It’s already being called the yippie equivalent of Thermopylae. 300 brave graduate students, armed with piping hot lilac-infused chai, held off over 125,000 houseflies at the socialist last stand against capitalist banksterism – Wall Street. I was among them.
The Day of Rage, alas, turned into a Day of Malaise. Ginned up anger and resentment at that most nebulous of foes – a many-tongued demon known only as “Greed” – exploded into the unexpected guise of scraggly trust fund babies in dancing panda bear suits, soon to be found sleeping off a Red Bull crash on a NY Times-littered streetcorner.
“What capitalist sorcery is this?” Many of us asked ourselves before urinating in an Arizona pomegranate tea bottle. My Lennon-rimmed comrades familiar with Dungeon & Dragons know well the chicanery of Greenstax the Dread, the black magician whose blood rites bless the top hedge funds.
How could only 300 steely-eyed souls show up out of a promised 20,000, when the crimes of Wall Street are so notorious? Some speculated that the anti-government teabaggers had conjured up the succubus Sarahpalinisteles to suck the brains out of our compatriots and convert them to the dark side.
To counteract such evil elements, a hacky-sack game broke out to build our collective spirits. The smell of cloves and hemp hung heavy in the air to drive off the blacks forces that pervade throughout America’s financial district. The sound of tambourines and Indian rattles warded off the specters of moneylust seeping into the camp, as many craved chocolate-drizzled biscotti and pumpkin-scented cappuccino near midday.
Some tried to remain strong and resist the corporate temptations of Starbucks and Panera, but defected when the tummy rumblings grew louder. In true socialist spirit, they broke cranberry bran muffins among the hungry masses, a mission Che Guevara, the communist Jesus Christ, would have been proud of.
The day was destined not to go down in the annals of American history as Woodstock did. John Ratzenberger, Cliff Claven of Cheers fame for those not in the know, had already outed his fellow hippies in the traitorous rabble-rouser Mark Steyn‘s After America (gawd, one could only hope):
I was at Woodstock – I built the stage. And when everything fell apart, and people were fighting for peanut butter sandwiches, it was the National Guard who came in and saved the same people who were protesting them. So when Hillary Clinton a few years ago wanted to build a Woodstock. memorial, I said it should be a statue of a National Guardsmen feeding a crying hippie. (343)
We were determined that WallStock would not turn out like Woodstock. We wanted to fight, damn it! Fight!
But when the fuzz showed up, we could only go so limp. The pigs wouldn’t even bother to drag us off to jail for 24 hours in the tank. They acted like it wasn’t even worth their time to combat the true revolutionaries in their midst, since the stupid cops have no grasp of the historical import of our ideals. The fat fools just stood there, incessantly chewing their Dunkin Donuts kruellers, shooting the bull about the Yankees game and laughing while texting on their I-phones.
What does a socialist freedom fighter have to do to get some attention? When they said the revolution wouldn’t be televised, they didn’t say it would be because of boredom.