PHOTO: MATT W. NEWMAN, Unsplash.

*Total Clickbait.

Make an effort.

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G. Billington Evans is a satirical writer, visual artist, and owner of THEARTOFGEVANS.COM. 

Addendum:

Content warning: This article deals with incel culture and the hateful rhetoric and ideology associated with it, which will be referenced herein. All statements in this article are just opinions, commentary, speculation, and jokes.

Incel:

noun, UK: /ˈɪn.sel/ US: /ˈɪn.sel/

To be clear, the article only qualifies as clickbait insofar as it isn’t really directed towards the bona fide incel but rather the pseudo-incel (one who thinks they’re an incel but is really just lazy). The fundamental advice is delivered as advertised.

I’m sure you know the type: either a grown adult rocking SpongeBob merch or one of those dumbasses who look like they just rolled out of a dumpster, reeking of Winnie Reds and desperation, arse hanging out of their trousers, and with no genuine respect for the people they’re (barely) trying to woo.

Or, worst of all, both.

If you really are just a victim of force majeure and still alone after all reasonable measures have been exhausted, I suppose you are (if you must insist) an incel.

1. Blame your damn selves. 
2. Technically, you cannot claim to be an “incel.”
3. You are, therefore, a pseudo-incel.

You don’t know how much effort goes into “effortlessly” picking up chicks. All you see is the same curated version of themselves they present to the world; you’re not privy to their laborious pre-game preparations. It’s not as if you can say with any degree of certainty that their best self is their actual self.

For all you know, they could be bed-wetters with chronic flatulence behind closed doors. Y’know, they are notorious for bailing post-coitus.

But, as it pertains to your particular objective, they’re not wrong. Even if they’re obnoxious dickheads about it. They may be completely overdoing it, but at least they’re not underdoing it by sitting at their computer bitching about how “hard-done-by” they are when, pretty much, all they had to do was put down the Doritos, roll their arses out of their gaming chairs and get down to the mall.

The absolute state of some of these sorry sacks of shit that I see whingeing about their easily-remedied lot in life could just about make your eyes water.

Dressed To Depress.

Nobody says you have to deck yourselves out in Versace, looking like some corny crypto huckster. A fraction of the money and effort would suffice. 

Just ditch the hoodie with the cigarette burns, shave your neck, invest in a belt so hard-working, decent folk out doing their Christmas shopping don’t have to be subjected to the sight of your hairy arse, buy some deodorant, shave your neck, get a tan, shave your neck, get a haircut, SHAVE YOUR DAMN NECK and get it through your thick skulls that the people with whom you wish to engage in sexual congress are not automatons designed by Hustlers University School Of Engineering to satisfy your unsightly wanger at your convenience.

Just Do It.

Your refusal to show up and be part of the process is an affront to the people with whom you wish to bump uglies. If you simply could not be fucked making an effort, your appearance alone makes a rather emphatic implication as to what you think of that person. Specifically, that they’re not worth any.

So, obviously, a person with more than one available option is not going to opt for your raggedy arse.

Not exactly the smoothest move to instantaneously insult the person you’re haplessly (not) trying to court from the outset by merely walking into view. Yeah, see how far that gets you. If you showed up to a job interview looking like an absolute state, you’d never work in that town again. Why should this be any different?

Not caring is considered attractive, but when not caring manifests as not showering, then I’m going to go out on a limb and predict some difficulties in closing the deal.

So, what exactly is the injustice here? The fact that people have standards to which they’re rightfully entitled? The fact that they don’t have an indiscriminate open-bed policy? The fact that they’re not out there banging any old hobo that wanders in from off the street reeking of piss, willy-nilly? And why are you entitled to standards and not them? Especially when theirs, for the most part, are understandable, and yours are beyond ridiculous?

If you’re sitting there in your dingy dork-dungeon wondering why 21 years have passed, and still, no one has spontaneously materialized in a billow of smoke at the foot of your bed to service your nasty mutton-whistle with zero incentive, then you’re a fuckin’ idiot. It’s about time your parents sat you down and informed you that there is no such thing as the “Poon Fairy.”

Being out of shape is no excuse, either. I’ve seen some absolute bovines who do perfectly well in the romantic department. Shit loads of them. Weight is not necessarily a deal breaker, and some of the chicks with whom they’ve partnered up weren’t exactly beaten with an ugly stick. And some chicks like ugly dudes. I’ve heard plenty of women say they’re not into good-looking guys. Maybe there’s an app?

However, rightly or wrongly, some people, on a physical and/or social level, are shit out of luck, regardless of what they do. There’s still no excuse for being such dicks about it, but maybe some people really are fucked.

I Can Think Of One Problem, Just On The Top Of Your Head.

Get a load of the horror show going on in this guy’s cranium:

Warning: the following video contains references to SA and racist slurs.

VIDEO: SBS THE FEED, YOUTUBE.

Sorry, I meant on his cranium.

Hang on a minute…

You mean to tell me that the mace retailers in this kid’s town are doing bumper business because it never occurred to him that the architect of his misery was sitting on his head this whole time with a sadistic, shit-eating smirk?

Hey, if that thing doesn’t have you up to your spuds in DM’s, then I don’t know what will, I guess.

Listen, I’m not trying to be a mean old man here. I’m just trying to knock some sense upside your heads so you can do better in life and quit making such dicks of yourselves. Because somebody should have pointed it out by now.

So, let me give you some abrupt but constructive criticism that will hopefully pay dividends in your life and improve this depressing situation of yours before the “Fresh N’ Fit” podcast has a chance to take a shit in your brain.

Just look up for a second. OK, do you see those people pointing at their heads as if to indicate that something requires immediate attention in that general direction?

Yeah, you’re going to need to jettison that shitty hat, like yesterday.

Look, I’m no international pantsman myself, but I would have thought you could just put all that weeb shit in a drawer and maybe stop dressing like a nincompoop. You’re wearing a hat made to look like a fuckin’ frog, for God’s sake. It even has a smiley face on it. Dude. Really? Even the hat itself is getting in on the action. It may have even been an intentional design feature and a practical joke on the part of the designer to troll anyone lame enough to buy it. Like a honey pot, for fuckwits.

Unless I’m more out of step with youth culture than I thought, or you’re trying to get in with an obscure subculture with some sort of weird jester fetish, then how the hell did you think that would turn out? Geez Louise. 🤦‍♂️

The only rational explanation I can think of for why you would even appear in public with that odious fucking thing on your head is that maybe your nan bought it for you, wanted you to wear it in the doco, and you didn’t have the balls to break the old trout’s heart by refusing.

And that God-awful room of yours. That’s your idea of a bachelor pad? Who in their right mind would want to get busy in a room like that with all of that goofy crap everywhere? Nobody on God’s green earth wants to get jiggy with it while a cluster of Pokémon whack off in the corner. I’ve seen crack houses less depressing.

There were a million steps you could have taken at any point before shit got that dark. What am I missing here? If you were that desperate to better your situation, you had plenty of options still at your disposal. Like looking in the mirror and turning your eyes due north to that lime-green anti-fertility demon on your head.

You’re no one’s definition of a “stud,” but you don’t exactly look like a baboon’s arse, either. You appear to have all of your teeth, and you’re not covered in boils and pustules. If your breath smells like a wildebeest’s ringpiece, that wasn’t disclosed in the interview. Nor was it disclosed whether or not you’ve made any more of an effort to endear yourself to the opposite sex than the utterly dismal one implied by your appearance and surroundings.

Even if you’re awkward, surely there’s a community of chicks who are into that thing, or who, at the very least, don’t give that much of a shit, or who are awkward themselves (I saw one in the doco). If you just initiated step one and got your shit together, for all you know you could be “Space Mountain” in a few years. But when you’re even getting your balls busted by your own hat, it’s just you and the sock till doomsday unless you pull finger and do something. Shit; anything.

