An Evening with Alex Jones

My Nightmare in Red, Whiteness, & Blue

This is a composition drawn from my marginal notes taken while watching Infowars for approximately 6 hours last night. Any quotations are rough approximations. All descriptions are hazy impressions. I was made aware of this wonderful happening by Rani Baker, so if you think this was good content, please consider donating to her Patreon.

The bellicose spectacle of Alex Jones having a meltdown: that’s what originally drew me into this. On election night, unlike normal or even marginally healthy people, I subjected myself to almost 6 hours of Alex Jones’ nightmarish conspiracy jamboree. I was hoping to smugly record a meltdown like the one Karl Rove underwent in 2012, filtered through the unique lens of Alex Jones and his conspiracy word salad. At the risk of alienating some of our readers, I have always respected Alex Jones for his ability to draw a crowd. He inhabits a reality all his own, moving with amphetamine-fueled frenzy from outright conspiracy theories to moments of disturbingly lucid clarity.

For example, watch his debate with Piers Morgan. Jones effortlessly darts from linking the possibility of gun confiscation to Stalin, Mao, and Hitler, while accusing Piers Morgan of being a servant of the New World Order and, relatedly, a pimp for big pharma. All of this delivered rapid-fire with his characteristic breathless bluster and a twisted meta-awareness of the irony of a smarmy weasel like Piers Morgan interviewing him, inviting his bland British counterpart to love America and shoot guns with him and challenging him to a boxing match. Morgan, expecting a civilized debate, lacks any ability to respond other than by demanding one, which Jones is incapable and unwilling to deliver.

However, while it might be wonderful to watch his impressive capacity for simultaneously expressing rage, tear-filled optimism and screams, Alex Jones is still nothing more than a deranged fanatic with delusions of grandeur. He has a conspiracy-fueled worldview that is marked by a sort of fatalism and apocalyptic message—for example, his rant against Justin Bieber. Obviously, I could expect something far greater than cheap suits offering empty platitudes as though election returns are part of some great game of imperialism. I, personally, was hoping for a feast of surreal accusations against a nebulous globalist elite, with a tasty side helping of his trademark rants. Instead, I watched a grumbling funeral for the Trump presidency as a bastion of hope against the globalists transfigure itself into an ecstatic Roman victory parade—but with significantly more threats of retributive violence. These are sketches of my impressions while tuning in last night.

7:45 pm – Honestly, it’s hard to watch any Infowars programming without Alex Jones, because he brings such an inimitable intensity and madness to the proceedings. Unlike his mainstream news network appearances, no one is usually debating him. Rather, Alex works himself into a roided-out lather, his escalating volume and flailing fists occupying the stage while he plays connect-the-dots with a string of increasingly batshit conjectures, conspiracy theories, and outright delusions. Almost everyone else who guests or co-hosts with him is hilariously laconic by comparison, which leaves me feeling like time has been dipped in molasses. The mood in the Infowars newsroom is somber as I tune in during the middle of a defeated-sounding history lecture on the historic virtues of the GOP for women and minorities.

A bearded man (I believe he is Ron Stone, Republican operative and Trump insider, according to the program) is talking to another bearded man (nasal-voiced and thin) who is apparently some sort of lawyer named Lionel. There are many problems with Infowars production values, but one that sticks out is that no one thinks to repeatedly name other speakers, and apparently their production cannot handle naming people and putting their qualifications under the name, as is customary on most news networks. I check the program and perk up as I am promised several highlights:

Up-to-the-minute election developments, feature guests, and exclusive special reports. Republican operative and Trump insider Roger Stone joins us in-studio for the latest Trump news. We also welcome author and former Navy Seal Matt Bracken to break down ISIS jihadi threats against American voters. Then, former Congressman Ron Paul gives his take on the campaign and the future of the country, and trends forecaster Gerald Celente lays out his predictions for election night.

I do not get any of these highlights, barring the appearance of a man who I am fairly certain is Roger Stone.

