We are living in stories, in simulation. Lies are baked into narrative and cast like breadcrumbs to swine. Modern Day showmen, political or otherwise, stand upon these pedestals of narrative and weave their own half-truths and cast their own emotional nets to their adoring fans.
When you live as we do in a place where every little thing leads back to a lie, even a white lie or a half-truth, it goes beyond just cynicism for the sake of cynicism; it becomes a disgusting slop of regurgitated garbage that leaves a stench all across the pitter patter of the mad keyboard warriors, typing with fury at the latest narrative, the latest story of a hero taken from us far too soon, and the thievery of souls takes on a new form.
I am biased, skeptical, disgusted and unmoved by narrative. I don’t know Lira. I would never want to know Lira.
Lira was a failed Hollywood player. Too ugly to be an actor, too un-dynamic to be of anyone important, we are told he was the apparent writer of such schlock hits as “Secuestro” (2005), an add-on writer for “Soldier of Fortune” (2000), and he was a guest for the 2018 podcast “the Public Space.” Lira was born in Burbank, California, to Chilean parents, Gonzalo Lia Valdés and María Isabel López Hess. His mother is a direct descendant of José Miguel Carrera. He spent his childhood in the San Fernando Valley, Los Angeles, New York, Miami, and Guayaquil, Ecuador.
He must have been a great disappointment to his parents.
When his meager attempts to be of anyone notable failed miserably in Hollywood, Gonzalo Ángel Quintilio Lira López, became the outspoken blogger known as “Coach Red Pill,” a controversial “manosphere” commentator. When rantings against women, buoyed no doubt by chauvinism, and a “Our little boy can do no wrong” complex weren’t exactly paying the bills, he suddenly switched gears and we are told he became a hard-hitting, on-the-ground journalist in war torn Ukraine.
And that is where I leave it. The story is that he is dead. It doesn’t matter by what or whom or where he died. If he is really dead, then I believe he died of something utterly embarrassing like asphyxiophiliaor or he killed himself out of despair and loneliness and his father, a proud Chilean tells the world, through the sympathetic microphone of Tucker Carlson, that his brave son is dead at the hands of his alleged Ukrainian captors.
The convenience of a Chilean, I mean American, I mean New Yorker, failed Hollywood martyr turned hard hitting journalist is a lavish gift tied with a huge red bow and handed over to the Court of Political Fools and the Bread and Circus that makes up the 2024 Election Story.
Have fun with it.
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