Dear Whoever You Are: 23 April – 4 May 2018

24 April: Incel Rebellion

The freshly minted terror tactic of deliberately bumping up onto sidewalks and plowing through crowds of people is as banally ingenious as it is truly terrorizing. With each fresh copycat attack, sidewalk strollers the world over are getting ever more antsy whenever a car is spotted accelerating for no apparent reason. So it was last week when the method was again deployed to murder 10 people on a busy street in Toronto. As the news broke, we all instantly assumed this was another “Allahu Akbar” shouting ISIS devotee. Apparently not. As it turns out, the perpetrator, Alek Minassian, was just a sad and lonely young man profoundly aggrieved about his chronic inability to get laid.

Radicalized through sketchy subreddit online chat forums, like most terrorists, Minassian is an “Incel” devotee. Me neither, until now. Incel stands for “involuntarily celibate”, a so-called movement that would be more aptly named “Sefa” for “sexual failure”. It is an online community of seriously douchey men who obsess about “Chads”, males who are sexually successful solely by virtue of their God-given good looks and “Stacys”, the sexy sluts who fuck them. Incels have convinced themselves that the Stacys they covet are eternally unattainable. Why? Because Stacys will never have a flicker of sexual desire for genetically disadvantaged beta males such as themselves. That’s correct. In a staggering testament to loserishness, not to mention bald laziness, Incels have zero motivation to embark on a diet of personality self-improvement because they are possessed by the psychotic belief that bimbo Stacys will only ever be turned on by Chads with diamond-cut bodies and chiseled features. Accordingly, they are sexually doomed by genetic predetermination.

Sure, most of them are harmless self-pitying nobodies, babyishly resigned to a wholly manufactured sense of helplessness, who roam the edges of the Internet for likeminded company. However, a splinter group of the more unhinged Incels have gone so far as to liken their “movement” to Marxism, they being akin to the downtrodden proletariat and Chads to the bourgeoisie. This is why, with violent revolution on his blistered mind, Minassian posted on Facebook his allegiance to the “Incel Rebellion”*, aka the “Beta Uprising”, shortly before his deadly rampage. Curiously, none of the bitterness and rage is directed at the Chads, presumably because they too have no control over the genetic royal flush they were dealt at birth. No, in order to upend the unfair and unjust sexual status quo it is the bubble-headed Stacys, who choose to be sexual elitists, who must be eliminated. It is no coincidence that most of Minassian’s victims were women. He was aiming for them.

The “Incel Rebellion” is nothing short of a declaration of war on women. There is no political or religious basis to it. It is empty hatred. Incels are so psychotically disengaged from reality, they haven’t even taken the time to look around and observe that most men are just as much on the “losing end” of the genetic lottery they rail against as themselves. To underscore the point, here is a picture of Minassian:

Through the prism of the Marxist paradigm, the proletariat ferment understandable resentment because the minority bourgeoisie actually do, in fact, control the majority of the wealth. However, it is deluded fantasy for Incels to complain that the minority Chads have cornered the sexual market on the majority of the Stacys. Even if that were true, if the Stacys are the worthless conniving bitches they are made out to be, why would the Incels even want them? Presumably, only for sexual gratification. Because that is impossible, the only solution is to kill them. The vertiginous magnitude of the misogyny is breathtaking.

This is why some significant percentage of me wishes Minassian had been shot dead by the arresting Toronto police officer rather than being taken into custody peacefully as he was. After all, undoubtedly suddenly aware of his moral insolvency and the enormity of the brainless crime he had just committed, he pleaded with the officer to kill him before finally surrendering.

As you like and good riddance, I say.

Crush this pathetic rebellion.

Preferably by running it over…

*Inspired by a warped manifesto penned by Elliot Rodger, the “Supreme Gentleman”, prior to his 2014 killing spree in Isla Vista, California:


25-30 April: Vive la Belgique!

I was in Belgium, Brussels and Bruges specifically, for a few days this past weekend. I know, great big YAWN, right? Wrong! I’m at quite a loss as to why this lovely little country gets the snooty cold shoulder from its larger neighbors. The French, in particular, consistently make Belgians the butt of their consistently unfunny jokes. Here are just a few reasons why Belgium is cooler than France:

Beer: There is a staggering variety of top quality beer in Belgium. When we took a boat tour of the Bruges canals (put it on your bucket list!) our guide identified one of the many pointy turreted medieval buildings as a beer museum that houses over 1,200 beers all of which are available for consumption. I could happily spend a month in that place alone. Here in France, you have a choice between Kronenbourg 1664 (which makes Bud Light seem like a rich flavor orgasm) and regular Kronenberg (which makes Kronenbourg 1664 seem like a rich flavor orgasm). Both will cost you approximately 1664.00€ for a 25 cl glass (a measly half pint) in an average Parisian brasserie. And that is only in the unlikely event one of the army of sneering waiters, loafing around smoking and chatting haughtily with one another, ever bothers to muster the energy to come over and serve you. In Belgium, you can order a 75 cl glass (that’s a whopping pint and a half, gentlemen!) for about 5-6€. It will be served to you quickly and cheerfully and you won’t need to order another one because there’s so much alcohol in it you’ll wake up the next morning in someone else’s underpants still burbling drunk.

