From an Undisclosed Motel 6 in Illinois
The people, united, will never be defeated — especially with a little Skyline chili and sturgeon for breakfast.


You’re probably wondering why I’m writing this from an undisclosed location (full disclosure: I’m in South Beloit, Ill.). The answer is, I’m showing my solidarity with the heroic proletarian working-class stiffs and Joe Six-Packs who make up the Wisconsin, Indiana, and Ohio lamister-legislator delegations, now appearing on milk cartons across the nation as your various state Gestapo goon organizations try to hunt them down. And all for the simple “crime” of answering to a higher moral authority.

For shame!

Yes, I knew it would come to this: that one day you racist, teabagging wingnuts would finally achieve your dream to outlaw the Democratic party, held since the day Abraham Lincoln took Andrew Johnson hostage as vice president, thus setting the Democrat up for impeachment. Why, Dred Scott himself did not suffer the way these good and men and women have suffered, far from their families, unable to sleep, waiting for the inevitable knock at the door. Even singing patriotic ditties such as “If I Had a Hammer,” “Joe Hill,” and “The Banana Boat Song” helps alleviate the Dostoevskian gloom only a little.

Now, I’ve tried explaining to them that this is the closest they’re going to come to experiencing the lost workers’ paradise of Stalinist Russia, but they don’t quite see it through the same lens of dialectical materialism that I learned at the feet of the master. That would be my father, the sainted “Che” Kahane, who, together with his brother, Uncle Joe, eagerly soaked up the triumph of collectivism from his illustrious forebears. Most of them disappeared into the Gulag Archipelago, true — but it was a small price to pay for peace, land, bread, and social justice.

Anyhow, we’re all huddled up here at our undisclosed location, noshing on beef jerky and some Cincinnati chili from Skyline that the Ohioans get smuggled in by the Teamsters in exchange for future health-care and pension benefits. I won’t mention the name of the Motel 6 where we are, but you can probably figure out which one it is by the array of satellite trucks, pizza-delivery vehicles, and midwestern blondes doing stand-ups with the “Welcome to Illinois” sign looming in the background. It’s been my job to coach our brave renegades on how best to stick it to the Man, to present their most reasonable, more-in-sorrow, woeful countenances to the television cameras while our public-employee-union supporters contort their faces in purple rage back home in Madison and Topeka and Bismarck, or whatever those other state capitals are called.

In other words, it’s the perfect leftist two-step in the Age of Obama: Say one thing, do the exact opposite. Pretend to be reasonable and then sucker-punch your opponent. Preach civility (come on — you knew that was a joke, right?) and break out the Hitler mustaches. Swear to faithfully execute the laws of the United States and then pull the rug out from under the Defense of Marriage Act. Genius!

As I’ve explained elsewhere, it’s all a part of our allegiance to a Higher Power — which is ourselves and our own base appetites. You Judeo-Christian creeps often accuse us of having no moral center, no guiding philosophy, no soaring, overarching ethos, but that’s a dirty lie. Of course we do, and here it is:

By any means necessary.

If I were you, and I thank the good goddess Gaia every day that I am not, I would tattoo our little credo on the inside of your eyelids, and refer to it often, as if it were your daily breviary, for it explains why we’re pulling this little stunt.

You probably see the situation like this: that we’re a bunch of sore losers, cowards, crybabies, spoiled children, IQ-challenged idiots, corrupt tools of the AFL-CIO and other progressive sodalities, layabouts, wastrels, gonophs, second-story men, freeloaders, goldbrickers, abortion providers, and tort lawyers. And you’d be right!

But that’s only one way to look at us. The other is the way we prefer to see ourselves, the way our obedient media celebrate us: as heroes. You see, in the progressive imagination, it is always either 1938 or 1965, and the dark night of racist fascism is descending upon the land. Sweatshops abound, rapacious capitalist warmongers and crazed Christianists stalk the earth, sundering families, dispatching small children into the Pennsylvania coal mines, mandating Anabaptism, and imposing onerous import and excise taxes on the Toyota Prius and the Nissan Leaf.

In other words, Robert Bork’s Amerikkka.


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