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He was a weird little dude in skinny jeans, a paisley shirt, and a masking smile. He held no body weight to speak of. In another era his delicate lineaments would be described as "wispy". An awkwardly coifed beard courageously clung to the lower half of his spongey face; it was an off-centered hack job that suggested a bathroom mirror in need of either adjustment or removal. He was one of those queerly arranged millennial lads that only look properly placed within the confines of a Starbucks. If you dragged him into the sunlight and forced him to stand erect in his Kenneth Cole Reaction desert suede puss boots, he would look like he'd just fallen off a delivery truck on the way to Madame Tussaud's.

His name was Xander.

This was the first official meeting of the Southern Nevada Anarchist Party (SNAP) and we were the only ones who showed up. Even the guy who called the meeting didn't show. We immediately voted him out of the organization. It was unanimous.

Beware the awesome power two people can wield in the back room of a Marie Callender's.

We greedily devoured our pies and discussed the future of the party, having great difficulty agreeing on a version of anarchism that would carry the organization forward. I touted my street cred as a European-trained practitioner of Individualist Anarchism and he puffed his chest about Social Anarchism and his involvement with the Southern Nevada Alliance of the Libertarian Left. I told him I remembered those guys from a few years back and they were a little too into the posturing and tweeting for my taste. He said I was a judgmental old cock and I agreed with that assessment so we both roundly and unanimously voted me Chairman of the Judgmental Old Cocks wing of SNAP.

I was moving up in the world.

He claimed his right to be Chairman of the Oh No You Di'int wing of SNAP and proved that he was able to move his head back and forth across his shoulders without tilting it.

Some men are born into greatness.

I told him about my time in Amsterdam when I lived in a squat that had "SMASH THE STATE IN A RIOT OF HATE" written across the front of the building, and how I had spent more than a few nights arguing with the anarchist, nihilists, punks and junkies who lived there with me that while I agreed with the sentiment, I thought the use of the word "hate" muddled the message, discouraged recruitment, and therefore delayed the revolution.

I was repeatedly told to fuck off which, quite often, I did. But I liked those guys. Well, maybe like is not the right word. I enjoyed their company and admired their conviction. On one particularly drunken night, an Albanian Hoxhaist named Ramiz broke an Orval Trappist Ale bottle over my head because he felt my definition of anarcho-syndicalism was sloppy and irritating and typical of American laziness.

Neo-Bolshevik ass-hat. But he was right.

Xander thought my squat buddies sounded like the kind of rabble that the proletariat too often associated with Anarchism and that the emerging era of "Trumpist Fascism" (his term, not mine) required a more palatable version of anti-state socialism that emphasized communitarian principles as the most effective means of push back against the encroaching state.

I told him his argument would pack more punch if he didn't have a dollop of blueberry pie dangling off his chin, swinging back and forth like a tiny purple testicle. He pulled it off and tossed it into his gobbling pie hole like an ape as he shot me a self-serving sneer and lifted his left butt cheek to crack an unholy rat.

Anarchist table manners could stand some refinement.

The details of social ownership seemed to be the only point of contention between us so we decided to forgo that dispute until after the revolution. What we did agree upon was that nonviolent but deliberate and relentless industrial unionism would be the preferred method for the proletariat to seize control of the economy in a capitalist society.

A conspiracy had been established and the revolt was officially underway. As with any uprising, your comrades might not be people with whom you would normally associate but providence demands liaison.

In marijuana terms he was more of an indica man and I am primarily a sativa man. Where he would choose a Vanilla Kush and a Caramel Macchiato, I would go with a Super Silver Haze and Turkish coffee.
Somehow we met in the middle with Killa Gorilla and a 4-shot Americano.

Political theory for the lightly toasted.

Copyright © 2016 John Bizarre.
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Anarchy, Pie and "Trumpist Fascism"

Every man has at least one pair of underwear that's completely in tatters - the sagging waistband with the Betty Rubble cut that desperately clutches just enough fabric to hold up one yam. Damned be the other yam. And damned be his ever wandering and perpetually needy, south of the border buddy, Senor Chubbo, the chunky chorizo. They can fend for themselves, the bastards.

A single, snuggly cupped nut is enough utility to justify a final mission for this precariously toting tog.

And that's what the everyman tells himself - that it's OK to pull the shamefully shredded slingshot up one's legs this last time to mark the final journey for a courageously long-lived meat hauler.

You heard me, motherfucker. Long-lived meat hauler. Yeah, you're jealous. You wish YOU were a long-lived meat hauler, hauling' meat all the live long day. Oh, don't you deny it. You wish I were sticking my legs through your ears and pulling your threadbare cotton face up to my hanging chandelier of schwanz.

Yeah! Tasse meine Balle, Adolph! Trage mein verschwiztes Fleisch, ya friggin' Fleischtrager!

Ah, the glory of it all. A full day of state-smashing, convention-crushing anarchist tirade that begins with the hoisting of the three piece yogurt launcher into a battle-fatigued gunnysack of aspiration; heaving William Godwin's Molotov cocktails of reason at the government's inherently malevolent influence on civilization with the strapping support of a combat-tested egg basket that cradles the tripod of humanity's only chance of survival; shoving Pierre-Joseph Proudhon's society without authority down the throats of those who would govern and control and regulate and number and spy on and tax and hoax and rob and judge and altogether imprison the free hearts of men who carry their hairy, sweating, liberty bells of emancipation in barely buttressed satchels of hope.

Go fuck yourself, state. I swing my gangly gigglestick atchoo. I dunk my gyrating jumble-giblets of discontent in your elitist martini of jurisdiction, you courtier of despotism. I allow the seditious ghost of Emma Goldman to take the heel of her 1892, lace-up, Victorian bitchboot, place it securely under my tailbone, and then heartily hurl me, groin first, into your fascist face so you can inhale a gagging whiff of my manly marinade in all its magnificent manumission.

The Simpsonian war cry of Eat My Shorts! by an animated, helmeted little bus brat was the lead horse in one of the final Anarchist charges of the 20th century.

Let the first year of the Trumptatorship begin with the clarion call of the gurgling gospel pipe and his two backup singers as they break free from their ramshackled bondage and hock the loogie of liberty into the eye of authority.

Copyright © 2017 John Bizarre
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The Tao of Bart