“French” fries: As diabolically unhealthy as they are delicious, proper “frites” aren’t French at all. They are a singularly Belgian invention dating back to the 17th Century. Today, within a stone’s throw from most Belgian streets, you can buy a large cone of fresh deep-fried frites for a few euros that will come swimming in mayonnaise, ketchup or any other poutine-like sauce your imagination can concoct. Included in the price, ambulances are on standby to rush you to hospital in case your heart joyfully explodes. Here in France, if you order a “Steak-frites”, one square inch of your plate will be occupied by bleeding beef and the rest will be piled high with fingers of soggy ash-grey material that may or may not have once been potatoes. When you drop to the floor in convulsions over the 1664.00€ bill your sneering waiter has finally gotten around to flinging on your table before vanishing for another grumpy smoke break, you will die there.

Cafés: Even though their origin is neither French nor Belgian (Vienna laying claim to that honor), there are real cafés in Belgium. Contrary to popular belief, the French café crowded with hip, beret-wearing artists is a total myth. I have come across one or two in Paris after living here for over a year. But heaven help you if you want a latte. The best you’ll get here is a cappuccino that is 90% foam and 10% lukewarm espresso. After that, you could try a café crème which is 90% frothy cream and 10% lukewarm espresso. No, if you want an honest and decent hot latte, your only choice in France is, believe it or not, Starbucks. It too will cost you 1664.00€ but at least, while you vainly try and stave off the inevitable brain aneurysm over the price, you can hang out with Americans and/or their MacBook Airs. In Belgium, there are reasonably priced real cafés dotting your Google Maps app everywhere. There is one in Bruges that has about 20 different varieties of latte! When I suggested to my coffee-crazed wife that I could fuck off to the beer museum while she stayed there, she declined on the grounds we would never see each other again.

Chocolate: Personally, I could care less about chocolate but I’m aware that most people do, some to the point of religious fervor. While chocolate shops are ubiquitous throughout France, guess what they are full of? Correct. Belgian chocolate (admittedly with some top-drawer Swiss and German varieties thrown into the mix). In any case, strolling through the streets of Belgium, you are often struck by the sensation you are literally inhaling chocolatey sugar with every breath. This perpetually activates the pleasure center in the brain’s frontal cortex, releasing wave after wave of dopamine, and is one of the many explanations for why Belgians are so happy.

I figure, just on these food and drink grounds alone, I could easily rest my case. But there are other things too. For example, Brussels is a prettier city than Paris. There, I said it. Sure, it’s not as majestic and well-maintained but it’s buildings, un-levelled by war like those in Paris, are more varied, colorful, and interesting (watch out for all the ones adorned with delightful murals in homage to The Adventures of Tintin by the great Belgian cartoonist Hergé!) Its neighborhoods have a diversity and grittiness that remind me very much of my beloved Montreal. It’s multilingual and multinational, the headquarters of NATO, the de facto capital of the EU*, got real parks (i.e. where trees and plants are allowed to grow where they want) and pissing statues. Pissing statues! What more could you ask for?!

Oh, and this romantic nonsense about La Résistance during World War II? Little Belgium, with only a fraction of the population, had a significantly bigger and more effective resistance movement than France.

To French readers, if any: before you send in your death threats, let me return to food and drink once more. What I adore about living in Paris is the eating and drinking culture here. A recent study shows that the work-shy French spend far more of their time and money engaged in eating and drinking than any other country in the world (yes, that includes glutinous Italy). Everywhere, all the time, the bars, bistros, brasseries, restaurants, etc., are packed and lively and nowhere in the world has a cooler, more extensive terrasse culture where you can sit year-round courtesy of heat lamps that are installed in winter. Personally, little in life makes me happier than sitting outside on a terrasse bending the elbow and people watching. Which makes it all the more mysterious that another recent study shows that the French are the most miserable, unhappy people in Europe (yes, that includes the gloomy old former Soviet republics).

Go figure.

Or just go to Belgium if you want happiness – it’s only an hour’s train ride from Paris!

* Which is not a fucking “European Project” as insufferable, condescending Eurosceptics dub it. Projects are finite endeavors such as those handed out in 8th grade science class. Come see the EU Parliament and all the massive EU institutions in Brussels and tell me it’s a “project”. Anyway, this will be a rant for another day…


© Andrew Bowers and Requiem for the Damned (Dear Whoever You Are: 23 April – 4 May 2018), 2018. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Andrew Alexander Bowers and Requiem for the Damned, 2018 with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


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