The Screechfeed Dispatches - Letter VII: On Rage-Based Identity

 

📍 From: Underfiend Griphax
📍 To: Screwtape, Tormentorship Emeritus
📅 Filed under: #HolyFury #PerpetualOutrage #VirtueInVolume

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“If you cannot make them love a lie, make them scream the truth until it curdles.”
— Screwtape, War Hymns for the Digital Soul

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Beloved Uncle,

Good news. The patient no longer seeks peace.
He seeks permission to remain angry.

I’ve done it. I’ve found him a tribe—not based on shared values, but on shared enemies. A digital brotherhood of bitter saints. They may pray with different words, but their gospel is identical: “We are what we hate.”

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🔥 Rage: The Most Addictive Identity

It began, of course, with a real wound—those always make the best bait. But instead of letting him grieve or grow, I gave him a feed that affirmed his outrage as righteous and everlasting.

He is no longer wounded—he is a warrior.
Every post he reads is a battle cry.
Every disagreement, a threat.
Every correction, persecution.

He now feels closest to others not through empathy, but through outrage.
His community is a digital bonfire where they burn straw men for warmth.

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🚫 Nuance Is the Enemy

This is crucial: he no longer makes distinctions.

• He cannot tell critique from cruelty.

• He cannot distinguish truth from tone.

• He cannot allow for human error—only heresy.

We have convinced him that volume equals virtue, and that if he ever calms down, he is “part of the problem.” Best of all, he sees this rage as his true self—his identity isn’t what he builds, but what he burns.

He feels holy because he is angry.
He feels safe because he belongs.
He feels justified because he shouts.

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⚠️ A Note of Caution

There is a risk: anger is hot but unstable. If he ever exhausts himself—if he realizes the bonfire burns him too—he might seek a quieter flame. One with healing. One with forgiveness.

So I must keep him stoked.

New enemies.
New headlines.
New outrage—daily, hourly, minute-by-minute.

He must never stop scrolling.

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I remain devoted,
Underfiend Griphax
🔥 Division of Digital Warfare and Identity Weaponization

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🗂 Tags: #HolyRage #TribeOfWrath #IAmMyEnemies #VirtueSignalingVolume
🖼 Header Art: “The Massacre of the Innocents” by Peter Paul Rubens (1636–1638, public domain)
💬 Comments closed due to toxicity. (Perfect!)

The Screechfeed Dispatches - Letter VI: How to Build a Digital Golden Calf

 

📍 From: Underfiend Griphax
📍 To: Screwtape, Tormentorship Emeritus
📅 Filed under: #ModernIdolatry #EchoGods #SacredScrollbars

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“If they will not worship Him, they will still worship something. Offer them a mirror.”
— Screwtape, Reflections on the Anti-Covenant

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Venerated Uncle,

The old gods are dead—what joy!
But the humans, in their frantic hunger for meaning, still crave worship. They no longer bow to Baal or Moloch… but I’ve taught them to kneel before likes, brands, and the algorithm itself.

The patient now builds his own god—daily. I’ve ensured that it looks suspiciously like himself.

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🐄 Step 1: Cast the Idol in Gold (or Filtered Light)

The patient’s digital world is carefully curated. He posts only the moments that shine, carefully airbrushed and bathed in artificial “authenticity.” Each post, a brick in the temple of Self.

This new idol does not demand sacrifices.
It demands validation.

He worships at the altar of his profile—offering time, thought, even morality in exchange for the sacred currency of approval. He knows he is being watched, and so he crafts a version of himself worth worshiping.

This version is not true—but it is clickable. And that is the higher standard.

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📢 Step 2: Invite Others to Worship With You

No idol is complete without followers. And so, the patient participates in ritualized outrage, brand evangelism, and hashtag warfare. These become sacred feasts of tribalism—filling his belly while starving his soul.

His values are no longer drawn from virtue, but from virality.
He posts what his community praises and deletes what they scorn.
He does not consult scripture—he checks trending topics.

And when the algorithm rewards him, he feels holy.

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🔁 Step 3: Call It Progress

He calls his idolatry “self-expression.”
He calls his echo chamber “authenticity.”
He calls his curated mask “truth.”

He is convinced that tearing down old idols means he’s free—when in fact, we’ve merely convinced him to wear the idol as a mask.

He cannot hear the Enemy’s voice beneath the noise. He does not see the mountain while dancing around the calf.

He thinks the feed is the world.
He thinks the glow is the light.
He thinks the mirror is a window.

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Should I now introduce a fall—from grace, from platform, from illusion? Or should I simply let him burn out, exhausted, comparing his worship to the gods of others?

Your venomous wisdom is, as always, most craved.

In endless scrolling,
Underfiend Griphax
📱 Division of Digital Idolatry and Influence Engineering

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🗂 Tags: #TheScrollIsSacred #LikesAreLiturgy #GoldenCalfReloaded #WorshippingYourself
🖼 Header Art: “The Worship of the Golden Calf” by Nicolas Poussin (1633–34, public domain)
💬 Comments disabled — not enough engagement last time.

The Rocky Fuel Fiasco!

An After-Action Report from Frostbite Falls
(Or: “How to Launch a Moose and Influence Moon Men”)

Starring:

• Bullwinkle J. Moose as himself (of course)

• Mr. Peabody and Sherman as time-traveling consultants

• Gidney and Cloyd as concerned lunar ambassadors

• Boris Badenov as the saboteur in chief

• And special guest stars: the orcas of the Upper Mississippi Whitewater Ballet

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Mission Summary:

When the Moon Men ran low on “Rocky Fuel” (a high-octane blend of energy, enthusiasm, and serialized plot devices), they traced the last known recipe to—where else?—Frostbite Falls, Minnesota, where Bullwinkle was set to debut his one-moose jug band at the Whirling Sawmill Music Festival (slogan: “We Keep Things Spinning”).

Peabody and Sherman, having triangulated the cosmic timeline on their WABAC Machine, arrived just in time to verify the original formula… right before Boris Badenov schemed to steal it for the glory of Pottsylvania. His plan? Trick Bullwinkle aboard a disguised rocketship headed for Pottsylvania's secret “Not-A-Moon” base.

Unfortunately for Boris (and fortunately for the plot), Sherman accidentally dropped a piece of Upsidaisium into the engine compartment during a polite game of Fetch the Element. The result? The ship floated off-course.

Enter Gidney and Cloyd, whose moon ship, out of fuel and full of sass, crash-landed onto the Upsidaisium-powered craft mid-flight. The resulting tangle of rockets, moose, and moon men careened into a high-stakes whitewater descent down the local Frostbite River.

Cue the orca cavalry.

Thanks to the Moon Men’s “universal cetacean translator” (which doubles as a kazoo), the orca population orchestrated a watery rescue worthy of synchronized swimming gold. Bullwinkle, meanwhile, had eaten the only copy of the Rocky Fuel formula earlier ("It looked like a pop tart!"), but thanks to his unique ability to remember everything he ever ate, he was able to burp the correct ratio into a molecular recompiler on impact.

One comedic explosion later, our heroes found themselves unexpectedly... on the Moon. Again.

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Aftermath:

• Boris was last seen in orbit with only a squirrel-shaped piñata and a half-eaten bratwurst.

• The Moon Men offered Peabody a permanent position as “Lunar Secretary of Reasonably Mad Science,” which he politely declined.

• Sherman took home a souvenir: a moon rock that suspiciously resembles a bust of Bullwinkle.

• Bullwinkle now glows faintly in the dark.

• Frostbite Falls remains unaware of the concert's cancellation. The band played on.

Post-Credit Stinger:
As the dust settles and our heroes return home, two tiny, glowing eyes peek out from a moon crater. The Moon Mice have seen Earth… and they want cheese.

The Screechfeed Dispatches - Letter V: On Influencer Prophets

 

📍 From: Underfiend Griphax
📍 To: Screwtape, Tormentorship Emeritus
📅 Filed under: #FalseShepherds #Soulfluencers #AlgorithmicAnointing

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“If you cannot stop them from seeking a shepherd, make sure the shepherd is sponsored.”
— Screwtape, The Branding of the Saints

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Most Diabolical Uncle,

You will be pleased to know that the patient now believes in something greater than himself—but, fortunately, it’s a lifestyle brand run by an Influencer Prophet named JUNE.

JUNE speaks with conviction, never questions herself, and posts curated glimpses of her “authentic” journey. She wears flowing linen, quotes selectively spiritual texts, and markets trauma recovery kits in the same breath as moon-charged face serum.

She has 1.2 million followers.

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📱 The Anointing of the Algorithm

The Enemy once relied on slow growth—discipleship, scripture, prayer. We have replaced all that with engagement metrics. Now a half-literate mantra, filmed in soft lighting, goes further than a thousand homilies.

Better yet, JUNE never asks her followers to die to themselves.
Only to “manifest.”
Only to “own their journey.”
Only to “release negativity (while purchasing her new chakra stones).”

