[Editor’s note: There was a note attached to this “submission,” which said, “This is an absurdist riff on cognitive dissonance. I don’t expect you or any of your literalist lefty loser friends who delude yourselves into thinking you’re the reality-based community (now there’s a joke if I ever heard one. No person living in 2016 Weimar America is based in reality!!!!) to have the slightest inkling of comprehension here. However, unless you want my half-witted giant of a process server friend (he cried for days after Hodor got it; well, didn’t we all?) to show up at your door at 3 am with a pizza-smeared subpoena for a violation you’ll have to search Black’s Law Dictionary with a microscope to find, I suggest you post it.”
Well, what could a “sensible chap” like your startled editor do, but immediately allow a determined Discretion to snatch the reins from Valor’s fumbling and uncertain grip?
This, as you’ll see, is the unfortunate result. My most sincere apologies. – Michael]
I’m Mike Hasty, founder and proprietor of the Abbie Hoffman School of Applied Nonviolent Guerrilla Strategy and Tactics—named after one of my personal heroes and one of the greatest Americans who ever lived, Abbie Hoffman—revolutionary Yippie co-leader of the last great American rebellion (the anti-Vietnam War movement), comic genius, and a personal role model and even, indirectly, mentor. I’ll tell you about that sometime.
I suppose I should introduce myself, since to most of you (you know, a lot of my friends, many of whom are leftist political types like myself, and should be reading this blog– because I am constantly astonished by the numerous looks of baffled incomprehension I see in the faces of the smartest people I know—the only people I actually like to hang around with, because I just can’t stand people who will stand there like a milquetoast as I am regularly, cleverly, hopefully humorously, and yet nevertheless mercilessly teasing them—regularly lie to me about reading my blog (I know because I see the stats, but then again, can you blame them? Who wants to read a bunch of serious overcomplicated bullshit from that asshole?
Okay, typically enough, I once again find myself in an overly tangled grammatical jungle of my own creation. Jesus, potheads—will we never learn? How the fuck am I going to finish this sentence? Let me figure this out. Let’s see, if I go back to where I started here…”since to most of you”…oh, there’s the exit. Excuse me.)—I’m just one of those countless Internet goblins clacking away on the computer in his (Holy fucking Christ! Could I possibly be any more politically incorrect?!? Well, frankly, yes, if you ask my exasperated leftist friends. But it’s a complicated issue, as most of you know, that I’ll address in future lessons in this course on NVG Ops. But for the moment, and for the sake of comity in this fledgling outing of NVG Ops, “their”…) mother’s (actually, my wife’s, in my case. Like many husbands, I spend many of my hours lurking in my basement office, frantically trying to live my own life in those few all-too-brief moments between the unexpected and often paradoxical assignments from the boss upstairs) basement who likes to hear their voice echoing ever-so-faintly in the white noise sea of infinite cyberspace.
You know, I have to tell you something. As you few souls who have actually read the hieroglyphics I like to think of my “writing” (and I use that word in the loosest manner possible) know, because you have actually read it (unlike my duplicitous alleged “friends”)(actually, there’s a lot of you, because I’m an old man who’s been writing for a long time, and every once in awhile I make a splash as I dive into the cesspool of the Matrix), I have written some long fucking sentences in my life. I mean, really long. I have probably the worst case of satyagraha diarrhea of anyone I know. But virtually every one of those long fucking sentences has made more fucking sense than that fucking thing. Jesus! Am I glad to wipe the mud of that rhetorical swamp off of my fucking metaphorical feet! I hope I never do that again! Well, you’re right. As if. Anyway, back to business…
Well, this is typical. I’ve been having so much fun shooting the rapids of the stream of consciousness that I have neglected my more important, even urgent responsibilities, and taxed your tiny little attention spans. You all know what I mean. Everybody does it sometimes, even you Tighty Righties hiding over there in the cyber corner, curious about what a real revolution looks like on this end of the American ideological spectrum—unlike your deluded and hypnotized compatriots in the brown-shirted and surly ranks drinking the poison Koolaid dripping from the silvery con-artist tongue of the future President Rump—future, if we don’t get this nonviolent revolution going, that is.
And for all you hypnotized lefties who believe Bernie—who is a great guy I have admired since I first heard about him when I was a carpenter in Vermont and he was mayor of Burlington, and will admire for as long as I live, because he was the guy who sparked the revolution that changed America (the alternative, which we face if we don’t get serious about our duty as citizens, being too hideous to contemplate)–Bernie is no revolutionary.
