I Bought The Internet
imaginary lottery winnings: a diary #12
Yep.
You read correctly.
I only went and bought the fucking internet.
Once I imagined winning the lottery, I didn’t buy a house. I didn’t buy land. I didn’t buy art, or influence, or a chair that looks like a horse.
The problem with being rich is that people expect you to buy things. Certain things.
Which I did try doing, for an afternoon. Until I realised that the real luxury wasn’t comfort. It was the control of context.
I bought the entire www.
Primarily to take advantage of certain platforms.
The loud, annoying, anti-factual ones.
The one where confidence is mistaken for competence.
The one where mainly men mistake the volume of their voice for the gravity of meaning.
That one.
The sale was embarrassingly easy.
There was no moral hesitation.
Just a number, a signature, and a sense of relief from everyone involved.
Money makes things so easy.
It felt less like an acquisition and more like removing a tumour no one wanted to claim responsibility for.
Just - ‘please take this problem away.’ And boy did I!
I didn’t ban anyone.
That would imply fear.
Instead, I simply changed the framing of everything. I introduced compulsory annotations.
Every post by Elon Musk would appear as he had written it, followed immediately by a small grey box titled:
Context
Inside the box:
Previous contradictory statements.
Basic lessons on physics and history.
A reminder that wealth ≠ intelligence.
Just simple footnotes. Because who doesn’t want to see a foot on that weird bastard’s note neck?
I allowed Andrew Tate to stay. But with a caveat.
Every day, at exactly 9am/12pm/3pm/9pm, his feed automatically reposted the same video.
A reality TV contestant (not a boxer, not a soldier, not a “top G”, just a man whose main skill was being on the reality tv show, Too Hot to Handle) erratically twatting him in the face.
Every day.
No commentary.
Just the clip.
This did more damage than any exposé ever could.
Because shame is cumulative.
His legion of 14-year-old disciples (boys who had built their personalities out of borrowed misogyny and podcast clips) were now being gently, relentlessly reminded that their hero’s defining moment was being utterly twatted by someone whose job is going on televised dates.
You could see it happening in real time.
The admiration didn’t turn to anger.
It turned to embarrassment.
Which is fatal for someone as insecure, meek and woefully charismaless as Andrew Tate.
Trump’s account remained completely untouched.
Every word preserved.
Every typo honoured, even.
We simply added a permanent strip beneath each post titled:
Previous Statements by the Same
WazzockMan
Contradictions auto-populated the feed.
Dates included.
He called it censorship?
Which was interesting, because nothing had actually been removed.
He was just being introduced to himself.
Like a melting lump of human shit staring at itself in the mirror.
Tommy Robinson livestreamed constantly.
And you know what? I bloody let him.
But every stream appeared with a small banner above it:
Attention Seeking In Process:
Nothing else.
No heckling.
Just the quiet acknowledgement of what was actually happening.
He tried even harder.
Which only made it worse.
Such a tiny, tiny red-faced man.
I hired people who refuse to be bullied.
Librarians.
Teachers.
Lollypop Ladies.
One lady whose entire job was to just calmly laugh and say “no” to any man with an opinion. Just to piss them off.
Every claim was allowed to stand.
No pile-ons.
No sarcasm.
Just a total exposure of stupidity.
The engagement didn’t explode.
It evaporated.
Because these men rely on friction.
On the audience never being allowed to sit still long enough to notice what’s actually being said or check the facts.
I removed the noise.
And gave the ugliest men in the world a mirror, just so that they each get 7 years bad luck once they’ve gazed in it.
Within months, they all said the same thing.
That the platform had become “hostile”.
Which was fascinating.
Because the only thing that had changed was that no one was protecting them from looking dumb-as-fuck anymore.
I sold the platform six months later. To a bedouin witch-doctor.
At a huge loss.
This felt appropriate.
Some things aren’t investments.
They’re just waste removal.
Before I left, I made one final edit.
Every instance of the word “alpha” was quietly replaced with:
“man desperately seeking validation”
Tomorrow, I’ll buy something normal.
A house?
A cat, perhaps.
Oooooo, a bin that opens automatically!
But today, I spent millions proving something very simple:
If you stop treating loud men seriously, they collapse immediately.
They don’t need silencing.
They just need to be seen for what they are.
Embarassing cunts.
Please buy it back!