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Results 1 to 2 of 2

Thread: www.protestwarrior.com

  1. #1
    Guest
    "Saddamized in San Francisco" by Kfir Alfia

    February 16th, 9am. I'm jarred awake by my alarm clock's squeal--my hand instinctively leaps to my nightstand. Just as I'm about to hit snooze, I remember the day's agenda: my friend Alan was visiting from out of town for the weekend and I promised him a raucous night of drinking and participation in Sunday's San Francisco anti-war protest. As my aching head throbbed, I knew I had made good on my first promise.


    Two Advils and one shower later, I'm fully dressed and alert, eating breakfast. Alan is snoring on the couch. As I finish up the last spoonfuls of muesli, I say "Alan. . . wake up." Alan cracks an eye, but nothing more. "I'm going to get some poster board and materials for the signs." As the door slams, I yell "start thinking of ideas!"


    After waiting in a half-hour line at Office Depot (apparently I wasn't the only one doing last-minute protest shopping) and visiting the neighborhood hardware store, I get back home. Alan is snoring again. "Alan!. . . Did you think of anything good?" He sits up and shakes his head. We sit on the couch, stare at the wall, and let the brainstorming begin. Ten minutes later, we have the final version of our first slogan: "Except for Ending Slavery, Fascism, Nazism and Communism, War Has Never Solved Anything". I start writing it up on the poster with a fat black marker while Alan continues to concentrate on the wall. When I'm done writing, Alan quips: "END RACISM AND SEXISM NOW! Kill All White Males!" "Too much," I tell him and veto the idea. By the time my two friends Amil and Ensar show up, we have a healthy arsenal of four signs. They take one look at the signage and immediately give us our duly earned high-fives.


    We park Amil's SUV down the street from where the protest is happening, and make our way towards the bulging crowd of activists overrunning Market street, with our signs facing down. I let out a nervous laughter as the tension and excitement begins to grow in my stomach.


    As soon as we assimilate into the throng of activists, we lift our signs up. I start reading the sign of a protester in front of me: "My Cocker Spaniel is Smarter Than George Bush!", when I hear from behind a man's voice, "What the hell is THAT? Hey you!" I turn around and follow the aging hippy's eyes to my sign - a cartoon of a burqa-clad Muslim woman tied to a pole with a leash. The caption: "Protect Islamic Property Rights Against Western Imperialism! SAY NO TO WAR." "Hey a*hole!", he yells.


    We grin as his voice is drowned out by a teenage girl screaming into her megaphone: "1 - 2 - 3 - 4! WE DON'T WANT YOUR RACIST WAR!" I wanted to ask her if she would be for war if I can prove to her that race is not a factor. If it is, is she employing some kind of affirmative action policy holding all Islamic dictators to a lower standard of conduct? "5 - 6 - 7 - 8! STOP THE WAR! STOP THE HATE!", she screams. Either way, it didn't look like these issues were open for debate.


    I look to my left to see Alan, marching forward with his sign that reads "Saddam Only Kills His Own People. IT'S NONE OF OUR BUSINESS!" I can't help but let out a hearty laugh. "Alan!", I yell. He snaps his head at my direction. "Will this do?" He smiles and turns his attention back to carrying his sign. I had delivered on my second promise.


    As I flip my sign to its other side, a man in a jogging suit and Birkenstocks inspects Alan's other slogan: "Communism Has Only Killed 100 Million People... LET'S GIVE IT ANOTHER CHANCE."


    With a straight face, he says "Communism isn't necessarily evil. America has given it a negative slant." "Negative slant?", I ask, dumbfounded. "So how do the Cubans found half-dead on the shores of Miami ever get a bias against communism? From their subscriptions to the Limbaugh Letter?" He proceeds to lecture me on Bush's stolen election and the evils of corporations, and finishes off listing the various uses of hemp (which he claimed totaled two hundred). Considering his views on politics, I say "Don't you mean two hundred and one?" He laughs and walks away.


