I knew it was a long shot when I applied. I mean, who was I? Just a neck-bearded nobody with a boiling distrust of authority and an extensive collection of Civil War relics. I was nervous, but the looming summer ahead filled with nothing but updating my Chemtrails Truth blog was all the motivation I needed to get serious about my application to the Infowars internship program. At first I felt unsure, but as I rounded out the thirteenth page of my cover letter by linking the debut of Mad Men in 2007 to the 2008 financial crash, I felt something click into place. This felt right. I sent my cover letter and a stool sample as instructed. I quickly sent a text to my Proud Boys groupchat asking for positive thoughts and crossed my fingers.
A background check, an interview, a physical exam, another background check, and a six-hour blindfolded car ride later, I found myself sweating into the waistband of my truly massive cargo shorts in the center of the infamous Infowars studio. It felt surreal to be there among all the intellectual giants working behind the scenes for the man who had informed my political and moral compass for years. That guy muttering to himself over there? Maybe he was the one who discovered the lead proving Obama was born in Kenya! That lady in the corner whispering hurried Russian into her cellphone and looking very frightened? Maybe she could introduce me to QAnon! Who knows? Maybe I’d stumble upon a conspiracy as important as 9/11 being an inside job!
The first few days were fun! We played ice breakers where we said our name and then recited our favorite passage from Mein Kampf from memory. But my time at Infowars wasn’t all team-building and light anti-Semitism. Being an intern was an absolute whirlwind. One minute I’d be told to lightly dab Alex’s face with a soft tissue because he was reading too sweaty on camera, the next I’d be sent back to gently mist him because he wasn’t reading sweaty enough. Someone would hand me a locked briefcase and tell me to get rid of it no questions asked, and a second later I’d be tasked with cleaning up the kitchen that Alex had destroyed in a blind rage when we’d run out of his favorite type of Triscuit. I couldn’t keep up! It was a nonstop, mile-a-minute rollercoaster.
Working with Alex Jones was a dream come true. Simply put: I loved everything about him. I loved his weird hairline, the way his wardrobe made him look like an LA realtor who sold condos to fuel a coke addiction. I loved that his default volume was “manic,” and how he’d sometimes forget how to pronounce a word halfway through saying it. Most of all I loved his work ethic. When he wasn’t spouting conspiracy theories he was trying to incite a race war. And when he wasn’t denying mass shootings he was eating boxes upon boxes of Triscuits and tweeting about drones. This man worked around the clock!
Although I did not find myself with a job offer from Infowars at the end of the summer, I wouldn’t trade my time with Alex Jones and his team for anything. I learned valuable, timeless lessons such as “Don’t wake Alex Jones when he’s napping, he will bite you” and “Keeping a cellphone in your pocket will give you ball cancer.” I’ll remember the people I met, the friendships I made, and, maybe most of all, the legally binding contract I signed inducting me into a ragtag militia sworn to protect Alex Jones when the revolution comes.