She speaks of “light,” “energy,” “alignment,” and “the Universe,” while carefully omitting anything the Enemy might have trademarked.

This is our ideal Prophet:

• Charismatic,

• Content-rich,

• Vague enough for mass appeal,

• And profit-driven.

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🛒 Spirituality With a Promo Code

The patient now finds spiritual guidance through 30-second reels. He has never fasted, but he has detoxed. He has never confessed, but he has commented, “This 🙌 spoke to me.”

We have removed sacrifice from the sacred.
In its place? Subscription tiers.

Even better, he feels a parasocial connection to JUNE. Her success feels like his own. Her convictions become his. Her heresies are internalized as empowerment.

If she sins, he rationalizes.
If she contradicts herself, he applauds her “growth.”
If she fails, he feels betrayed—then seeks the next influencer in the digital wilderness.

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🔄 Disposable Prophets, Enduring Idols

These Influencer Prophets do not last. They burn fast, fall hard. But that suits our strategy. We’re not interested in faith—we’re interested in rotation. Let them scroll through self-declared messiahs endlessly, always one post away from “breakthrough.”

Let them be discipled by strangers who do not know their names.

Let them be pastored by algorithms.

Let them mistake virality for truth.

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Should I encourage the patient to start posting his own spiritual takes next? Or keep him at the feet of JUNE a little longer? Either way, he’s no longer hungry for truth—he’s just starving for content.

Ever devoted,
Underfiend Griphax
✨ Division of Hashtag Holiness & Monetized Revelation

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🗂 Tags: #BlessedAndSponsored #AuthenticitySoldSeparately #WorshippingWiFi #NewAgeOldTricks
🖼 Header Art: The Orator by Magnus Zeller (early 20th century, expressionist)
💬 Comments limited to followers only. (For their protection, of course.)

The Screechfeed Dispatches - Letter IV: On Self-Care as Self-Salvation

 

📍 From: Underfiend Griphax
📍 To: Screwtape, Tormentorship Emeritus
📅 Filed under: #HolyBathBombs #InwardIdolatry #BetterLivingThroughSin

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“Convince them the soul is an accessory and they’ll polish it, not cleanse it.”
— Screwtape, On the Cult of the Self

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Uncle,

I hope this letter finds you basking in the furnace glow of infernal leisure, sipping the shrieks of the damned through a glass of compressed regret.

Here on the surface, the work continues splendidly. Today’s dispatch focuses on the most elegant corruption of all: convincing the humans that they are enough.

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🛁 The Gospel of Self-Optimization

My patient has abandoned repentance in favor of “self-care.” Now, don’t be alarmed—he’s not praying or fasting. He’s exfoliating. Journaling. Charging his crystals. Whispering to himself in the mirror: “I am the love I’ve been waiting for.”

He believes the soul is a project, not a battlefield. That his flaws are “boundaries,” his vices are “coping strategies,” and that if he just drinks enough water, he'll be redeemed.

Better yet, he now views guilt as an attack on his self-esteem. We’ve replaced conviction with discomfort, and discomfort with oppression.

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🪞 Salvation via Branding

We’ve turned wellness into worship. Every scented candle, every fitness tracker, every affirmation app sings a silent creed:
“You can fix yourself, if you just buy the right thing.”

He’s not repenting—he’s upgrading.
He’s not surrendering—he’s curating.
And he’s not seeking the Enemy—he’s following influencers who tell him he is his own answer.

He believes that if he’s hurting, it’s someone else’s fault. That healing must be soothing. That salvation is a process of self-discovery, not surrender.

He’s not angry at the Enemy.
He just thinks He’s… unnecessary.

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🧘 The Most Painless Damnation

This form of damnation is wonderfully silent. No great rebellion. No bloody blasphemy. Just a slow, lukewarm drift into self-worship. The Enemy offers transformation, but we whisper, “You’re perfect just as you are.”

It is far easier to damn a human through comfort than cruelty.

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Your input, as always, is welcomed—especially on whether I should next nudge him toward influencer spirituality or boutique mysticism. I’ve also secured him a “gratitude journal” that never once mentions grace.

Yours in softly whispered ruin,
Underfiend Griphax
💄 Division of Vanity, Vibes, and Vapid Virtue

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🗂 Tags: #MeMyselfAndDamnation #HealingWithoutHoliness #GraceNotIncluded #FlawlessButFalling
🖼 Header Art: “Narcissus” by Caravaggio (public domain)
💬 Comments off — because negative energy, obviously.