Lionel and Roger are rhapsodizing about Trump’s power as an independent to take over a major party and fight against the mind control globalists of the two-party system. One of the two is baffled that people consider the existence of the New World Order a conspiracy. The other concurs. Tempering my expectations, this is languid programming with nary a scream in sight. I leave to smoke a cigarette. Upon my return, I am greeted by a woman I assume is an intern reading voting results off of the Drudge Report. By her tone and that of the other panelists, they believe the fix is in, and make small talk about various forms of voter fraud the Clintons have purchased. To keep their viewers riveted, this conversation is purely vocals, while the screen is dominated by a laptop checking the Drudge Report. I assume this is in case I cannot hear the intern(?) chortling over the numbers. While this raises the temperature in the room, it is still extremely dull television. Admittedly, as I lack a TV, this is the closest thing I have to premium election coverage. I convince myself this isn’t a waste of time, given the promise of a hard-hitting expose regarding ISIS and their dastardly plans to attack American voters, provided by a bona fide Navy SEAL.

7:55 pm – As an aside, the production values of Infowars are uniformly awkward. They are professional, yet simultaneously lack any pizazz; rather than having a gigantic map of the United States where they can pull up the percentage of the vote counted and the number of votes cast for each candidate, viewers are instead treated to a screen share of a computer monitor and whoever is operating it switching between tabs. This means that without any particularly focused anger, aside from a strong current of dislike for the current numbers and also Nate Silver, there is literally nothing to keep the viewer invested. The intern(?) ventures that she is excited that the people may rise up and overthrow tyranny. Yet it is unclear whether she means voters will turn out for Trump or that there will be an armed uprising. It is also clear that no one in the studio sees these as different things. However, the idea of an armed uprising against the government seems to be on the level of small talk in this particular office, and no one seems particularly interested in the idea.

In a noble attempt to spice things up, Lionel fumbles his way through asking Leanne (the intern?)* if (as a woman) she voted for Hillary Clinton or if (being a woman) she had thoughts on Clinton as a representative of women. This is obviously a stupid question, although no one acknowledges it. Leanne works at Infowars. After a chortle at the idea of voting for Clinton, Leanne and everyone else rhapsodize about the possibility of a woman president who has honor, integrity, and patriotism. This allows them to segue somewhat cleanly (considering their budget, everything runs remarkably smoothly) into a video of an older woman saying she is not excited “for Hillary to be the first woman president.” This phrasing is offered as proof of CNN’s complicity in Hillary rigging the election, and the response as a major blow against the globalists. Everyone is still unhappy about the numbers and very concerned with how Hillary will steal the election. Yet another bearded man** whose name I never catch is talking about vans full of illegal immigrants who are being brought to polling places to vote for Hillary Clinton. The inability of anyone to really hold the spotlight is somewhat grating at this point: this is the sort of talking point that Jones uses to catapult himself into a frenzy of increasingly implausible connections. Instead, to make sure everyone is clear that this doesn’t come from a place of racial animus, everyone makes awkward small talk about how legal immigrants hate illegal immigrants. Mercifully, this sheepish banter is interrupted by the sudden appearance of Alex Jones himself.

*I have no clue who Leanne is, or if she is, as I assumed, an intern. My assumption is based on her inability to fill significant amounts of dead air and tendency to not leave a pause between being directly asked a question and giving an answer (because Lionel is poor at phrasing his question, and whenever he pauses to rephrase, Leanne tries to venture an answer). This has an Abbott and Costello vibe, if they were both heavily into vitamin supplements (more on this later) and were very concerned about the globalist agenda.

