Field reporting by Blaine Dabbley, embedded guerrilla journalist in the Occupy movement’s twelfth brigade and sophomore student in Film Studies at Emerson College, writing for the Sentinel Dispatch.
It was a rude awakening Tuesday morning when my roommate Seth put his size eleven boot squarely in my jaw. I lay prone and drooling on my unicorn sleeping blanket, unsuspecting of the tirade that was to come.
Stomping around the dorm and thumping his chest like a gorilla, mad as a silver back finally able to grab a hold of some picture-snapping Japanese tourist, my testosterone-saturated roommate proceeded to frogstomp me into a near coma. He kept rambling on about “Call of Duty 4!” while spouting off certain unsavory sexual terms that shall be left unsaid, since they are part of a hate speech suit I intend to bring. It seems the stupid, closed-minded fool couldn’t realize that I had done him a favor by scratching his disk! The game obviously promoted America’s neo-imperialist wars of aggression, which were still being waged against the poor brown-skinned peoples of the Middle East despite President Obama’s best efforts.
But the worst part was when Seth snatched me up by my freshly glittered bronytail, which I had dyed with impressive streaks of pink and powder blue for the “May Day” rally. I had gotten the idea while cowering in the corner the night before as Seth and his drunken friends vagazzaled his girlfriend Lisa for her birthday. It actually came out quite nice.
In a huff, I grabbed my dufflebag and my trampled pride and hit the road. The open road south reminded me of the potentialities of becoming the next great American writer, perhaps the next Jack Kerouac or even a Matt Taibbi. If my beat coverage of the courageous Occupy Movement could stir the apathetic and ignorant public to save our democracy, I wouldn’t believe my life was a total waste.
Entering the city, the crisp morning air was suddenly roiling with the rusty brown vapors of exhaust. It smelled like war in my mind, as I sat in crawling traffic on the Tappan Zee bridge. I felt invincible cranking up the visceral stylings of the authentic punk rock band Green Day, and I devoured its anti-corporate message.
Finally arriving in lower Manhattan around noon, my Occupy brethren were already there in full force. I could see my friends Janet, Wilson, Mary, and Christopher on the street corner, holding the signs “We are the 99 percent,” “This is What Democracy Looks Like!” and “You Don’t Speak for Us, Corporate Media!” We met near a Java Joe’s near Zuccotti, which was a really bad idea since we were all jonesing for cappuccinos and forgot about the national strike. We decided to strike for an hour as a sign of solidarity and grab a few to go — but no espresso today. This was war.
We struck up a conversation with some homeless people nearby and asked them if they wanted to join the rally. They didn’t seem to like us much, however. When they asked us for some change, we told them that was exactly what we were working for — change. We informed them that under our proposed system, they would never have to beg for money or food again. They scoffed at us and shuffled down the sidewalk. My friends and I weren’t sure what we said wrong.
As we stumbled onto the city street, fully recaffeinated and recharged, the Black Bloc anarchists showed up. They were looking all badass like the shock troop cavalry had just arrived at Thermopylae. They were armed with billy clubs and we were armed with blue tooth headsets. We made a formidable pairing.
The sirens were blaring and the mounted police showed up. And still we pressed on. The anarchists were determined to take down the business establishment and the clash with police loomed like an irresistible force soon to meet an immovable object. They marched like a herd of rhinos, seemingly sharing one mind, over to ransack the coffee shop we had just visited.
This presented a moral dilemma: do we join in out of principle or abstain because we enjoyed our delicious beverages? After a unanimous show of up twinkles, we decided to tag along. Seeking an explanation from the anarchist leadership, I wiggled loose my digital recording equipment and approached with caution.
We picked up our signs and were ready to join the fray when almost immediately skirmishing broke out between Occupy and some tea party rabble that had shown up to harass us. The insolent bastards were throwing diapers and pacifiers at us, yelling some drivel that it was time to grow up. But they didn’t know that we were going to tell our black bloc brethren!
Suddenly, a huge guy with a nose ring and prison tats showed up with a brick, ready to bash the skull in of one redneck ‘tea party mom,’ until a female police officer jumped in his way. He smashed her in the helmet and lunged at the teabaggers, but then a dreaded tazer struck the goliath in the hamstring. After a few zaps and a disgusting odor of smoke, the man was felled like a mighty oak. (For those who would like to contribute to his legal defense fund, please contact me below.)
And then there was silence. The sight of a human toppling like a Jenga set was enough to put the fear into our circle of comrades. We immediately burst out into a rousing chorus of “Kumbaya” as Wilson thumped admirably on his moroccan drums. But the black bloc crew wanted no part of it. They continued on towards the local business establishments, like a giant blob sharing one centralized brain. We were in awe.
I ran into the volatile mix while my friends stood in shock. My second-hand army field jacket rustled in the wind, as I disregarded the tear gas, the piercing sirens, and the police bullhorns and ran up to a brute wearing a Guy Fawkes mask. “Today, what are we fighting for?!” I yelled. Pushing my mic into his face for comment, all I could get at first was “Hmmmph!”
I instructed the man to take off his mask and I asked him again. Just then he ran full steam into the plexiglass window of the store, bouncing off without even cracking it. Meanwhile, several of his comrades found the door and wrested it open from the store manager before he could lock it. The faces of the yuppies sipping their coffees as the black bloc army sought to smash this vestige of the capitalist system was truly priceless.
But before the brigade could bring this heartless expression of our cruel system to its knees, the agents of the one percent showed up to crush our grand aspirations. It was us against them. Occupy against the world. Compassion against the capitalist system. And as the raid came down upon us with full force, the pigs tying our hands behind our backs, we swore that this would not be the last they had seen from us. We will never die out. We can never be silenced.
This is what was rushing through my mind when I detected the faint sound of people laughing overhead. Lifting my chin to look up at an assembly of gawkers, it appeared several policemen had gathered around me. They were just standing there, sipping coffee, munching on donuts. Were they laughing at me?
After they snapped a few pictures with their digital cameras, cluelessly mocking my super-trendy hairstyle without any appreciation of its deeper cultural significance, they untied me and let me go. But not before one of them planted a boot in my ass, with a hearty gusto not even my roommate Seth could match.
Occupy will have its revenge. Oh yes, we will have our revenge. You can bet on it.
Author’s note: The above is satire. It is a fictionalized account intended to elucidate certain ideas and principles by taking them to absurd lengths. It is not intended to be taken literally.
Kyle Becker blogs at RogueGovernment, and can be followed on Twitter as @RogueOperator1. He writes freelance for several publications, including American Thinker and OwntheNarrative, and is a regular commentator on the late night talk show TB-TV.