Field reporting by Blaine Dabbley, embedded guerrilla journalist in the Occupy movement’s twelfth brigade and sophomore student in Film Studies at Emerson College, writing for the Sentinel Dispatch.
It was a rude awakening Tuesday morning when my roommate Seth put his size eleven boot squarely in my jaw. I lay prone and drooling on my unicorn sleeping blanket, unsuspecting of the tirade that was to come.
The scorching white daystar approached the zenith of her daily orbit and burned down upon the gentile slaves toiling away the midday hour. The grunts of full-grown men heaved into the arid summer air, interrupted only by the pitch and ping of spades striking unforgiving earth. The African heat was miserable, almost unbearable, as thirst and sweat and mosquitoes nagged the laborers mercilessly.
Billionaire philanthropist Maurice Grubbins VI, sole proprietor of Radical Industries, writes a confidential memorandum to Mortimer Fairchild II, controlling shareholder of the First People’s Democratic Bank of America. Memorandum discovered per Freedom of Information Act request.
Dear Mortimer Fairchild:
I grow weary of the market system, Mortimer, to be quite honest with you. We have exceeded the bounds of wealth’s ability to bring happiness to these bitter old souls and have finally reached the point of diminishing returns. We have bribed politicians with embarrassing impunity, rained down millions of regulations upon our adversaries to keep them mired in minutiae, and have held down the lid on the bubbling cauldron of public opinion by summoning all our vast corporate media necromancy.
(The fact that corporations espouse a decidedly left-wing bent seems to have escaped our dear friends the leftists. If only the fogheaded flapperdoodles knew that they unwittingly abet our eventual domination! Be sure to never let that delicious plum escape you.)
By Jean A. Seersucker, California-licensed extrasensory psychopathologist and state-certified medium, as first published in the Journal of Animal Seance.
When my editors gave me the task of attempting to psychically locate a dog’s spirit from over forty years ago, my first inclination was to balk. After all, the animal spirit world was notoriously feisty, and running in a pack of mangy animals for more than an hour gave me the post-seance impulse to furiously itch fleas. But when they told me the case involved the President of the United States, I had to bite.
Exclusive field reporting by Blaine Dabbley, embedded guerrilla journalist in the Occupy movement’s twelfth brigade and sophomore student in Film Studies at Emerson College, writing for the Vagrant Voice.
Fire blazed across the screen of my Mactop pro early Friday evening as black-masked hooligans marched into lower Manhattan carrying torches and wielding Molotov cocktails. Read more
By Dr. Christopher Flappitydo, Director of the Institute for Diversity & Tolerance & Multiculturalism & Compassion & Inclusiveness as originally published in the New England Agitator.
America is facing an epidemic. The GOP’s shock troops on the New Right have launched into a bigoted “war on morons” — a right-wing crusade that threatens the very existence of the Democrat Party. If something isn’t done to halt the proliferation of alternative information sources in this country, the progress of statism, economic insolvency, and the idiocy that drives them both could be reversed once and for all.
Shuffling into the office at the Institute for Anthropological Research, the smell of musty, acrid yellow-paged tomes filled my nostrils. My flat-soled penny loafers skid over the linoleum tile as my cumbersome feet sought to find the ground beneath me after each step. In my right hand, a tripod walker guided me in to see my colleagues, Ray and Laura, who were sitting on opposite sides of the room pecking away on their laptops.
Throughout Barack Hussein Obama’s presidency, racist conservatives (an oxymoron) have suffered through the leadership of a man who is nothing but pure awesomeness. Unfortunately, some of us have been unable to come out of the closet and articulate our appreciation because, well — he’s black.
I know, I know. We’re trying to run a respectable establishment here. As long as we have segregated blog categories for white and black commentators, we should be safe. In any event, it’s been a real struggle to maintain a veneer of contempt for a president who is so damned admirable and whose list of accomplishments seem to go on forever.
