Milo Yiannapoulos's public identity is foremost assembled around in-your-face homosexuality.  Such a persona, ranged against Judeo-Christian moorings, is irreconcilably separated from the advancement of freedom.

For the last sixty years in America, the First Amendment has been deployed in the service not of liberty, but primarily of licentiousness.  Milo is another young man who discovered he can get rich and famous spouting the soul-dead liturgies of dissipation.  He does not understand this, but instinctual consciousness exerts a gravitational force that pulls the mind from higher realms into selfishness, regardless of professed motives.

Milo said he chose the wrong words, but he actually chose the wrong subject.  He joked about the tricks he learned while being raped by a priest.  That is not misspeaking; it suggests mental illness.

For the time being, Milo Yiannapoulos has degenerated into being the right-wing version of Lena Dunham.  They are both outlandish narcissists.  Her shtick is repellant self-display and recreational abortion.  He is a fabulous "faggot," super-glib, and always runway ready.  Both think they are being provocative with tawdry preoccupation and potty-mouth patois.  She sounds like a moron.  He is brighter but also proves that the millennial generation has not produced one single noteworthy writer or intellectual.  Probably never will.  After sixty years of normalization of the abuse Milo calls "love," the dissociative fog becomes impenetrable.

The left wing rejects Milo's message of free speech and the right wing his product packaging. But sex sells, and he will do fine.