Ron Watkins: The QAnon Clown Who Won’t Quit X

Ron Watkins (@CodeMonkeyZ) is X’s reigning conspiracy nut, a tinfoil warrior who refuses to let QAnon shuffle off this mortal coil—and I’m over here, coffee in hand, marveling at the sheer stamina of stupidity. Once suspected as Q’s puppetmaster, he’s back on X after a ban, yelling about cabals like it’s 2018 and we’re all still decoding 4chan gibberish. Loud? Oh, he’s deafening—a foghorn in a library, blasting nonsense while the rest of us mute him and move on. Welcome to the Watkins show, where the plot’s lost, but the volume’s cranked.

This guy’s a legend in the worst way. Son of 8chan’s Jim Watkins, Ron’s a coder-turned-conspiracy evangelist who maybe—maybe—was Q, dropping cryptic “trust the plan” crumbs for the MAGA faithful. Back in the day, he had X and beyond buzzing with QAnon fever: Satan-worshipping elites, Trump as savior, the whole tinfoil enchilada. Banned in 2020 after the Capitol mess, he’s back thanks to Elon’s “amnesty,” and boy, does he make up for lost time. His feed’s a fever dream—cryptic rants, blurry PDFs, “deep state” screeds that’d make a thriller writer blush. I’d laugh harder if it weren’t so exhausting.

He’s loud because he’s losing—QAnon’s a corpse, but Ron’s flogging it like a carny with a dead mule. “The storm’s coming!” he bellows, as if 2025’s still waiting for Hillary’s arrest. X isn’t buying it—his posts get drowned by saner noise, but he keeps going, volume at eleven, logic at zero. “Musk’s in on it!” he hints, tying Elon to his lizard-person fantasies without proof or a pulse. I imagine him at his keyboard, typing in ALL CAPS, convinced he’s the last patriot standing. Spoiler: he’s just the last guy yelling in an empty room.

What’s the appeal? Ron’s a relic of peak Q—when anons thought every typo was a code and Trump was Batman. Now? He’s a one-man band, tooting a horn no one hears. I’d pity him, but the snark’s too ripe—he’s like a doomsday prepper hawking canned goods post-apocalypse, oblivious the world’s moved on. X is Elon’s playground, not Q’s, and Ron’s stuck in a sandbox of his own delusions. “Illuminati!” he screeches, while I mute him faster than a spam call. He’s losing the war to reality, but damn if he isn’t loud about it.

The dry truth? Ron’s a loser who won’t quit—QAnon’s faded, but he’s still waving its tattered flag, screaming into X’s void. It’s almost performance art: a conspiracy nut, unshaken by facts, powered by sheer stubbornness. I’d tip my hat if I weren’t so tired of the noise. Pass the earplugs; this loudmouth’s not done yet.