„Milo Fuckopoulos ist die ideologische Analogie zu Kim Kardashians Arsch“

Gepostet vor 9 Monaten, 2 Tagen in #Politics #DonaldTrump #Feminism #Nazis #NeoReaction #Trolls

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miloooGroßartiger Text von Laurie Penny, die einen Abend mit auf Milo Fuckopoulos „Wake Up!“-Party während des Parteitags der Republikaner in den USA verbrachte, „the most fabulous shindig at the end of America“: I’m With The Banned – What my evening with Milo told me about Twitter’s biggest troll, the death of reason, and the crucible of A-list con-men that is the Republican National Convention. Ein Text über Blender, No-Fucks-Giving Rightwing-Trolls und True Believers. Das Teil ist voller Gold, hier ein paar Stellen daraus, die ich mir auf Medium markiert hatte:

Team Milo consists of his tour manager, Tim, one Breitbart writer, one pretty young man with a neat beard and a ‘Dangerous Faggot’ band T-shirt, and Milo’s personal trainer and driver, who is the sort of American jock I had considered largely fictional. The gang kills time by asking if I’d rather shag Boris Johnson or Nigel Farage. I accuse them of psychic violence, which is a joke, although I also mean it.

Just as we set off, news breaks that Milo has been suspended from Twitter. A frenzy of jubilant activity: this is a huge win for Milo and his brand. He’ll be trending worldwide within the hour. […]

Milo puts on a bulletproof jacket before his big entrance. He does this “because it’s funny,” although he worries that it may be insufficiently flattering. “I’m going to send it to my guy at Louis Vuitton.” It’s all an act. A choreographed performance by a career sociopath who will claim any cause to further his legend. Milo Yiannopoulos is the ideological analogue of Kim Kardashian’s rear end. Trickster breaks the internet. […]

And there is Daryush Valizadeh, also known as Roosh V […] Roosh is a true believer, and that puts him at a disadvantage.
Roosh means what he’s saying, but he’s still aware that he’s playing a game — the same game almost everyone in this crucible of A-list internet con-men is playing. It’s the game of turning raw rage into political currency, the unscrupulous whorebaggery of the troll gone pro. These are people who cashed in their limited principles to cheat at poker. Milo is the best player here. Like Trump, and like a lot of successful politicians in this postmodern circus, they channel their own narcissism to give voice to the wordless, formless rage of the people neoliberalism left behind. They offer new win conditions for the humiliated masses. Welcome to the scream room. There’s a cheese plate. […]

I have never understood this game. That’s why I’ve always refused to debate Milo in public. Not because I’m frightened I’ll lose, but because I know I’ll lose, because I care and he doesn’t—and that means he’s already won. Help and forgive me, but I actually believe human beings can be better than this. […]

Geert Wilders is also a true believer. […] Wilders is a less polished, wholly charmless rendition of the neo-right demagogue character creation sheet that gave us Donald Trump and Boris Johnson. These people do not have personalities, they have haircuts. Ugly ones. And we have fallen through the looking glass in which they see themselves reflected as small gods. […]

Then it’s Milo’s turn.

His speech is cabaret from start to finish. […] He tells a racist joke. The crowd goes wild. […]

The crowd of excitable young and young-ish people gathered to hear him pontificate believe what he’s saying, even if he doesn’t. Which he doesn’t. And it doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t mean it. It doesn’t matter that he’s secretly quite a sweet, vulnerable person who is gracious to those he considers friends. It doesn’t matter that somewhere in the rhinestone-rimmed hamster wheel of his mind is a conscience. It doesn’t matter because the harm he does is real. […]

[These People] ventriloquise the fear of millions into a scream of fire in the crowded theatre of modernity where all the doors are locked, and then they watch the stampede, and they smile for the cameras.

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