Manufacturing Dissent Since 1996
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20200330breannefahs

When we have anger and rage and radicalism, and a pushing back against politeness and respectability, we are also doing that from a fundamental, deep-seated place of love or hope - for what our country could be, or what humanness could be. It's not coming from a place of apathy, it's quite the opposite. We've created a false binary where hatred or anger or taking to the streets or radical protest is seen as the opposite of feeling fundamental love for fellow humans. And that's just not true.

Writer Breanne Fahs explores the power of the feminist manifesto - as a radical acts of anger, revolutionary documents of social change, and histories of futures to be imagined and read and fought for, together.

Breanne Fahs is editor of Burn It Down! Feminist Manifestos for the Revolution from Verso.

 


Posted by Alexander Jerri

Welcome to the Moment of Truth: the thirst that is the drink.

The virus came to the lumpy orange buffoon at midnight, Eastern Daylight Savings Time. “Who are you?” asked the human insult.

“I am Covid-19.”
“Well, I’m Donald 45. The best president America has ever had.”

Then the virus got into bed behind the self-import flatulence and spooned up nice and close to his blobby carcass.

“If I don’t touch my face, you can’t hurt me,” said the chief executive idiot. “And I never ever touch my face,” he added, touching his face.

Meanwhile, all across the land, people were either coughing, or listening to someone else cough with dark foreboding. There was nowhere to escape to. Italy was closed. China too. The sandy echoes of coughing capered around among the population, like a million snakes with the legs of goats, the little goats who caper in the little goat capering videos. Echoing layers of coughs, a palimpsest of coughs, a sneeze, and coughs dancing around the sneeze, as far as the ear could hear, as far as the heart could fear.

Covid-19 hissed softly into the overbaked narcissist’s earhole: “Listen. The children of the night, making phlegmy music. Those symptoms are the offspring of your denial.”

“No they’re not,” squeaked the executive putrescence, his voice quivering like a statue sculpted from butt fat and bad cholesterol. “No denial. No denial. Denial no.”

The words “denial no” echoed away into the diseased and polluted world, folding itself in amidst the cacophony of sickness, a worm in the labyrinthine tunnel of a collective intestine. Somewhere in the darkness, Joe Biden punched a voter in the face.

Salvos of gunfire percolated across the farm belt. It was farmers, tilling their fields at night to avoid the instant melanoma sunshine brought, harrowing the fields with automatic rifles. At one point, the clown president had issued a clown presidential order banning all technology except guns, creating crises of impracticality so numerous and severe that the order had to be rescinded within five minutes of its proclamation. Such an extravagant taste of the Second Amendment, however, engendered a heady rush of patriotism in the people, and they refused to give up many of the new practices they’d instantly adopted, citing the inviolability of venerable tradition.

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