His every conceivable professional aspiration achieved by the age of thirty-three, his legacy as undefeated champion of campus and television battlefields eternally guaranteed, in 2017, Milo Yiannopoulos retired. Milo was the most influential and prolific writer and activist of his generation throughout a short but dazzling career in which he prayed for, but was never granted, a leftist of equal talents to play with.
Nicknamed the “pop star of hate” by jealous fatties in the media, he was banned from entire continents for his unapologetic commitment to the sound of his own voice. But it was a voice worth hearing. Architect, chronicler and paladin prince of countless era-defining public clashes, Milo’s gift was seeing further than others, at what was coming next. He could see around corners and peer into people’s souls, sussing out what made them tick and what made them mad. His coinages stuck.
Milo conjured “Daddy” for Donald Trump, effortlessly capturing the quintessence of our yearning for him. À propos of nothing, he wondered aloud, “Would you rather your child had feminism… or cancer?” In headlines, he asked coquettishly whether birth control made women “unattractive and crazy.” That last one earned him a dramatic reading from Hillary Clinton, all bafflement and horror. She could not imagine the man so freely, fearlessly, and perhaps even with relish, crumpling her sacred shibboleths.
A peerless icon of the modern political milieu, his championship title remains unthreatened even now, after half a decade of unrelenting imitation and tribute. Milo sauntered into his premature and absurd retirement as a New York Times-bestselling author, an award-winning reporter, an international cultural and political phenomenon, a free speech martyr, an accomplished serial entrepreneur, a hair icon, and, at least behind closed doors, a penitent.
When he was not predicting the future, Milo was writing it, shaping it in his own image. It was Milo who expertly ushered Gamergate into mainstream discourse, leaving feminism with a bloody nose just in time for the election. Milo, single-handedly and overnight, ended the “campus rape culture” hysteria and “gender pay gap” mythology with thunderous victories over grizzling opponents.
His first book, Dangerous, sold a quarter of a million copies while the author was blacklisted by every publication in America and banned from social media. This achievement will never be repeated. Now, as then, Milo writes strictly for his own amusement. These days, Milo ghost-writes bestselling autobiographies for the few media personalities who can afford his monstrous fees… and sustain his interest.
You’ve most likely read one of his hobby projects and not known it. Under his own name and those of his appreciative clients, Milo has sold over three million books since 2016—but he’s not counting, because it’s gauche and tiring, and it interferes with his other chief hobby: A carefully-maintained air of nonchalance and effortlessness keeping time between eruptions of commercial success.
Lately, events have conspired to ruin this self-indulgent existence. In 2020, Milo’s renewed devotion to the Catholic faith began to liberate him from disorder and lifelong homosexual urges. He began a celibate life—initially, in melancholic resignation, but quickly thereafter struck dumb by the rejuvenating effect of rejecting sin. And then something reared its head that Milo had not anticipated: A burgeoning sense of moral duty to others.
And so, inspired to give back after a lifetime of privilege and unfair genetic advantage, Milo is launching a new enterprise: A chain of conversion therapy clinics for men plagued by same-sex attraction. Any prior achievements or accolades, he now realizes, are worthless fripperies compared to the spiritual battle before him. You might wish him luck, if you like, or even spare a prayer.