fuck the state

The Red Son costume is finally complete – authentic ushanka hat with Soviet emblem, hand-drawn Commie Superman t-shirt, weathered gray worker's cape, hammer & sickle belt buckle, and gray pants tucked into high leather work boots. The party is for D.C. political types, mostly Libertarians. I am Red Son, Proletarian Superhuman, and I fear nothing. “Stalin?” people ask incredulously, gawking at me as Obama Robbin' Hood or Spiderman, American Revolutionary or Roaring Twenties flapper. A doe-eyed woman in tight dress and fake-fur coonskin cap says she will go home with me if I make good on my threat to PETA her ass with a gallon of blood. Later, I watch her reluctantly let a man kiss her on the mouth. I am a Proletarian Superhuman; my heart is pure. The inside of the house on the quiet residential street is lit by black-light, and someone has used black-light sensitive tape to write Fuck The State over a prominently-placed Gadsden flag. We chant this slogan while dancing to techno beats, our bodies gyrating wildly as our hearts swell with thoughts of Freedom. I find a flashlight in the grass out back and return it to the mercenary types guarding the front gate, who assure me that their semi-automatic rifles are fakes spray-painted black to look real. I am faster than a speeding bullet; I fear nothing. Next to the backyard bar, near the fire-circle, someone has placed a pumpkin engraved with a hyper-accurate likeness of Lindsey Graham. Our ardor is high, our spirits flicker, aroused. “Have you heard about the revolution?” a man dressed as Trotsky keeps yelling from his post by the kegs of beer. For a spell, he and I harangue all passersby, speaking vehemently of revolution and demanding that our voices be heard. I am a Proletarian Superhuman, and I would like to speak to you about something important. I make a game of pretending to mistake both guys dressed as Where's Waldo for lighthouses – they are gracious and laugh with me; they refuse to be offended. A sexy border patrol agent and I briefly suck face, with me grabbing her mammoth breasts through her shirt, but she is a smoker and I am repulsed by the taste of her mouth. The night deepens; a neighbor calls the cops. “I wish we could smoke some more weed,” a man in a strap-on Amish chin-beard says while inhaling candy from a table over by the kegs. I a Kal-L, chocoholic. Tell me: Do you have a moment to speak about the revolution?

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on discussing religion

In the 1950s, America was gearing up for a war that never turned hot. One potent weapon lurking in the federal arsenal was propaganda, a tool with which the Nazis before them had enslave an entire people to murderous ends. That it had been employed to ill effect in Europe was of little concern to the policy-makers in Washington, D.C. – they required every measure at their disposal to hoodwink the American people into allowing them to spend tens of trillions of dollars on a 40 year-long struggle of the wills. The Red Scare is over, and the Iron Curtain is down, but one aspect of the Cold War continues to harm millions of Americans, even unto this day: the frequent invocation of the Christian god Yahweh.

From the pledge of allegiance to the words spoken by new presidents, one phrase has contaminated the speech of officialdom such as few others before it: “under God”. This foul credo even stains our currency, every dollar we print saying IN GOD WE TRUST. Why did the fear mongers and panic sellers of sixty years ago tether our once fine and secular nation to the tenets of one religion in particular? Did they tarnish the sacrifice made by our Founding Persons and the bygone Sons of Liberty merely to justify their hatred for godless, heathen communists? Did they shit on this republic's chest out of a wan sense of patriotism or were they simply oblivious to the lessons of history? For whatever reason, our money now promotes one religion to the exclusion of all others, and our children are now tricked into worshiping bloodthirsty, genocidal Yahweh before class, each day. When millions of Americans believe that a bearded old White man sits in the sky judging their every action and that a red-skinned pervert with hoofed feet is filling their brains with evil thoughts, we see just how badly those Cold War policy makers fucked up; when candidates running for public office have to curry the favor of wild-eyed, bible-thumping, chest-pounding fanatics or risk losing the election, we see just how dangerous it is to link religion to government.

