Says No to Self-Awareness

This morning at The Shitehawk Sentinel, the phone was ringing, the ouija board was trembling, and our tarot reader nearly choked on her incense: at least four local fascists have publicly identified with the “wannabe politician” from our latest gossip scandal.

We didn’t even name the fascist in our article, but apparently the shoe fits so tight they could hear it squeak.

Honestly lads, you’re so desperate for external validation it’s like watching toddlers fight over a mirror. You need other people to tell you who you are, because if you ever looked too long, you might realise it’s not migrants who scare you, it’s your own reflection.

Imagine if our Pakistani reporter, Che Guevarab, behaved the way you do.

Every time one of you calls migrants “rapists”, he’d film himself on a cliff edge at sunrise, sobbing into the wind about being misunderstood.

Every time you call migrants “parasites”, he’d go live from the 174 bus, crying softly into a bag of chips.

Every time you call migrants “misogynists”, he’d start an emotional vlog titled “I Am Not The Problem I don't stalk women”.

You lads are the most insecure pricks this damp little island has ever carried.

We wrote one article pointing out that gossip (the very fuel of your Facebook existence) is toxic, unfair, and cruel. And what happens? Four self-absorbed fascist eejits immediately burst into tears online because someone might possibly be talking about them.

For the record: all the Carricks of Ireland have land for sale. That’s not news, that’s your economic policy. You sold your ancestors’ fields to vulture funds for the price of a few pints and a mouldy mica-ridden bungalow. You’re getting absolutely reamed by capitalism, tantric-style, and still you point the finger at migrants.

You cowardly, racist, pub-bred patriots, defending the same system that’s skinning you alive.

And while you’re too busy crying about imaginary conspiracies, here’s a number for you: over half (52%) of people aged 18 to 24 in Ireland have experienced sexual violence.

Not from migrants. Not from refugees. From the locals you defend, the friends you protect, the “good men” you tell victims to stay quiet about.

You’re not fighting for anyone. You’re fighting for the fragile image of your miserable, beer-soaked self.

So dry your tears, lads. Nobody’s buying your victim act.