So, I am fucked if I know how you went from self-inflicted isolation and resentment all the way to felonious ideations that damn quick? All you had to do was take off your hat. And the shitty jacket too.

There’s no way you can blame awkwardness here. There’s no way that any woman is going to even speak to you long enough to confirm or deny what her objection is when she’s running like the clappers from that thing on your head.

They don’t need to confirm anything. It’s the hat, MF’er, the hat. It hates you. Ditch that thing, pronto.

Rebel Without A Girlfriend.

I’m not suggesting that you have to stop liking or watching that crap; not at all. Do you. Just don’t do it in front of people, that’s all. How hard is it to just keep your mouth shut about how “dank” Naruto is until the coast is clear?

Then, if you were to find a partner, wait until the relationship progresses before you lay that one on them, and, by that point, they’ll probably let it slide unless they’re extremely shallow. You’re not technically lying. People don’t reveal all of themselves in the early stages of dating. They have things in their lives they would rather not introduce on the first date that would give you the absolute shits.

The mother-in-law, for instance.

It’s called compromise, something we all have to do. No one’s exempt, so you’re just going to have to get used to it.

Some of you, since life has yet to purge the idealism from you, may respond to such a suggestion with the following:

Fine. It’s your life, dickhead. Choose self-expression if that’s what’s important to you. But don’t give us that bullshit about “you weren’t given a choice.” You can’t seriously have the balls to claim it’s a conspiracy and the choice is unfairly withheld from you by some third party, for the element of choice in choosing self-expression renders the word “involuntary” completely moot. You chose celibacy over compromise. Which, in case you didn’t notice, was a choice.

Ipso facto, you’re not an incel.

If you do decide to do everything necessary to improve your situation and it fails, only then can you call yourself one (although, why in the blue hell you would want to do so is beyond me).

This all reminds me of that episode of The Simpsons where Homer got his hand stuck in a vending machine when trying to grab a soda through that slot, which turned into a massive scene, and they had to call the fire brigade before it turned out that all he had to do was just let go of the fuckin’ can of soda.

Nothing Worth Having Ever Comes Easy (Except Here).

Suppose, for the sake of argument, these people you (and everyone else) hate who pose for “The Gram” at the top of the Burj Khalifa were secretly die-hard Englebert Humperdink fans. And they would be forever fuckless if anyone found out. 

Would they, as fans, stand on business and consequently be consigned to the same fate as you? Fuck no. They would boot Englebert’s arse right off the Burj Khalifa if he started nerding out and embarrassing them in front of the chicks. And that is why they’re in the position they’re in.

Don’t be naive. No one gives a shit if you’re being true to yourself. You’re not William Wallace. Authenticity is dead anyway. Might as well get a piece.

This issue of celibacy seems to dominate your lives to the point where it is damaging the shit out of you psychologically. Still, it’s clearly not as important to you as all this lame shit you’re into and the convenience of being a slob. So why do you make of yourselves such menaces to society over this bone of contention that, at the end of the day, seems to only amount to your second, third, or even fourth-biggest priority in life?

Final Thoughts.

It goes without saying that one who describes themselves, whether rightly or wrongly, as a so-called “incel” will still have an uphill battle, even after commencing the long overdue clean-up operation.

Tinder is probably not going to pan out for you when you’re competing on an app with better-looking people and their meticulously curated presentation in a saturated dating market. However, Tinder and the internet, in general, are not necessarily representations of society at large. Back in my day, we would meet people in person, through mutual friends and social gatherings, who, as a result, would be more congenial. Maybe you just don’t know where to look.

The world is full of many people, and the microcosm in which you exist does not represent the state of things elsewhere. If you’re consistently rejected where you currently are, go somewhere else. Take a trip. Find out if there are indeed greener pastures elsewhere and people to whom you have some form of appeal. Expand your horizons. You can come across drastically different people from place to place.