** Notably, he looks like a dude who would sell you weed and also has very detailed thoughts about libertarianism.

8:42 pm – Alex Jones, who looks like he has been sleeping in his suit, hoarsely shouts about the election being a horse race. Sadly, he vanishes as quickly as he appears, issuing promises to return shortly. The Infowars election coverage shifts to North Carolina (Clinton is leading) and Florida (another Clinton lead). Everyone seems resigned to Clinton stealing the election, and there is a smattering of laughter at the numbers and more unfocused cross-talk about voting patterns and demographics in both states. Alex Jones returns to inform everyone that Infowars, Breitbart, and WorldNetDaily are under DDoS attack—so that they will not be able to report the truth about the election when Hillary steals it. Without any of his typical verbosity, Jones promises to return with updates. (I cannot recall any updates on this.) Sans Jones, everyone gamely tries to discuss welfare programs and how they foster dependence and are akin to the reservation system and its destructive effects on indigenous people. Everything about this feels uncomfortable, and without Jones as a rudder, everything sort of listlessly drifts along without any sense of urgency, crackling with the energy of a lukewarm bowl of oatmeal. This election coverage receives a shot in the arm as we are informed that Alex Jones will finally be joining us for real after a commercial break. While this would normally be an opportune time to smoke, it is almost impossible to tear oneself away from Infowars commercials.

Given the business model of Infowars, theoretically all of the programming is a commercial, as often entire episodes are devoted to nutritional supplements (almost all of them vegan for some unfathomable reason), developed by Infowars for Infowarriors. Additionally, some elements of what would be considered advertising are integrated into the reporting of Infowars. This is almost unnoticeable if you are used to watching the broadcasts, but most of the Alex Jones nutritional supplements are made in response to conspiracy theories espoused by Alex Jones. Alex Jones has an almost fanatical belief in these products, which he apparently uses—which makes his “snake-oil salesman moonlighting as a televangelist against the New World Order” schtick stick. This does not, however, prevent the presence of actual commercials on his broadcast, and they are surprisingly difficult to walk away from. Firstly, more production budget goes into the commercials for Alex Jones products than into the actual talk show. This is probably because he is funded by the sale of T-shirts, hats, survival rations, water filters, and a bewildering array of nutritional supplements. Therefore, he does his damnedest to provide his viewers with compelling visual charts, CGI, and bells and whistles which make his commercials seem like the feature presentation rather than a supplement to the broadcast. Secondly, in spite of the generally professional clip at which the show carries itself at, cutting to commercial always seems to be a nightmare. Alex himself is exceptionally bad at cutting to commercial, because he becomes completely lost in his own diatribes until someone firmly reminds him that they need to sell products to stay on the air.

Also, everyone on Infowars seems to be chugging supplements that Alex sells. I don’t mean just when everyone theatrically talks about a product as infotainment in the middle of a diatribe about the transhumanist agenda, I mean literally everyone seems to just chug the stuff. While I have no idea if they are using ersatz bottles or the actual non-FDA approved substances, the unflagging energy of everyone has me spending a lot of time fretting around 3am on whether or not I should buy a bottle of the toxic hell chemical that seems to fuel their endless screaming.

8:59 pm – While the commercials are a highlight (compared to the B-List squad holding down the fort, at least), I check election returns and, realizing that there is nothing for them to even talk about, decide to go smoke a cigarette. Returning, I come face to face with Alex Jones, showing me exactly why I signed up for this. Nothing can stop Alex Jones when he gets into his pontificating mode. Without exaggeration, I believe that Jones has survived multiple rage-induced coronaries by simply continuing to yell at his audience. Like a man possessed, in the literal sense, he reminds me of the churches speaking in tongues in my hometown—only he speaks English in the same rapid, uneven, jerky manner combined with the spasmodic movements I grew up around. When this twitchiness is married to his rapid-fire delivery of conspiracy word salad, served with the occasional bark and culminating in a screaming crescendo where it looks as though Jones is simply the vessel for some harrowing otherworldly intelligence, it makes for powerful radio and even better television. The whole thing is part megachurch and part Cronenberg.