That, in fact, is the secret of his success as a politician throughout his political career. He has worked within the established system throughout his career, and because he’s a smart guy, he’s been able to work it so well that he’s been able to help millions of people, and when it really comes down to it, that’s why we all fell in love with him.
But that’s also why his vision of revolution is limited to the cramped and byzantine confines of the established order, and is in fact no real revolution at all. It’s only a “political” revolution, whose plan all along was to leave the established economic order in place. And the financial industry—the banks, who own the government, and have since President Andrew Jackson established the first national bank in the early 19th century—did not feel threatened by Bernie’s “political” revolution.
The evidence for the rather modest effort in Bernie’s revolution is found most strongly in the mistaken decisions he’s made since the Democratic National Committee (with the help, of course, of the Deep State apparatchiks at the Clinton News Network) cheated him out of his rightful nomination as the Democratic candidate for president (I know you Hillbots want to argue the point, and so we’ll get to that, some other time).
Actually, the evidence is also found in the very serious mistakes Bernie made earlier—which if he hadn’t made may have spared us this uniquely and historically horrific choice: between a crook, a con artist, a nincompoop (what fucking American hasn’t heard of Aleppo, when the propaganda system has been stirring the pot for deeper US involvement in Syria for months?), and a sweetly sincere, smart-as-a-whip, visionary, Harvard-educated physician who actually knows something about the American health care system, and (unfortunately) policy wonk, who is so naïve about politics that she really and truly believes that the words “Green” and “New Deal” actually mean more to the most propagandized, confused, uninformed, and frankly stupidest population on the face of the earth (deliberately engineered that way by the Mighty Wurlitzer and the Matrix) than the words “Brown” and “Horseshit.”
It’s kind of funny to think that she, innocent that she is, is the last hope of saving planet Earth. Because at this perhaps unprecedently absurd point in human history, Jill Stein is where Bernie’s revolution has got to move, in order to support the immediate and necessary revolutionary project of preventing the election of President Rump and the emergence of genuine fascism in America, and not the relatively gentle and technocratic form we’ve experienced so far.
Early on, when my more traditional Democratic friends were starting to become alarmed at my subtle Green shifts, as it became more and more clear that Deep State manipulations would rob our champion of his prize, and all of us of our chance to advance the political revolution (which would have been difficult to keep from being strangled by the creeps anyway, even if Bernie had miraculously entered the Oval Office—where every modern president is immediately surrounded by a “phalanx of CEOs,” as Bob Woodward, a longtime Deep State apparatchik himself, wrote in The Agenda), I blithely thought (and the more malicious of my friends can confirm this, because whenever I think I have an original thought—hard to tell these days, reality is so elusive (well, not for me, of course, whose normal reality no truly normal human would ever acknowledge as such in the first place. You’d understand fully if you were in my head. Of course, no truly normal human would ever want to be in my head, a surrealistic and sometimes terrifying Wonderland that would drive even the plucky Alice batshit crazy—I immediately blab it to everyone within earshot)…Ahem. To continue…I blithely thought that the national security state would not allow Rump to become president, because they didn’t want to worry about their multinational fellow lizards giggling behind their backs at Davos cocktail parties. (Guess I’m grabbing for the “long sentence” ring on the consciousness merry-go-round today.) That was before our thoroughly “Christianized” (another big lie, but far too complicated to go into this early in the series) military started lining up behind Il Douchebag. Anybody want to hear a handmaid’s tale?
Anyway, to return to the “narrative” (now there’s a generous term, if ever there was one). Which was, exactly…? Fuck. The train of thought has once again jumped the rails. Well, what luck. It’s time for a toke on my glaucoma “prescription.” (Chuckle.) Thank God I developed an allergy to the drops.
And to think that the ophthalmologist was worried that the requisite bowl every three hours would be a problem. Well, actually, she was right, it is. Sometimes I’ll be sitting here, drumming my fingers on the desk, wondering what to write next, thinking, “Jesus Christ! Isn’t that fucking three hours up yet?!?”
Honestly, I have to confess: sometimes I cheat.
Anyway, excuse me for a moment while I see if my “medicine” (ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! I can’t believe my luck, that my wife decided to move with her indentured servant to Maine! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!) will have its intended effect of setting the carnival train back on track, and hopefully sending the memory of where the fucking “narrative” was going floating up through the clouds of euphoria like a message in a Magic 8-Ball.
Aaaaaah. I knew it. There she is, rolling in the station, right on time.