    We continue to march up Market Street and head for the Civic Center with the rest of the protesters. After a while I began to notice that, although we were holding our huge signs up high, passing hundreds of spectators per minute, no one else offered a challenge. I ask Amil "Do you think they don't get it?" He shrugs his shoulders and snaps a photo of Alan and me.


    I wonder to myself, "Are leftist's moral façades that feeble?" I ask Alan, and he agrees, adding, "the messages on our signs are cruise missiles striking the moral house of cards they've built in their heads. Their ideology is amazing in one way, whatever is good, they are against." At that point Alan walked off to talk to a girl whose Socialist Action Network red T-shirt showed off some nice curves, but it didn't seem like she was in the mood to engage in a dialogue.


    Finally we see picket signs and information booths sprawled along the landscape. The belly of the beast--the town center where the main rally was taking place.


    We spot the Communist Party information table (the REAL purpose behind these anti-war protests) and Alan instinctively rotates his sign so that our communism slogan is showing. They see us making our approach and raw irritation washes over their faces.


    "Hello!" Alan greets the three of them enthusiastically, "What do you think of our sign!?" I grin, the middle-aged Communist manning the table glares. Next to him a boy, maybe eighteen, has a frightened look on his face. "Do you have any recommended reading material for us?" I ask. "All of you need to leave", the elder sneers. "You need to leave right now."


    This was a first for me. . . talking to a real life communist. So I try to imagine what must be going on in their twisted little minds. I respond, "I realize that as a communist, you would prefer we were sent to the gulag for disagreeing with you--but we're in America. Free speech is still respected here. . ." He turns to his cohorts and instructs them to stay silent. I stare at the boy, not sure if I should feel pity, disgust, or both. "How did you ever get mixed up with these guys?" I ask. Searchingly, he looks to his comrade, then back at me - angry and frustrated. "You. . you are slaves to. . to the power structure. . ." he informs us. "I'll look into it. Thanks!" I remark.


    We parade around the main area for a while, giving the leftists a good dose of mockery. Our work here was done. We go home and watch V: The Final Battle.

  2. #2
    Guest
    "Saddamized in San Francisco" by Kfir Alfia

    February 16th, 9am. I'm jarred awake by my alarm clock's squeal--my hand instinctively leaps to my nightstand. Just as I'm about to hit snooze, I remember the day's agenda: my friend Alan was visiting from out of town for the weekend and I promised him a raucous night of drinking and participation in Sunday's San Francisco anti-war protest. As my aching head throbbed, I knew I had made good on my first promise.


    Two Advils and one shower later, I'm fully dressed and alert, eating breakfast. Alan is snoring on the couch. As I finish up the last spoonfuls of muesli, I say "Alan. . . wake up." Alan cracks an eye, but nothing more. "I'm going to get some poster board and materials for the signs." As the door slams, I yell "start thinking of ideas!"


    After waiting in a half-hour line at Office Depot (apparently I wasn't the only one doing last-minute protest shopping) and visiting the neighborhood hardware store, I get back home. Alan is snoring again. "Alan!. . . Did you think of anything good?" He sits up and shakes his head. We sit on the couch, stare at the wall, and let the brainstorming begin. Ten minutes later, we have the final version of our first slogan: "Except for Ending Slavery, Fascism, Nazism and Communism, War Has Never Solved Anything". I start writing it up on the poster with a fat black marker while Alan continues to concentrate on the wall. When I'm done writing, Alan quips: "END RACISM AND SEXISM NOW! Kill All White Males!" "Too much," I tell him and veto the idea. By the time my two friends Amil and Ensar show up, we have a healthy arsenal of four signs. They take one look at the signage and immediately give us our duly earned high-fives.


    We park Amil's SUV down the street from where the protest is happening, and make our way towards the bulging crowd of activists overrunning Market street, with our signs facing down. I let out a nervous laughter as the tension and excitement begins to grow in my stomach.