Alex Jones, tonight, is on his game, completely dominating the empty studio. (My best guess is that everyone else left the room to chug energy supplements or avoid the raw physicality of his delivery.) He begins by working his standard globalist angle, arguing that his fight against the globalists requires immense strength, although he would be twenty times more powerful were he to join the globalist agenda. However, what really occupies him is women who voted for Hillary, because they did so on the basis of identity politics—and thus he believes them to be losers. Alex abruptly transitions into a series of MRA talking points: women grow up hating masculinity and marry themselves to robots (the state), which is why they become single older women, who will be dissolved in acid to make fertilizer for the elites, erasing their entire family legacy. Also for some reason they will be full of morphine and worship Satan.

The connection here is tenuous at best, by which I mean I do not think women glaring at Alex Jones at a polling booth naturally leads to any of these conclusions, including Jones’ cryptic closer that “you’re a beautiful loser; you were never meant to ascend to the stars.” Much of his rhetoric leaves me feeling a sense of confused dread, as Jones paints a world that is irrevocably fallen and apocalyptic, yet occasionally beset by miracles such as star ascension. This is in tune with the mood of glum resignation that Hillary will, barring a miracle, steal the election. Jones reaches his crescendo, and after the surreal and slow pregame show, this is a glass of fresh water in the desert of the real. At this point, however, my cat wanders into my neighbor’s apartment, so I have to make small talk about the election while retrieving her.**

** Mostly covering how pointless it feels to vote in an extremely blue state and our ambivalent feelings on marijuana legalization, which hurts small farmers in favor of industrialized grow labs.

9:41 pm – I return to witness my second verifiably true statement of the night, as a man who looks like a gremlin made out of vaseline, mannequin skin, and novelty eyebrows explains sentencing differences between powdered cocaine and crack. This is an example of Hillary’s racism, which is a focus of the Infowars crew. This seems like an extremely strange point for them to fixate on given the endless barrage of alt-right memes from their God Emperor, but it is one that echoes throughout the early stages of election coverage. One of the things that draws seemingly-rational people to Alex Jones is that he is fairly accurate in his invective against the increasing role of prison in public life. Like many of the things that Alex Jones says that temporarily touch the electrified 3rd rail of reality, these stances often rapidly segue into delirious proclamations of nefarious plots—in this case, how victory will be stolen from Trump [who should win by 5 points], and how the military is preparing for martial law when Hillary wins. The next 45 minutes add a stoned-looking man, who is laconic and soft spoken even outside the context of his blustering counterpart, and circles the drain of: Trump and his battle with the globalists, Hillary and her nefarious schemes for the globalists, the people and how they are waking up to the power of the globalists.

9:51 pm – Jones seems spent, in a sort of postcoital way, from his previous frenzy, and allows his co-hosts to carry the conversation. During this lull, there is discussion of Clinton: possibly the antichrist, whose substance is “a generalized delusion that means nothing” and beloved by globalists because she “represents failure and war”; the people: waking up to globalism, possibly going to win; and Hispanics: built for capitalism(?), hate abortion, believe in the nuclear family. Alex rouses himself to interject about the potency of his supplements and how they make it easier to “stay woke,” but fails to sustain himself and collapses into sleepily reading vote results off of the Drudge Report.

I realize that the monumental Hillary victory that prognosticators called is not materializing. The election certainly isn’t over, but Trump continues to look viable, and leads in the electoral college. I pop 1mg of Ativan.* I have no love for Hillary Clinton, but I feel like tonight may take a different tone than I was expecting. Back in the studio, discussion has moved to the globalist elites, and Jones is informing me that they “look at people and see disgusting biological machines.” I feel fuzzy and disoriented as I learn more about the globalists;** specifically that they are perceived as non-threatening despite the fact that they “run the world’s biggest slave camp.”

Speaking of the battle against globalists, Jones proudly announces that after the next commercial break he will be joined by anti-globalist, documentary filmmaker, and political prisoner Dinesh D’Souza. I perk up and ask our editor Johnny Islamabad to join me in watching, which he immediately and vehemently refuses. Undaunted and elated that this should be a highlight as the electoral ship of Donald Trump sinks and the studio becomes a scene of primal rage and anger, I reward myself with another cigarette.

