A MRA named Mark Jones claimed he could “smell the fear in the hearts of manboobers [sic] as the mainstream media gives more and more attention to MRAs and paints feminists as a bunch of shrill unhinged lunatics.”
“They might call feminists shrill?!!??!?”
Luckily, Fibinachi is here to tell us how the manosphere is able to smell the fear in our hearts:
Smiling to himself, Jonesy Markson clicked the link. Things loaded, wires buzzing with information as monochrome blips filtered across the screen as the smoke from his cigarette curled lazily into the air. This was the life. This was it, the pay off to these many years of toil and turmoil. One machine, one video, one test and his pre-emptive victory cigarette. He huffed his brand of SmugSticks, inhaling the heady mixture of nicotine, confirmation bias and denial. The steady whoop of the fan above him his only company. This wasn’t a time for other people, this was his moment, this was his victory parade. Sure, many months – years – lay ahead of him, but tonight? Tonight was the night everything changed.
He moved the cursor across the screen. Careful, careful… There. One last drag on the cigarette, one final rush of self-satisfied moral superiority. He blew out a ring of cloying patronization, which expanded across the room as swiftly as his goalposts.
That was the cigarette. Now for business. The next ten minutes will would tell whether or whether not his machine worked, his ultimate plan came true or if his unassailable sense of righteousness had actually led him astray.
He clicked.
Somewhere in the dark, a little machine went “BLOING”.
A video played. Figures, dancing across the screen. Their suits the only point of colour in an otherwise black and white world.
Their words? Their journalism, the hard hitting, straight shooting inside story was just the thing. A word was cut out as another thing went BLOING BONK.
And then it began in earnest, a rapturous cacophonous roar of noise, drowning out the rest of the video. A cut to a studio, chittering, chuttering noises from all around him and then finally… fade to black. Sudden silence. A silence interrupted by the whooping of the fan, and… something else. A different sensation. His greatest invention, releasing its payload.
Something oozed into the tiny black and white world.
Something… beautiful.
Wafting towards his noise, the unmistakable smell of fear. Smelled like… victory.
The smell of victory
It worked. The Smell-O-Meter worked. This was the greatest, most effluent victory of the mind of man over its detractors, the true mark of a champion of movements.
A grand victory not only of MORALS, MATTER or MINDS…
But of noses.
A grand victory of SCARY noses.
Artistry For Feminism. And Kittens. 