History is littered with men who thundered against “degeneracy” only to be dragged from the closet by their own desires. The loudest, most indignant bigots railing against the 2SLGBTQQIA+ community are often less “defenders of morality” than participants in a traveling circus of projection. Wikipedia and other websites even devote entire pages and articles to Republican and conservative grandees who denounced homosexuality publicly while practicing it privately — a ledger of hypocrisy one can only admire for its consistency.

This isn’t coincidence. It’s pathology. One way to understand it is the desire-to-cruelty pipeline. Not a scholarly term, though it deserves one. The sequence is depressingly predictable: a furtive fascination, a secret itch they cannot scratch; then desensitization, where cruelty becomes camouflage; then reinforcement, when the mob rewards the performance of hate; and finally escalation, when cruelty is no longer hidden but institutionalized. What begins as shame metastasizes into ideology, and what begins as a quiver of desire turns into a roar of indignation.

Enter Robert “Beef Supreme” Primerano, the Niagara region’s own contribution to this dismal pageant. To watch him puff himself up as an “alpha male” is to witness insecurity wrapped in faux leather. Raised in a household steeped in conformity and self-loathing, he learned early that to belong meant to hate. Unable to reconcile who he is with what he was taught, he performs a grotesque pantomime: a closeted man trying to convince the world, and himself, that venom is virtue.

This is the oldest trick in the ego-defence book: attack the group you secretly fear you resemble and hope no one notices. With Primerano, the camouflage is so thin it might as well be transparent cling wrap. Every rant, every drunken tirade, every ham-fisted attempt at bravado screams the truth: the louder he blusters, the deeper his shame.

And so, as you glance skyward tonight and trace the constellations, spare a thought for the man in Welland. A rented bungalow, bleary eyes, a bottle near at hand, and a furious scroll through the Internet as his weary family sleeps. His nightly ritual: a furtive descent into a very particular genre of gender-bending pornography, ending not in triumph but a grunt, a whimper, and the cheap embrace of Kirkland-brand tissue. Moments later, shame seeps back in, giving way to rage, which fuels the hollow bluster that passes for his public persona. Intoxication, arousal, self-disgust, projection, repeat — a one-man industrial machine for producing pathetic violence.

Primerano has never shown much appetite for honest work. Employment, after all, demands effort, consistency, and a tolerance for reality — three qualities he has spent a lifetime evading. Instead, he discovered the profession perfectly suited to his talents: the digital grift.

Why break a sweat at a job site when you can sit in a bungalow, swilling cheap Latvian whiskey and inventing enemies? Why polish a résumé when you can polish conspiracy theories? Primerano’s contribution to the workforce is rage-posting between naps, mistaking belligerence for income. He doesn’t so much earn a living as panhandle with screwy punctuation and child-like syntax, rattling the digital tin cup every time he fabricates a new outrage.

His politics are not convictions but commodities. Every slur, every violent fantasy, every idiotic screed is a performance — a shabby attempt to alchemize failure into cash. Less a career than a coping mechanism, it is idleness masquerading as activism, bile masquerading as principle. He is not a leader, not even a follower, but a barnacle clinging to the hull of conservatism’s sinking ship, hoping some driftwood might float his way.

And this, in miniature, is the conservative movement’s crowning innovation: turning resentment into revenue, weaponizing self-pity as a business plan. Primerano is its most laughable franchisee — a broke man’s Rush Limbaugh, without talent, without following, and without so much as the courtesy to find a day job. He is a one-man sideshow, a carnival barker who forgot the carnival, hawking outrage like expired prizes, squeaking until even the enablers in his bungalow stop paying attention. History will not remember him as a crusader or even a failure — it will remember him as the punchline, the man shouting at shadows, congratulating himself on echoes that were never applause.

Disclaimer: The observations in this piece are mine, drawn from public behavior, pattern recognition, and a generous application of common sense. Any resemblance to fact is coincidental only in the sense that truth has a nasty habit of catching up to those who deserve it. This is opinion, analysis, and a dash of well-aimed ridicule — not a legal accusation, or presented as absolute fact, but a very pointed commentary.