Making a killing, Playing the woke card; part 1
I'm in a pickle financially. But I've a cunning masterplan to get out of it, by exploiting the 'woketards' ideology.
Last year, I published a wild, satirical, audacious, and sharply written piece of gonzo storytelling — somewhere between A Modest Proposal, Fear and Loathing in Folkestone, and Animal Farm on Fentanyl.
I’ve sharpened and chiseled away at the bulk of that compelling piece of mockery. Discarding the excess fat—leaving behind the real muscle of the story—which delivers a shocking blow upon the hideous face of our absurd consensus-culture.
Here is the revised part 1, also re-titled with a more be-fitting name. Part 2 will follow soon after.
Part 1:
I’m not woke. But I’m broke.
That’s why, right now, I’m being flexible with my so-called principles. I’ve shelved my ethics for the time being. Gender theory? I accept it. Every last maddening drop. Not because I believe it, but because I’m broke, and broke men make strange decisions.
Gender Dysphoria? Straight out the DSM. Total nonsense. A fabricated pseudo-science spouted by psychiatric wizards with six-figure salaries and zero grip on reality. They vomit these terms into the DSM, then cite the DSM to justify their nonsense. Circular logic sold as science. Batshit masquerading as medicine.
But fine. I’ll dance to their tune if it means I can make a few quid. If the world says 2+2 equals 3.14, then I’ll say it equals £££. If round pegs now fit square holes, I’ll push 'em in myself. Let them have their circus — I’ll sell popcorn at the gate.
In this upside-down, inside-out world, where barking cats and purring dogs declare their pronouns before breakfast, I’ll wear the crown. Not a King in the old sense, more like the Queen of Hearts, true to the rainbow zeitgeist. Because now we’re all living in Wonderland, whether we admit it or not.
In this fog of inverted truths and third-eye-blind masses, I see opportunity. Not idealism. Profit.
I’ve got a plan. A proper one. You might call it desperate. I call it genius.
It all started last September. A warm Indian summer glowed over the British coast. I was wandering Folkestone’s harbour one sultry evening, soaking in the dying sunlight, the sea air, and the stench of drying fish. The sun flickered on teal-stained waters. The town murmured in the background.
That’s when I met Ralph.
Telepathically.
Yep.
A voice shot into my head from nowhere. I figured it was just one of those weird psychic jolts I sometimes get. I was wrong.
“Beautiful evening, mate. You heading for a swim?” said the voice.
Not looking up, I replied, “Truly splendid evening. Let this weather march into autumn. I’ll dip in soon.”
Then I turned. The voice came from a cheetah.
Long, slinky, elegant. Gleaming golden coat. Piercing eyes. A feline grin full of razor blades.
“You’re a cheetah,” I said. “And you talk?”
“Yes, telepathically. And yes, I’m wild. As wild as one can be on this prison planet.”
I blinked. “Can you do this with everyone?”
“I can. But I choose not to. Only those I like.”
“Bloody hell. What’s your name?”
“Ralph.”
“Ralph? Really?”
“Ralph.”
“Fine. I’m Peter.”
“Nice to meet you, Peter. My fur’s boiling. Shall we hit the sea?”
“Definitely. But how the fuck did you end up here?”
“Language, Peter. I came from the Serengeti. Hitched a ride on a rubber dinghy with a group of African migrants.”
“A cheetah... on a dinghy?”
“Well, technically a luxury cruise liner. But the PR team calls it a dinghy for media appeal. Helps stir up sympathy. George Soros funded it all. We landed at Dover last week. I’ve been roaming since. England’s greener. I like it.”
“George Soros, eh? Makes sense. Nice of him to ship you over.”
We dove into the warm sea. Swam until the sun collapsed over the edge of the world.
Later, as we ate fish and chips by the harbour, Ralph told me he was stuck in a contract.
“They want me to work for a gang in London. Fentanyl distribution. Apparently there’s a gap in the market.”
“Fentanyl?! Are you mental? That stuff’s killing half of America. They want you pushing it?”
“Yes. And to intimidate people where necessary. Businesses. Rival dealers.”
“You’re in deep, mate.”
“I know. That’s why I want out.”
He told me about the company. How they sponsored his trip. Sorted his benefits. Opened his bank account. How he signed before he understood what he was getting into. He had £5,000 in the bank and state -benefits rolling in, but he was shackled.
So I let him crash at mine.
That was nearly a year ago.
Since then, Ralph and I have become tight. Deep conversations, mad walks through the countryside. He runs like a missile. He swims daily in the Medway. And he eats like a sultan.
I’m cooking steaks, lamb, pork belly, duck, venison. He eats 10lbs of meat a day, easy. Plus grains. We’re talking £250 a week in food. He covers that with benefits. The real financial drain is the legal battle.
He’s being sued for breaching his contract – for not selling fentanyl.
So I hired a barrister. A beast in court. Worth every penny. But the fees are crushing me.
Then came the miracle.
A few weeks ago, Ralph was watching the closing ceremony of the Paris Olympics. He was howling with laughter watching the sprinters.
“I’d skin them in a race,” he boasted.
That’s when the lightbulb exploded.
“Ralph, that’s it!” I shouted.
“What?”
“We make you an athlete. Compete in World Athletics. You identify as a human male. They can’t deny you.”
“You serious?”
“Dead serious. You identify as human, male. Boom. Any pushback, we shout transphobia. They’ve already got geezers in frocks competing in women’s judo. We just take the logic one step further.”
“Bloody hell. It could work.”
“It will work. You’re African, you’re fast, you’re identifying as a bloke. They’ll lap it up. We say it’s about transhuman animal empowerment. You’ll be the poster boy for the New Age Athletics.”
“You’re a mad bastard.”
“Mad genius. You’ll make a killing in endorsements. Nike, Adidas, PETA. This will get you out of that gang contract, win your case, and make us both rich.”
So that’s the play.
Step one: get Ralph registered with World Athletics.
Step two: unleash him at Crystal Palace.
Step three: collect money, kill woke absurdity with its own logic.
Stay tuned. I’ll keep you posted.
Right now, it’s boiled rice and mince. But soon it’ll be lobster, wagyu, and truffles.
“Ralph! Dinner! Soon it’s foie gras and caviar, mate! Lashings of sauce, Ralph. Lashings of sauce.”