EXCLUSIVE: Extract of Milo Yiannopoulos’ unpublished book

My school days were, I suppose, extremely influential in terms of forming the views and philosophies that would eventually make me a massive amazing media superstar. My first-grade teacher, Miss Bresnan, was a typical screechy SJW, the kind you always get when you allow women to have jobs. She was so obsessed with PC culture, constantly teaching us to “be nice”, and “think about others”, and “stop stabbing your fellow students with your compass”. I tried to explain that as a provocateur, it was my job to poke people and see what kind of reaction I could get, but like most females, she failed to understand basic principles because her brain was on its period — gross right? Lady parts: outrageous.

Even at the tender age of six I was incredibly clever and good at shifting paradigms and starting conversations and speaking truth to power. One day one of my classmates, a sniveling beta called Duncan, brought in his puppy for show and tell. I asked Duncan if I could pat the dog — of course he said yes like a typical cuck — walked up to the front of the class, and kicked it in the head. Yeah, you read that right. That’s the way I am, readers: I say what everyone’s thinking, and I kick what everyone’s thinking of kicking. Scandalous!

Everyone in the class squealed like a big bunch of dumb women breaking their ugly nails (you heard me, ladies — prove me wrong). Miss Bresnan rushed up and pulled me away from the puppy before I could get another kick in.

“Milo, you just kicked Duncan’s dog, that was very naughty!”

“That’s who I am, Miss Breast-nan,” I said. Yep, I said “breast”. To a teacher. Can’t handle that? Tough. “I don’t shy away from controversy, and I won’t be silenced by liberal elites.”

In the corner, Duncan was hugging his puppy tight in a very gay way — not the good kind of gay, where you suck off big dudes (oh yeah, babes, that’s how I roll. Live with it, prudes), but the bad kind of gay, where you’re all oh no my puppy’s bleeding I think I’ll have a cry about it like a girl. He was blubbering all over the place, and it was disgusting — I think that was the first time I realised just how pathetic the Left was.

“Are you offended?” I asked him, wittily. “Have I offended you by being this in-your-face and maverick?”

Miss Bresnan bent down and shook her ugly old finger in my face. “Milo, apologise to Duncan right now!” 

“Are you triggered?” I snorted. “Do you need a safe space? This is the real world, MESS-nan: you want to protect him from that?”

Duncan was still crying. “I think he’s dead!” he howled, playing the victim as I had always known he would. I sighed. Obviously I had to take matters into my own hands. I walked over to Duncan and spat in his face. He screamed like a progressive.

Miss Bresnan rushed over and dragged me away, clearly in the throes of menopause (yep, I went there. Harden up). “Milo, this is unacceptable,” she snapped. “Animal abuse, assaulting your classmate — what’s gotten into you?”

I looked her coolly in the eye — I couldn’t help it, I do everything coolly. “Facts don’t care about your feelings,” I said. “You can bitch and moan all you like about emotionally scarred children and haemorrhaging dogs, but every time you stifle my free speech by demanding I apologise for kicking a dog in the head, you just show how your hatred of white males is blinding you to reality. I know it’s not your fault you have a vagina (VAGINA! That’s me: I will write vagina in a book and you have to just sit there and DEAL with it), but if you can’t stand the heat, get back in the kitchen, where women should be instead of in schools trying to castrate us.”

At the conclusion of my speech, I turned to the rest of the class, who were gaping in awe, and distributed slips of paper bearing Miss Bresnan’s address and home phone number. They burst into a chorus of cheers.

That was the first day I realised that I was destined to be a public intellectual.

*As discovered by satirist Ben Pobjie