But if you’re not going to get your heads out of your arses and do what’s expected of you, it won’t matter where you go. No one of any nationality, language, creed, colour, or religion wants to date someone unironically wearing a hat designed to resemble a frog with a fuckin’ smiley face on it, unless they’re at a frat party.

If you seek a partner based solely on looks, then it follows that you will encounter a preponderance of people who, themselves, only give a shit about looks. If they think they’re hot shit, then no one will be good enough for them, least of all the likes of you. And taking the position that everyone is like that is just a lazy coping mechanism.

It’s easier to believe that everyone else is to blame rather than acknowledge the intimidating workload you have before you. “All women are evil, and the system is rigged against me” is a cop-out. You’re still young, a lot of you; you have plenty of time to work on yourselves and turn your shit around. It’s completely normal to be in your twenties and far from the best version of yourself. Some people will be ahead, and some behind, as in all facets of life. That’s par for the course. It’s society’s opinion that it’s a problem requiring immediate attention. Well, society doesn’t know what the fuck it’s talking about.

What’s being denied to you is bacchanalian hedonism that was never in your best interests to begin with and clearly isn’t meant to be. I don’t think you’re supposed to be out there screwing as many people as humanly possible and winding up with herpes, chlamydia, and, most importantly, unplanned parenthood in the process. The individual is responsible for their own sex life, and any interference from the general public, especially by implementing minimum targets, is clearly idiotic, a recipe for disaster, and as much an interference with sexual autonomy as being lectured on abstinence.

Peer pressure is the problem here. You’ll inevitably wind up resentful and miserable when people who clearly don’t have your best interests at heart require you to live like Dan Bilzerian or else be excommunicated.

We should have known society was out to screw us all when it told us to go out and screw society. We might as well be telling each other to shoot heroin.

I am, of course, referring to the social paradigm, which states that a policy of “the more the merrier” is the cornerstone of a healthy and functional human. Again, your role models for what’s “healthy” and “functional” are people who, on the balance of probabilities, probably have gonorrhea and equipment that no longer functions.

Since when did listening to these people, who quite clearly don’t give a shit about you, ever get you anywhere worth a damn? What does your sex life, of all things, have to do with your objective value to the planet? I don’t understand why we assign such importance to something so arbitrary, pointless, and stupid. Not to mention completely vapid and superficial. You’re wasting your potential by investing all your energy into something that means fuck-all in the grand scheme of things. I can’t remember ever seeing one of these “Chads” win the Nobel Peace Prize.

As for the rest of society, if we’re serious about solving this problem of radicalized incels, I would suggest that maybe we stop fomenting all of the discontent in the first place by changing our messaging and recognising our role in the problem.

Since we don’t currently live in a world in which everyone is chiselled and charming, enforcing such unrealistic standards so rigidly, especially on young people, is only going to manufacture hordes of extremely dissatisfied and alienated individuals who are set up to fail from the beginning. How the hell did you think they were gonna turn out? They don’t need to change their image as much as we need to change our values.

And, truth be told, the alpha bros who push the shit out of this narrative more than anyone are every bit as lame as the incels. They’re just two polar extremes on the insecurity spectrum. The only thing sadder than chronically online elf-lords are thong-sporting dickheads who reckon they’re Vikings.

Regardless, we all have a league to which we belong; that’s normal and far from the miscarriage of justice claimed by the pseudo-incel.

What I want to know is how realistic your expectations are. Is it the entire population that’s rejecting you, or, to paraphrase Desperado, do you only want the ones that you can’t get?

The song, not the movie.

Because if it turns out that this whole time, you’re just salty because you’re being pepper sprayed by Insta models while voluntarily looking like a slapped arse, then I don’t know what to tell you, other than:

Now get to work and shave your damn neck already.

Once again, G. Billington Evans is a satirical writer, visual artist, and owner of THEARTOFGEVANS.COM.