Incels are literally the perfect bullying target
completely unlikable physically, mentally, and spiritually. Alex Jones and Samantha Bee have both spoken out about them, to show how unifying their unlikability is
short tempered and hypersensitive, sperg out all the time
somehow uncharacteristically verbose. Every word they type is kino schizoposting and could easily be placed comfortably in a freak manifesto
complete misunderstanding of human norms. Sometimes they seem like aliens on Earth. Will tie literally anything into women having sex with attractive men
obvious latent homosexuality in most cases
I can't blame people for wanting to make fun of them.
The dissonant way the culture treats us is intriguing, isn't it? On one hand, we are supposedly dangerous: ravenous, bloodthirsty things grown rabid and vicious with minds poisoned by misogynistic sentiments. The reporters and journalists with their soul-searching articles and documentaries dream up feverish nightmares involving cabals of potential rapists and murders. We are the closest things to devils the modern mind can conjure up, creatures that strike at the most primordial anxieties: ugly men, malformed things that want sexual affection, a privilege reserved for the healthy and lovely, who dare to despair and resent the fact we've been denied it. We've been consumed by the worst of all sins: Pride, a demon that could well inspire us to rise above our proper stations and, if we are denied access to a Paradise we are unsuited to, may attempt to either take it by storm or decimate it. We are supposedly things sworn to rape and violence; we are volatile terrors, each and every one of us.
And yet, on the other hand, we are also objects of fun and mockery. Videos and articles and comments all take jabs at the pain we purportedly deserve, laugh at our imagined awkwardness, make jibes suggesting we're homosexuals and that, if women find us repulsive, perhaps we should just settle for the humiliation of sodomy. We're filthy clowns, disgusting jesters, things beneath contempt that can be knocked about without the slightest twinge of guilt.
So, which is it? Are we wicked monsters jailed in the king's dungeon, railing against their confinement and howling for the taste of forbidden flesh, or the pathetic jesters dancing in his court?
Curious isn't it? But I would suggest it's nothing new. Though I'm a fan of the Faustus mythos, I'm more than willing to acknowledge its ignoble origins. Long before Marlowe or Goethe wove their respective dramas, the tale was the subject of puppet shows not dissimilar to those starring Punch and Judy. The tortured scholar fallen prey to the allure of sorcery and his diabolic familiar were reduced to buffoons and the struggle for a man's soul was turned into occasion for mindless slapstick for the sake of amusing bored children. Now, bear in mind that these children believed in the devil, they lived in a haunted world in which both witchcraft and the fallen angels facilitating it were very real. Yet these very children, who no doubt awoke in terrified sweat after seeing Mephisto or his ilk in their dreams, gave not a second thought to laughing at his wooden effigy slapped and jerked about on some ramshackle stage the morning after.
The incel and all of the anxieties that he inspires in actual human beings, the ones who love and are loved,
will exist as long as there's a distinction between beauty and ugliness. The terror of the undesirable thing's desire is eternal, rising up from humanity's most primal instincts. In that respect it's no different than the primordial fear of the darkness and the things lurking within it. We can illumine the world until not a single shadow stains it, utilize our wit to degrade every devil into nothing more than a fairy tale but the monster, that incarnation of Nature's evil, is forever.
They will never drive us out and our revolting desire, regarded as abhorrent due to our misshapen faces and contorted limbs, will always inhabit the nighttime world behind their eyelids. Waking from nasty dreams, they spring from their beds like little children and rush to their videos and forums and breathe a sigh of happy relief as they mock and deride the abominations they found so frightening during those awful hours when the sun lay drowning beneath the horizon.
Long after we've cast every spirit from the earth and dismiss the very last exorcist, the drunken puppeteer will still be abusing his grotesque marionettes to assuage the fears of the children born to the daylight, helping them forget, if only a little while, the hideous things they witnessed during their brief sojourn in the dark.