What I was going to say is that anyone who thinks that filling in the box next to the name of that traitorous banshee, Killary Kodpiece Klinton, Amazon of the Neocons, the most hawkish candidate of either party even before the other two dozen or so dropped out (I hope you decided to go independent, Vermin Supreme. If ever we needed you, it’s now!) is a revolutionary act—well, I hate to be a big old meanie, especially to my naively idealistic crunchy granola friends who may think it is—but you don’t know the first fucking thing about real nonviolent revolution.
And the armies of Rump are marching behind the undeniable facts about Killary Kodpiece Klinton–facts that, had Bernie not so feared the threatened stripping of his Democratic committee assignments and revealed early on, when he should have, and would have revealed to more timorous Democrats the true ugliness of the naked Empress–facts the opportunistic Con Man is using to scorch the earth behind the Dragon Lady’s dwindling and retreating forces.
Luckily, you have in me a cranky old nonviolent warrior who’s been in the arena a time or two (you can check out some of my misadventures in the “Welcome” and “About” pages here at Free Radical Maine) and is willing to act as a guide (oh, what? You were looking for a leader? Sorry, that’s not the dynamic of this particular underground revolution, which has been simmering across the country for several years, but is only starting to break to the surface now, in the bright light of the 2016 “presidential” (what a fucking joke! The lizards are laughing in our faces) campaign).
In this revolution—perhaps unique in history, as are so many astonishing phenomena in these cursedly interesting times—the revolutionary leaders—and you’re out there, even if you don’t know it yet—have to come from everywhere at once, just like the crowds of Islamists smothered the hapless soldiers with numbers in Turkey, and crushed the clumsily-executed CIA coup attempt.
See, even a flash mob can beat the Deep State. You just have to know when to strike.
So, interested in signing up for NVG Ops? Well, here’s your first homework assignment. Learn how to use Google, or whatever search engine you like (they’re all Deep State-monitored, it doesn’t make any difference). Always remember that you live in a surveillance state, and they’re always monitoring everyone as much as they can, so they can adjust their algorithms and keep us under their control.
That’s why we have to educate ourselves as much as possible, because knowing your enemy is the first rule of military strategy—which every nonviolent guerrilla should learn, because that’s what they’re going to be using against us. And—well, surprise, surprise! as Gomer used to say—military strategy can also be adapted to nonviolent tactics.
So if you want to learn more, tune in to the next exciting (zzzzz. Frankly, I don’t know if I have any more readers left than Jill Stein did at the end of her academic lecture (as opposed to a stump speech. Jesus, do we revolutionaries have some work to do. And don’t get me started on the Green Party. A more motley, long-winded and wacky collection of weirdo crackpots like myself I’ve never encountered—and believe me, I’ve seen ‘em all—in Manchester last week) episode of NVG Ops!
And never forget! All successful revolutions are fun, so you have to keep this one that way, or we’re not gonna win, and my granddaughter will grow up in a hellish world. And as long as there is breath in my body, I will do everything in my however limited power to prevent that from happening.
If you want to join me, that’s your responsibility. I’ve got my own job to do, as do we all, if we’re going to re-create civilization.
We can do that if the revolution stays fun. Just ask Emma Goldman. Or ask Abbie Hoffman, next time he’s reincarnated.
God, I love that guy.
So seeya next time at NVG Ops. Whenever that is. You can never tell with a pothead. But whenever it is, just remember the sage advice of a late and beloved former Orkan:
Be there or be square.
[Editor’s note: As you sparse but regular readers of Free Radical Maine are aware, this is usually a distinguished journal of serious, extensively referenced, political commentary and other pseudointellectual ruminations. As a rule, we do not usually publish the sort of absurdist drivel in evidence here, on these august electronic pages.
However, given the critical nature of the political emergency in 2016 America, and the absence of contributions from writers with sufficient gravitas to meet our high standards—due to our strict and revolutionary, volunteer “no-pay” policy (hey, if that rich blabbermouth Arianna Huffington can do it, why can’t we?) and the fact that your humble editor also has to live in the real meat puppet world, in addition to this cozy non-profit (boy, you can say that again!) sinecure in cyberspace—I’m afraid we’ll have to endure NVG Ops for the time being.
However, if you just will stick with us, this editor promises that he will “fight like the dickens” to eventually “red pencil” this “wild man from the North” into submission—or something like that. Meanwhile, we appreciate your patience. Thank you. – Michael]
[Editor’s note: P.S. Any resemblance between the “literary style” of the “author” of Nonviolent Guerrilla Operations, etc., and myself, is purely due to the unfortunate accident of the fact that we share the same human operating system…to my everlasting and deeply experienced shame and embarrassment. Perhaps I’ll fare better in my next incarnation. Meanwhile, again, thank you for your patience. – Michael]