    As soon as we assimilate into the throng of activists, we lift our signs up. I start reading the sign of a protester in front of me: "My Cocker Spaniel is Smarter Than George Bush!", when I hear from behind a man's voice, "What the hell is THAT? Hey you!" I turn around and follow the aging hippy's eyes to my sign - a cartoon of a burqa-clad Muslim woman tied to a pole with a leash. The caption: "Protect Islamic Property Rights Against Western Imperialism! SAY NO TO WAR." "Hey a*hole!", he yells.


    We grin as his voice is drowned out by a teenage girl screaming into her megaphone: "1 - 2 - 3 - 4! WE DON'T WANT YOUR RACIST WAR!" I wanted to ask her if she would be for war if I can prove to her that race is not a factor. If it is, is she employing some kind of affirmative action policy holding all Islamic dictators to a lower standard of conduct? "5 - 6 - 7 - 8! STOP THE WAR! STOP THE HATE!", she screams. Either way, it didn't look like these issues were open for debate.


    I look to my left to see Alan, marching forward with his sign that reads "Saddam Only Kills His Own People. IT'S NONE OF OUR BUSINESS!" I can't help but let out a hearty laugh. "Alan!", I yell. He snaps his head at my direction. "Will this do?" He smiles and turns his attention back to carrying his sign. I had delivered on my second promise.


    As I flip my sign to its other side, a man in a jogging suit and Birkenstocks inspects Alan's other slogan: "Communism Has Only Killed 100 Million People... LET'S GIVE IT ANOTHER CHANCE."


    With a straight face, he says "Communism isn't necessarily evil. America has given it a negative slant." "Negative slant?", I ask, dumbfounded. "So how do the Cubans found half-dead on the shores of Miami ever get a bias against communism? From their subscriptions to the Limbaugh Letter?" He proceeds to lecture me on Bush's stolen election and the evils of corporations, and finishes off listing the various uses of hemp (which he claimed totaled two hundred). Considering his views on politics, I say "Don't you mean two hundred and one?" He laughs and walks away.


    We continue to march up Market Street and head for the Civic Center with the rest of the protesters. After a while I began to notice that, although we were holding our huge signs up high, passing hundreds of spectators per minute, no one else offered a challenge. I ask Amil "Do you think they don't get it?" He shrugs his shoulders and snaps a photo of Alan and me.


    I wonder to myself, "Are leftist's moral façades that feeble?" I ask Alan, and he agrees, adding, "the messages on our signs are cruise missiles striking the moral house of cards they've built in their heads. Their ideology is amazing in one way, whatever is good, they are against." At that point Alan walked off to talk to a girl whose Socialist Action Network red T-shirt showed off some nice curves, but it didn't seem like she was in the mood to engage in a dialogue.


    Finally we see picket signs and information booths sprawled along the landscape. The belly of the beast--the town center where the main rally was taking place.


    We spot the Communist Party information table (the REAL purpose behind these anti-war protests) and Alan instinctively rotates his sign so that our communism slogan is showing. They see us making our approach and raw irritation washes over their faces.


    "Hello!" Alan greets the three of them enthusiastically, "What do you think of our sign!?" I grin, the middle-aged Communist manning the table glares. Next to him a boy, maybe eighteen, has a frightened look on his face. "Do you have any recommended reading material for us?" I ask. "All of you need to leave", the elder sneers. "You need to leave right now."


    This was a first for me. . . talking to a real life communist. So I try to imagine what must be going on in their twisted little minds. I respond, "I realize that as a communist, you would prefer we were sent to the gulag for disagreeing with you--but we're in America. Free speech is still respected here. . ." He turns to his cohorts and instructs them to stay silent. I stare at the boy, not sure if I should feel pity, disgust, or both. "How did you ever get mixed up with these guys?" I ask. Searchingly, he looks to his comrade, then back at me - angry and frustrated. "You. . you are slaves to. . to the power structure. . ." he informs us. "I'll look into it. Thanks!" I remark.


    We parade around the main area for a while, giving the leftists a good dose of mockery. Our work here was done. We go home and watch V: The Final Battle.

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