. “Please, that’s all that I have in life!. Please!.”
George Floyd then continued to brutalize Beardson. Not by beating him up, but by doing stuff like going through Beardson’s phone and deleting all the 2B hentai and mobile games that he had on there. Honestly speaking, as I watched I felt that George Floyd was doing Beardson a favour by getting rid of all the degenerate bugman crap that Beardson was carrying around.
Beardson was bawling his eyes out as George Floyd sold off his gaming computer on Craigslist so that George could buy fentanyl.
“Nooooo!.” Beardson cried. “All of the stuff that I bought using the money super-chatters sent me using their dads’ credit cards!. It’s all been sold off. George, I thought we were friends?”
“Nah mane we ain’t friends no more mane,” Floyd said, picking up the single-shot rifle and pointing it at Beardson’s beer belly. “And now I is gonna smoke yo cracka ass. Shooting you in dat fat belly will be like shooting a pregnant woman, which makes me happy, know what I’m sayin’?”
Beardson looked up to me with pathetic puppy eyes. “Please, Anthony, help me,” he pleaded.
At first I looked away, knowing that the world would lose nothing of value if Beardson perished then and there. But I also knew that as a White guy, it was my duty to save the life of my fellow White man, even if said White guy was an incel loser cuckold. So I rushed George Floyd, knocking him away from Beardson.
“Ah shieet, what you do dat for mayne?” George Floyd shrieked.
I cupped my hands around the back of George Floyd’s head and began to knee him repeatedly in the stomach. One after the other, my knees connected at blinding speed, driving him back. I could hear Floyd’s floating ribs shatter as he screamed, “Ah da knee in my lungs, I can’t breathe!. Mama please I can’t choke, I can’t breathe!. I’m not a bad guy mayne, not a bad guy!.”
“Back to hell with you, you criminal chimp!.” I shouted as I kneed him in the chin, knocking him down. I then kneeled on George Floyd’s neck, crushing his windpipe and killing him.
As George Floyd’s body disintegrated into a pile of powdered fentanyl and feces, I turned to Beardson Beardly, who had been watching in awe.
“How, how did you do that?” Beardson asked. “That was like something straight out of Street Fighter, but…but real!.”
“Well duh, of course it’s real,” I said. “Street Fighter wouldn’t exist if real-world martial arts existed. It’s also why I don’t play fighting games. Why play as a fighter when you could become one in the real world?”
Beardson then began to cry, tears rolling down his cheeks. “It’s because I’ve always felt like I was worse than everybody, you know? I’m not fit and muscular like you or The Golden One. I don’t have Nick’s charisma or Mark Collett’s experience and organization skills. I’m not good at political philosophy like Keith Woods. I don’t provide meaningful commentary on the games I play like America Krogan. Even my songs aren’t as funny as Baked Alaska’s or as well-written or nicely produced as the ones by that TRS wignat Sven.”
Snot was leaking from his bloody nose and getting stuck in his beard as he wept. “I really am a freak, weirdo, loner, doomer and incel, and every day I need to pretend like being those things is something to be proud of. My only friend in real life was George and he turned on me as soon as he learned that I said ‘nibbar’, and all my online friends are all at least ten years younger than me and twice as popular. For heaven’s sake, I’m a man in his thirties who streams video games for a living and needed to beg my teenage audience for money in order to buy a fucking car when my wife left me. I know that I’m a terrible role model for my audience of impressionable teens, that I’d be ruining their lives if they chose to be like me. I know I’m a loser, but being a loser is the only thing I have to offer this world.”
Suddenly, I felt kinda sorry for Beardson. Here was a man who knew that he was worthless, but also knew that he had to pretend every day that being worthless was actually a good thing. A man whose only contributions to this world were his personal insecurities. Even though almost all of his suffering was a result of his own actions, I could tell that he was suffering. He was the human embodiment of Nietzche’s conception of ressentiment, where pathetic individuals would cope for their weakness by asserting that their weakness was in fact a virtue.
But if he knows that he’s those things, I thought as I dug into my wallet. Maybe there’s a chance, no matter how small, that he can be redeemed.
I took out two pieces of paper and handed them to Beardson. He sniffled as he took them out of my hand, then asked, “What are these?”
“One of those is a coupon that will give you a six-month discount for a membership at Gold’s Gym. The second is the business card of one of my friends who runs a Steak ‘n Shake. It’s not too late for you, Beardson. Quit live streaming since you aren’t contributing to the movement, quit playing games, get a job, and get yourself in shape. You can still pull yourself together. You still have time.”
Beardson, with shaking hands, stuffed the cards into his pocket and stood up. “O-ok. I’ll do as you say, man. Thanks so much, Anthony.”
It has been two weeks since my run-in with Beardson and his friend, George Floyd. I have seen that Beardson has quit live streaming and is now posting photos of him working out on his Telegram page. The moral of the story is that you are not a good person just because you say nibbar and call homosexuals ‘faggot’ online. Although being racist and anti-LGBT are both prerequisites to being a good person, you need to also be an upstanding person yourself and embody virtues like strength, intellect, and self-restraint. You also need to be careful about who you follow in the Dissident Right, as they may be insecure grifters who have nothing to contribute except their own personal moral failings. They should be bullied relentlessly until they are forced to improve themselves, because constant striving for improvement is a virtue that all White people must embody.