*Can cause paranoid or suicidal ideation and impair memory, judgment, and coordination. Combining with other substances, particularly alcohol, can slow breathing and possibly lead to death.

**I honestly find this portion hard to follow because the globalists seem to be a sinister cabal that is both omnipresent and formless, exempting the continual ire directed at George Soros.

10:24 pm – Dinesh D’Souza seems to have perked Alex Jones up as much as the promise of him woke me up. He and Jones animatedly chat about how the government is a gigantic waste. D’Souza is Skyping in, and sits close to his camera, his face dominating the screen as he curls his lip in distaste like a dog made to sniff vinegar. He patronizingly explains to Alex that there are bad people in DC because no one in DC actually works, observing that the Department of Energy is not a power plant. I nod along, riding the sense of calm that comes from benzos, as Dinesh’s listless whine continually lists departments of government and how they don’t make the things they are tasked with regulating. I fantasize about tapping his nose with a rolled-up magazine as his face obscures the screen like a rotten sun spewing libertarian fantasies. Dinesh’s tremulous voice cascades over me as he drops his sickest burn of the evening: “the government does produce one thing—bullshit and tyranny!” D’Souza’s nightmarish visage twists and curls in front of my eyes as his revelations spark something inside Alex Jones, who begins a heated diatribe on the fact that DC is built on a swamp, both literally and figuratively, and Trump is the man to drain it. Jones never cranks his yelling up into the upper ranges, and eventually peters out, climaxing with the statement that his cosmopolitanism helps him realize that people in DC are just “pieces of crap.” He begins pitching D’Souza’s current film as something I should watch and thanking D’Souza for his time. I switch over to the electoral map and am puzzled at Clinton’s continuing failure to make an impact. Given that it is still early-ish for a full tally of anything, I watch the gremlin man* and Jones competitively fellating Julian Assange’s spirit for his brave disclosure of election-changing documents that blew the lid on Hillary.**

*I never got any sense of who he was, other than a former or current political fixer—he looked the part.

**In all fairness, I’m unqualified to verify this claim, because I feel like so many “bombshells” dropped by Wikileaks are total nothingburgers designed to make Julian Assange seem important.

10:41 pm – Jones is now furious about the accusation that Julian Assange is a rapist, veins pulsating in his forehead as his fury attempts to escape its skinsuit. Apparently, opposition to the globalists is always met with allegations of sexual assault—this is why Trump has racked up so many accusations of his own. In a moment of awareness of existing as a thinking being, I ponder trying to reach out to Alex Jones to ask whether Roman Polanski was an enemy of the globalists or actually guilty and, furthermore, get his opinion on Chinatown. I realize this is impossible as Jones feverishly defends himself and Assange against the charges that they are Russian agents. Paranoia and violence pulsate through Jones and out of his yawning maw as he rants about his familial history of killing Russians (communists) and defends contemporary Russia as a country rebuilding after the horrors of communism.* He descends into convulsive barking, yipping that he is kicking the asses of liberals and fighting tyranny, before being firmly reminded that it is time for a commercial break. After assessing whether or not I should buy BrainForce Plus while there is free shipping, I duck out to smoke, wondering when they’re going to remember about the election.
*Jones seems to have no comment on Putin (of whom he seems to have a fairly positive assessment) as a product of the KGB, albeit one who strongly repudiated communism.

11:00 pm – I return to a mood of dark jubilation. Trump is still leading Clinton and the crew at Infowars are getting restless to celebrate. I feel like my neck will snap from the whiplash as the air of the broadcast swiftly changes from grumbling resignation and occasional threats of insurrection to open festivity. My notes and memory become hazy as I begin expecting streamers to drop from the ceiling, and I check the updated electoral results, assuming the Drudge Report is misreporting. There is a fevered discussion of “Dewey Defeats Truman” as a parallel, and of course, talk of what a blow may be struck against the globalists. Given that I spent this entire election cycle prepping for the neoliberal hellscape of another Clinton and the general leftist apathy that permeates Democratic victories, I feel the icy fingers of fear move through my clammy body as I speculate on what a Trump victory would mean. Alongside my anti-globalist-agenda compatriots on screen, my outlook is substantially more dour. Alex Jones becomes the beast that devours the sun, a monolith of flesh and hatred sculpted towards his role as mouthpiece. I think my paranoia is getting to me, and I try to chemically stabilize my brain. Everything, even ads for Alex Jones’ Secret 12 (which everyone seems to be enthusiastically popping on set), takes on a sinister pallor. Sounds feel harsh and dissonant and I realize I have forgotten to take my meds and feel relatively indifferent to my poor adherence.

