The Man Who Ruined the Narrative
Why They Really Canceled Scott Adams
The Man Who Ruined the Narrative: Why They Really Canceled Scott Adams
By Jim Reynolds
Let’s be honest. They didn’t cancel Scott Adams because of some half-heard, cherry-picked comment on race. That was the excuse, not the reason. They canceled him because he committed the one sin that gets you permanently exiled from polite society:
He was right about Trump.
Not late-right. Not oops-I-guessed-it-right. No—early, articulate, uncomfortably right. Years before anyone in the Acela corridor took Trump seriously, Adams was explaining—daily—why the man was going to walk right through the experts like wet tissue. While everyone else laughed at “orange man bad,” Adams dissected Trump’s technique like a surgeon with a scalpel made of memes.
He called Trump a Master Persuader. The elites called him a joke.
Only one of them needed armed FBI protection by 2018.
From Dilbert to Dissident
Let’s back up. Scott Adams built an empire from a cartoon about corporate idiocy. Dilbert wasn’t just funny—it was forensic. A daily bloodletting of office life. TPS reports, useless managers, jargon that sounded like ritual incantation—he nailed it all. Dilbert’s tiny upturned tie was the last act of rebellion before HR stapled your soul to a diversity pamphlet.
And then, somewhere in the early 2000s, the tie disappeared. Everyone got keycards. Lanyards. Security badges. They all started looking the same. Controlled. That was the moment Adams started noticing the deeper problem: the people running things weren’t just clueless. They were dangerously stupid.
And people liked Dilbert because he saw it, and said it. Until Adams did the same with Trump.
Wrongthink in Real Time
Adams didn’t just predict a Trump win. He explained it. The cadence. The nicknames. The repetition. The visual branding. The emotional anchors. It wasn’t magic—it was hypnosis. And Adams knew how it worked because he used it. In his books. In his blog. In his Periscope livestreams where he demolished entire belief systems before breakfast.
And that scared the hell out of the people who get paid to lie for a living.
Because if one cartoonist could explain how reality is shaped—not reported—they’d all be exposed. And when he did it without apology?
Unforgivable.
The Blow-Up Doll in the Room
Let’s be clear: this is a man whose website features a busty inflatable woman as permanent set dressing. A man who regularly live-streamed in a robe. A man who said, out loud, that facts don’t matter when people are scared, angry, or horny—and proved it. And they couldn’t refute him, because they were too busy being scared, angry, and horny.
Scott Adams was post-cancel before it was cool.
He knew what was coming.
The Pointy-Haired Mob
And when they came for him, it wasn’t because of what he said that week—it was for the years of heresy before. They didn’t want contrition. They wanted erasure. Like Dilbert never existed. Like Wally never taught us the art of doing nothing with flair. Like the Pointy-Haired Boss didn’t perfectly capture the smug, managerial dumbass who now runs your local school board.
They want you to forget he was ever right.
Too Late.
The world’s on fire, the experts are bankrupt, and Dilbert’s ghost is still making fun of them from the breakroom fridge.
And Scott?
He’s still livestreaming.
Still speaking.
Still walking—barely—with a steel walker and a voice full of gravel. But he’s not done.
He’s teaching persuasion. Challenging robots. Warning the world in real-time that once machines learn to fake emotion, it’s over. That’s the kill switch. Not the weapons, not the code. The feelings.
Because Adams understands something no panel of experts will admit:
The first robot full of real hate will be the end of us.
He said it. Now it’s in the file.
And no, you can’t cancel that.
Grook: Canceled in Advance
He cracked the code,
then mocked the dance.
They called it hate—
but took no chance.
Not for a slip,
or rude miscue,
but for predicting
what came true.
They pulled his strip,
but missed the cue:
The joke was them.
He always knew.