I am with Antifa. America is a fascist country. I am a communist that the New York Times abuses on a regular basis.

There are no black people who work as comment moderators. Talk, talk, talk. Our writing is evaluated by old white men who hate harder than I do. That’s something. Their bowing and scraping to Yale is banal. Allegiance to hateful Ideas have this publication strangled as usual. Talking the talk. Not walking the walk. When will we have had enough of the kind of values that speak to language as a tool of hatred. Validated by what they think is power. They are mainly illiterate. They hate Native Americans, too. Is there any end to their servile delayed development. No. These old white men are a bottomless less than literary pit.

White Daddy will smile. He vowed to murder me. Travis McMichael deserves a public execution. There will be a price for my straying from this publication’s hypocritical ideology. I for one, enjoy a good public execution. I always wondered why women who are about to be beheaded by the State, pull their hair around (kneeling) so if the sword doesn’t cut correctly and your head is kinda hanging there. Half alive. Swords are so yesterday. Tilted, dripping liquid. A head bobbing about. Religion is a crock of shit. How is it that journalism brings us no images (even in writing) of a headless body flopping about not unlike a fish at the stern of a yacht built in West Virginia. How stupid is the New York Times. Bastion of truth and upper middle class vengeance. I have my own revenge to stuff down my writer’s throat.

I’m not going willingly. I will not kneel before any midtown publication. The New York Times is ordinary. Why is it here. Why are you here. They would love to bite my head off. But I am never compliant. It’s not very nice to behead me.

The plastic handcuffs your security people employ (there are a few women here) are meant for cops. Not you. What’s next. Courtroom on the sidewalk. Why do you think comments all sound the same. Homogeneity. Oh, they scream the rage of blood that it is not so. It is so so. Words construct ideas. The white upper middle class wrings its white hands. The gatekeepers spit snakes. I have eaten snakes. I love them cooked well over a fire  

I hate the New York Times.

I hate America.

I hate Americans.

You tolerate intolerance.

The gatekeepers have a long list of nasty words Granny says we cannot say. Or Granny will wash our motherfucker mouths with soap, you little urchins. . We play racist word games in court rooms. We twist language. I do. I have no respect for American idiocy. Eat me, white bitch. I pray that one of the major forest fires goes on a rampage and burns the country into the memory of smoke. 

In the end, this kind of faint accompli goes straight to murder. I love the Charles Blow term: virtual pageant of privilege. Rittenhouse should be executed. Let us see it. I want someone to throw acid in his face. Just typing that will have NYT security throw me into the back seat of a cop car. The privileged can do whatever they want. Kill anyone they want. Terrorize anyone they want. Comments are supervised by marketing. Murder is supervised by marketing. The cynicism at this paper facilitates all the Kyles of this world in the killing of us. Us.

How is it that we fall in love with murder, with the vacuum of compliant little toads, but faint dead away when someone cannot abide a bad word. What is WRONG with us. Where does one even begin. Easy. Begin with the approved murder of people no one likes, and no one let them into the tree house at the age of nine, and so all the nine-year-olds burned the whole piece of vile tree house shit to the ground and then the cops came and held ten thousand necks on ten thousand curbs. What kind of language is required to be soft and never upset the mommies of the Hamptons. I have no idea. Ideas are a lot of risk. What kind of language can we use to express our sacred outrage. Too easy. That would be the language of a riot.