The nightmarish jamboree reaches a feverish pitch, all triumphant shrieks and defiant bellowing. I feel like I should be laying in a pit under a freshly slaughtered bull, blood clouding my vision as I am subjected to cacophonous music, brass masks, and chanting. Everyone I know seems to be panicking, so reality and Alex Jones have finally merged, and I get the ghastly sensation that festivities have only just begun. I long for a bottle of the non-FDA-regulated research chemicals that seem to fuel the increasing mob on my screen, their teeth glistening and voices chittering like a pack of hyenas in ill-tailored suits happening upon a downed gazelle. Alex Jones makes a noise that twists and fractures reality. I assume he is achieving orgasm. It sounds like the dying shriek of a rabbit mated with the enthusiastic rutting of a bull. No Exit describes what seems like a relatively benign situation in light of this; Sartre was weak in his basis for the claim that hell is other people. Hell is my increasingly disjointed visions.

12:05 am – Infowars calls the election for Trump, but everyone seems unclear about the number of electoral college votes required to assume the presidency. The pandemonium and disorganization of the studio will increase as the night goes on; everyone seems ready to assemble as a sort of motley Praetorian Guard to anoint Trump as the new Imperator. I am lost in an almost palpable vision of the Infowars crew crowning Trump in an olive wreath, swaddling him in purple robes, and handing him a scepter. All this before marching with him, announcing “Hail Caesar! Triumphe! Show us you are a god!” as they march through the streets, dragging a bull behind them and burning incense to cloud direct vision of their newly-crowned god and permeate the streets with his scent. The crowd around them swells and the chants become deafening as they ascend to the White House. Trump anoints the bull with wine mixed with myrrh to prepare it for sacrifice, and Alex Jones, foregoing the traditional axe, begins tearing the bull’s throat out with his teeth in an orgiastic frenzy of gnashing teeth and animistic triumph. The smell of blood and cloying incense and the sounds of stamping feet and ragged cheers are overwhelming. My connection to this grisly tableaux is shattered by the appearance of a new face on the screen, a beardless young man who looks like the love child of Tyler Durden and Patrick Bateman*, carved from ham. A singularly unpleasant voice begins to speak—and I am drawn back into reality.

*He looks like the sort of dude who creepily doesn’t realize that the point of American Psycho is the fundamental loathsomeness of Patrick and his co-workers. He almost definitely has attended a PUA seminar, and my hatred of him is a palpable thing crawling under my skin.

He speaks of George Soros sleeper cells which are activating right before our eyes. Nothing memorable is done to fill dead air as the election is fundamentally decided, save the actual counting of votes (the likelihood of Clinton winning has dropped below 20%). Everyone seems jittery, as Florida still hasn’t been called for Trump, and they are convinced Hillary will still try to steal the election despite the landslide showing up for Trump (Hillary will go on to win the popular vote by a little over 200,000 votes). The unpleasant man refers to the almost foregone conclusion of this election as “the triggering,” and his unnamed female counterpart brays with laughter. There is discussion of rewarding friends and punishing enemies; things take on a suffocating darkness. More individuals flood the studio, and I stupidly ask myself why there is an AR-15 machine pistol on the table, or where all the cigars came from. I steel myself for the nigh-inevitable Trump presidency.**

