On one side are the spoiled children of privilege who've never been threatened with getting callouses on their soft hands, and who for their own amusement spend their idle hours scheming on how to stir up the dumbasses to go out and riot in the fucking streets. Just exactly like 1968, and for that matter 1789, when Denis Diderot and Voltaire and the other descendants of that idiot Rousseau lolled around in silk-lined 18th-century drawing rooms and speculated how best to inspire the hoi polloi to spill its own blood in the streets. And yes, I hate those little cocksuckers, just like I saw through them in 1968 when they inspired people I loved to go get their heads cracked in Lincoln Park to disrupt the Chicago convention and get it blamed on the cops.
There has categorically never in the history of the world been a "spontaneous" demonstration that wasn't carefully planned and instigated by a very few people who had absolutely none of their own skin in the game. That little punk Billy Dohrn-Ayers woke up this morning with a diamond-cutter hardon over the memory of getting to throw one last tantrum on the living-room floor of his imagined parents.
Brownshirts, boys and girls. You're watching it live and in color.
Labels: Fascism, Liberalism, riot