The entire Democratic House minority has adopted a “wear your hoodie to work” day in solidarity with Congressman Bobbi Rush, who was dragged off the House floorby “da man” after delivering a stirring and extremely lucid speech on the late Trayvon Martin. Rush caused a scandal by breaking House rules on decorum when he sermonized from The Bible while wearing a gray hoodie.
The tragic shooting of Trayvon Martin led to an outcry for justice by those who believe Martin’s shooter Zimmerman was wrongfully released in accordance with Florida’s “Stand Your Ground” law. According to 9-11 tapes, the neighborhood watchman Zimmerman, who is a Democrat with hispanic heritage, suspected Martin and followed him in part because he was wearing a hoodie and presumably because he was black.
The Democrats issued the press release for the “hoodie day,” which was attained by an anonymous source:
Continued on Conservative Daily News.
We spend like there’s no tomorrow – and if we keep it up, there won’t be. We tax businesses into extinction. We measure our economics in terms of compassion instead of productivity, never quite noticing the inverse correlation. We witness our once-bustling cities being transformed into dilapidated welfare hubs, surrounded by collapsing industrial infrastructure and sprawling shanty towns.
And yet, people continue to vote Democrat.
Dana Milliband is a photojournalist and beat reporter for the New London Times. His work has appeared in Rolling Stone, Esquire, The New Republic, The Atlantic, and Coffee Drinkers Monthly.
The dilapidated shanty towns lovingly erected across America’s towering urban metropolises in protest of rampant Wall Street greed were until recently the sites of many a strident sit-in, raucous drum festival, and vigorous love-in. But the Coleman-covered encampments were not merely the makeshift assemblies of anti-capitalist contagion, they were the ramparts of a generation left out in the cold of free market madness.
Pacing the abandoned ghost towns, my footsteps crushing the discarded styrofoam containers, cast aside like so many broken dreams, I sought any signs that the weary youths were not hopelessly lost. Avoiding the excrement of their dashed expectations, I soldiered onward until there was the faintest sign of human activity ahead. Encircled around a rusted oil drum, some standing with their hands cupped over a blazing inferno, were a dozen youths of fiercely defiant visage. Unsheathing my Nikon D4, I set out to tell these broken warriors’ stories.
When the Democrat Support Group ended, I felt as lonely and bewildered as at any other time in my life. Instead of giving me approval for my solidly progressive views, the group had scolded me for my supposed “refusal to take responsibility.” And then to make matters worse, the doctor, obviously an educated man, sided with the other patients! Needless to say, I wasn’t looking forward to my time on the couch with Dr. Paul Alethia, the rigid shrink who ran the hospital psychiatric ward.
The nurse wheeled me into the doc’s private office straight after the support group meeting. As I entered the room, I took a few mental notes about the man who would be picking my brain for the next hour. The wheelchair slowed as we ran onto the verdant green luxuriant carpet. To my right, glossy trophies and plaque were presented neatly in the corner of the room. Before me, a gorgeous mahogany desk, and upon it, an emerald pen holder and writing pen. A yellow pad of paper sat haphazardly cast on the reflective surface leading up to a dark brown leather chair.
Entering the Navel, California auditorium, one could immediately sense the tension in the throng of parents and teachers gathered to solve the age-old question in sex education standards: bananas or cucumbers? Nearly three hundred parents turned out to express their concerns over a matter that had the potential to shape K-12 education and their children’s futures. I took my seat twelve rows back, next to a slightly attractive lady whom I had the pleasure to speak with on this crucial issue.
President Obama hosted a bizarre evening press conference on the White House lawn. The bright lights of the Washington D.C. backdrop was slightly surreal: ferris wheels, flashing colors, cotton candy and merry-go-round ponies whirring in dizzying circles. Dressed in a rainbow-hue pin-striped suit and blue ribbon straw hatsporting the Obama symbol, the president looked more like a Vaudeville character from the 1930s than the leader of the free world.
