Ah, gather 'round, ye merry HandsomeYouth, for a tale of hubris and ennui, of one Felipe the Truth, a man of dubious origin, on a dubious quest.
With a heart as dark as a local moonless night and chaos in his soul, he claims a fight 'gainst the bad jews, to make the broken whole.
With whispers of total victory, of change just o'er the horizon, he spins his yarns of revolution, where truth is but a pension.
The jews will be no more when Felipe is through!
Now, Felipe, our valiant Fuhrer of the meritocratic type, speaks not of deeds or valor, but of jews to yell at. With promises of upheaval, of worlds to overturn, he leads his digital congregation, from whom ad dollars he'll earn, and an endless stream of donos, and merch sales.
"The awakening cometh!" he proclaims, with fervor unrequited, yet change, that fickle mistress, by his hand is never ignited.
People demand the pleasant lie, to the painful truth, you will know.
For in this as above, so below, realm of evil all the way up and down, where certainty is a joke, Felipe and his followers find in coping a quest.
They shun the labor of the morrow, the toil of the day, for in Felipe's circus, it's easier to say,
"The jew is bad, the cause is just and true," forgetting that real change requires much more than a view, and a few words or phrases screamed at strangers.
Seven years hath Felipe toiled, in his quest for viral fame, yet scarce a thousand souls hath he moved to click on his name. When on the streets, though abundantly rare, he only gathers 8 - 12.
Will he change his course, adopt a strategy anew? Nay, for lower still the bar of education he drew. Now, 'tis not the message, but the spectacle that counts, as he woos new followers, his revenue mounts.
Look there fellow White people, the Fuhrer is speaking of his torn ass hole again.
Surely this is the man to come, long prophecies come true.
Felipe, the happy merchant of revolution, peddles wares of rebellion light, for every t-shirt sold, a promise of a fight.
Yet 'tis not the fabric of change he weaves, but dreams thin and frail, for in this prison planet of cosmic horror, his fervor is but a new coupon code.
And so the virus spreads, this illusion of movement and might, as countless claim to banish jew, to bring their wrongs to right.
Yet history tells us, in kvetching tones so grave, that change from high or wrought by labor and toil is the path of the victor.
But our Felipe, with merchandise to sell, bids you forget such tales,
"The jew is nigh!" he cries, "And in our merch, victory sells!"
So, dear Handsomest of Youth, as you navigate this fable so grand, remember that true change is wrought not in slogans, but in the work of your hand.
For in the end, Felipe's quest, though degenerate and chaotic it seems, is but just anoda jewish grift, a merchant's dream, woven in the weebs of memes.