**Interpret that however you want; my business is my own.

1:18 am – The jubilation continues as the studio looks on at the Clinton camp, expecting a concession speech, as a mood of rhapsodic cries like knives scraping on stones fill the studio. Schadenfreude—incidentally no one in the studio can pronounce the word—is experienced by the assembled Infowarriors. It is hard to imagine how this mood came about, given the tone when I initially tuned in. Jones gives an impromptu stump speech about how Trump is the man of the people, and speculates that not being breastfed leads to becoming a Clinton voter. Everything feels muted and distant, and I too feel the urge to mock those at Clinton HQ for their failure to breastfeed. Nothing is real. We are the accident of consciousness doomed to speculate about purpose in a wholly accidental world. I imagine humanity as a puppy that I am cradling in my arms before lovingly strangling it to put it out of its suffering.

1:27 am – Jones yips excitedly about the rapturous power of capitalism and the weakness of the youth. I feel his voice penetrate me (despite the fact I did not vote) for my love of the DPRK and my utter hopelessness in the face of capitalism. He rhetorically asks “what are the liberals going to do when they aren’t at hot dog parties with cancer hot tubs and Aleister Crowley rituals?” I have no answer, nor any idea what he is talking about. I nod in stupefied agreement. Jones castigates the media for their role in defaming Trump; someone (Piers Morgan?) is singled out for abuse as an “arrogant, chicken-necked weirdo.” As neither camp will proclaim victory or accept defeat, everyone takes a short break to talk about their favorite quasi-medical supplements sold by Infowars. Everyone is popping pills and eyedroppers of vitality and mind-enhancing elixir. I was originally hoping for a live broadcast reminiscent of the last hours at Jonestown, but with considerably more yelling; instead there is a sort of nonchalant use of unregulated substances and breezy speculation about when Hillary will concede. Ham Durden will not stop yelling, trying for a humorous impersonation of Hillary screaming that she was entitled to be president. I imagine slowly grinding a knife made of salt through his left eye. The act feels weirdly intimate in my mind.

2:13 am – Nothing has been decided, still, and I am lost as to how Alex Jones just ended up comparing NPR to a rape van. Words wash over me but make no impact; my only solid takeaway is that Hillary is possessed due to her deep interest in Satanism.* By contrast, Trump is on the side of cops, and against the George-Soros-funded Black Lives Matter.

*Despite growing up in the Rust Belt’s religious revival, the spiritual dimension of Infowars is always confusing to me. Yet, I understand the anti-GMO paranoia about estrogen mimickers sapping one’s male vitality, given that I spent my teenage years reading John Zerzan and writing letters to Theodore Kaczynski.

2:20 am – Realizing that the broadcast is lacking tension, Alex Jones suddenly announces that Obama will nuke Russia from Turkey unless Trump declares himself the victor(?). This leads to a rant that I can only hazily recall—at one point Jones shrieks “Who bought these TVs, bitch?” at no one in particular. In case we forgot that the time of retribution is at hand, Jones alludes to giving some people helicopter rides* as the Infowars gang compiles a list of winners and losers, feeling mostly assured of their victory.

*A popular alt-right meme memorializing Augusto Pinochet having leftists thrown from helicopters to their deaths.

3:30 am – The studio is jubilant in the aftermath of Trump accepting victory. The speech was unmemorable for me, sliding in and out of consciousness. The cacophonous screaming sounds like baboons engorged with lust. I fall into darkness and imagine a whirlpool made of teeth.

The government is corrupt

And we’re on so many drugs

With the radio on and the curtains drawn

We’re trapped in the belly of this horrible machine

And the machine is bleeding to death

Art by Sascha Vykos.

Sascha Vykos

Sascha Vykos

Sascha Vykos is the cofounder of Empire of Loathing, and enjoys reading about the eventual death of the universe, berating voters for wasting their time and energy, berating video games for lacking any meaningful player agency, and berating books for being an artless attempt to increase the amount of atmospheric carbon. Exhausted and angry with a lack of quality original content and armed with a simmering resentment for everydayfeminism and "the discourse," she suggested this blog to Johnny, who graciously shouldered all of the responsibility.

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