“Come one, come all!” yelled the president. “Step right up! What we’ve got here is a major announcement… yessiree, a major announcement. Come one, come all, ladies and gentlemen!”
Obama whirled onto the stage like a genie. The press corps and other lookers-on shuffled up to the illuminated stage like an eager herd. Two beaming stage lights clicked on and shown down directly on the dandily dressed president. The charming man subsequently tipped his hat, straightened his red bow tie, and produced a three foot tap-dancing cane. The faint smell of funnel cakes and smoke shot up the nostrils.
“What we’ve got here is Trouble in these magnificent United States of America, and I tell you, I tell you all that I’ve come up with a pro-po-sal,” the president said in a strange cadence and sing-songy voice. “What we need here is some kind of plan. Some kind of action. A stim-u-lus if you please.”
It had been a long, joyless 342 days since the hard right announced its crusade to eradicate womyn’s rights and to throw civilization back into the dark ages. The Wellsley college campanile sounded shrill in the frigid wintry air at ten a.m. – a harsh reminder of the places in the world where freedom does not ring.
Awakening in the hostile sunlight, I logged into my Facebook. Hysterical reports had flooded into my inbox of a socon conspiracy to protest neonatal infanticide at Planned Parenthood headquarters at high noon. The revelation jolted me more than any mocha half-caf cappucino. Here was a spur to action that instantly shook off the hangover of those strawberry wine coolers I drank last night. So I threw on my rainbow leg warmers and laced up my combat boots. Time to return to the grisly profession of war.
Continued at Conservative Daily News.
Alone. A lonely stream of white light shines barren through an iron-grilled window onto the cold tiled floor. Dust particles whirl in the illuminated vapor. The black shadow lines cross the floor’s checkered pattern, forming a clashing array of black and white. I lean back, shoulder blades touching two sides of the wall, and rest in the corner. The bones in my rear ache. The ground is hard and flat and stretches forth to a gray-padded door with a slot in the center.
The walls are padded too. A weird kind of puffiness. Can’t move my arms. What a miserable hellish place.
How did I get here? A hospital. Those two doctors…the bearded bastard sent me here. Why? Some yelling, anger, fury – yes, and why not? There was a war on! The traitor Bush…it was Bush, right? He did this! It’s his fault…for the wars, for that damned Patriot Act, for me being here! He did this to me. The dictator sent me here.
Was this a political prison? Stalin is said to have used psychiatric wards to punish and silence dissidents, but those are just right-wing rumors. Maybe this was some kind of payback for dissent? I wouldn’t put it past him. That man had no intention of leaving since the day he took office. He stole the election, after all. He stole the election!
Awake. A halo of bright white light streams into my eyes. All is blurry as my pupils painfully dilate to take in my unfamiliar surroundings. A lamp, some kind of lamp, swings slowly above me. At first, out of focus, but the blurred edges are becoming clearer now. I feel a cold, hard mattress underneath me. It’s crinkly plastic and slightly inclined. Laying on top of me is a ridged light blue blanket resting above a crisp white sheet. I grasp it with my hands. It’s real.
Where am I?
The musty acrid chemical smell and the cream decor give the place an institutional aura. Woozy, senses flooded by the light, I feel like vomiting. I wrap my hand around the chill steel of a guard rail and know this must be some kind of hospital.
How did I get here? The last thing I remember is the fall. Looking up, there was Ray and Laura, standing over me, shaking me, shouting something unintelligible.
Fade to black.
Continued on Conservative Daily News.
“We’ve always been at war with Eastasia,” President Obama stammered during his prime-time address, dashing away a bead of sweat from his brow. “I don’t see why everyone’s getting so wee-weed up.”
Such began Obama’s defense of his wartime record before a hostile townhall forum packed with far-left groups congregated to mark Compassion Week. The crowd was largely comprised of staunch supporters of his 2008 campaign and included anti-war groups highly critical of the prior administration’s belligerent policies. Unexpected shouts of “no more war!” had left the president frazzled.
Continued at Conservative News Daily.