It is important to discuss the topic of racism with other people, regardless of their skin tone, mindset, belief system, needs, wants, or fears. Americans of color lament that too few of their Caucasian countrymen speak about racism regularly, openly, and without compunction. As people who have been marginalized and despised for centuries, minorities recognize that ignorance leads to fear, fear leads to hatred, and hatred leads to death; they have learned firsthand the dangers that silence brings. Similar to racism, religion must be discussed regularly, openly, and without compunction in order to keep the individual from backsliding into a mindset calcified by relentless exposure to his shaman's fire-branded, unchallenged vituperation. In the words of our first president, George Washington, and his successor, John Adams (from the Treaty of Tripoli): “America is not in any sense founded on the Christian Religion.” It is as vital to the survival of our basic Constitutional rights to discuss the risks of our own state-sanctioned religious fanaticism as it is to combat the foreign-born fanatics who seek to do us harm. So, next time you manage to tear yourself from in front of the television, strike up a conversation with someone about religion. Please don't forget, though, that the faithful rarely enjoy talking about their beliefs unless they are being praised for them. Sic semper tyrannis.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥

dollar store commies

As of these last few months of 2012, millions of American citizens are directly supporting the People's Republic of China, our country's primary economic competitor and one of the sole remaining bastions of the socialistic world-view. Every day, Americans support communism in the People's Republic of China; by demanding rock-bottom prices in cities great and small – from the rolling central plains to the rugged western coastline – countless numbers of red-blooded, patriotic Ynki contribute directly to the ascending might of the Middle Kingdom.

Dollar stores, which sell products ranging from shower curtains to miniature cast-resin busts of zebras, stand at the forefront of the Chinese invasion of, and its dominance over, the American economy. Purchasing an item that reads “Made In China” funnels funds directly into the rapidly growing Chinese economy (where most of the consumer items sold in dollar stores are made) rather than into the pockets of producers based in these United States. From the 1980s onward, the capitalistic oligarchy has taken for itself great portions of America's wealth saw an opportunity to further line their pockets, destroying the manufacturing economy in this country by shifting manufacturing capacity to foreign countries. As hundreds of thousands of our fellow citizens lost their manufacturing jobs, they had few options than to buy the cheapest products in order to survive; they turned to dollar stores, thereby supporting the very system that had swallowed up their jobs in the first place. The capitalistic oligarchy effectively enslaved the American consumer to the whims of foreign nations by shifting production overseas to special economic zones that are, in everything but name, slave camps.

I welcome our Chinese masters, and greet them cordially by saying Ni-Hao-Ma. As a Son of the American Revolution and a descendant of the Mayflower Pilgrims, my blood runs deep in this land. However, I am not blindly patriotic, nor am I inextricably tied to our prevailing economic model, Me-First Capitalism. In fact, I find our prevailing economic model – in which the fruits of the labor of an entire people are re-directed into the a pockets of but a few corporate officers – deeply and intrinsically un-American. I am personally boycotting dollar stores (and, by extension, Walmart, Target, and the rest of the big-box stores), not to harm the Chinese economy but in quiet mourning for our lost manufacturing economy. Join me if you wish, but know that this choice requires paying a bit more money for everyday goods, a sacrifice that rewards itself with feelings of pride and patriotic fervor. Remember – if you aren't buying products made exclusively in the U.S.A, you are party responsible for the gutting of the American manufacturing economy, for the demise of our middle class, for our slipping military hegemony, and for the Chinese government continuing to purchase significant portions of our national debt. In the long run, shopping at dollar stores will not have a positive economic impact on your personal finances, but it will certainly boost the profits of the plutocrats who sold us out to the commies. Mahalo.

mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥

on velocipedal locomotion

  Moving your body from place to place on a velocipede has many advantages over using a motor vehicle, or walking. To ride bicycle, to mash velocipede, is to issue a clear and open declaration of your physical exuberance, hurtling, sweaty proof that you are in both good health and high spirits. During your travels, you shall learn the rhythm and character of your region's unique micro-climates (so that you might weather the noon-time heat in a cool and shaded grove). You shall search without pause for routes lacking in car traffic, those newly paved, or routes superior in similar ways; your city will reward you with unique views of treasures previously overlooked. You will see and be able to explore more secret places more conveniently than if you were driving in a car, while covering far more ground than if you were on foot. Your iron horse requires no large metered parking space, nor will you have to pay someone to watch it while you are away. The only exhaust vapor you create is your own vital breath, and the only waste heat you produce drips as sweat from your ruddy and pliant skin. You will sleep well at night knowing that you dragged yourself across the phaltscape burning only the fuel found in your own tender guts.

  As a silent propulsion system, bicycling is similar to the Russian caterpillar drive of myth, identical to it in all ways but that the Commie bastards were fusion-powered. To move your body from place to place without a nuclear reactor takes time and effort, and bicycling is effort simple, honest, and pure. Dust off your old bicycle, you lazy carbuncle, and help us give those stinking Reds what for.

  Spes Mea In Ratio Est - 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp