Occupy Wall Street Needs a Strict Lesson in Street Smarts
By Your Faithful General, George Washington
Americanados, it should come as no surprise that I love a good protest just as much as I love makin’ love or even shootin’ Redcoats in the face. After all, it’s the seed of protest that spawns the fruit of revolutionTM. So whence I first heard that the Occupy Wall Street movement was going to take up camp in downtown NYC and stick it to the fat cats in fur coats, I wanted in. I felt so strongly about it that one night mid-coitus, I turned to Martha and said, “Martha, you timeless sweet tart with yam legs, you’ll have to get off me. I see a protest which needs my hand.” It was the first time I’ve interrupted our lovemaking for work since I set off on a midnight’s whim to trap the rat bastard Cornwallis at Yorktown, VA on 19 October 1781. That statistic given, you can see this was a decision of historic proportion.
With my pants-tent still pitched tight, I ghost-ported down to the Big Apple like I was the white Carl Lewis. Once I got down to Wall Street, I cruised around amongst the protesting peeps, checked out the vibe, and looked for a Sharpie and a large placard for to make a sign with and join in on the rally cry. Once I got my pen and placard, I sat down on the bull with the giant balls and toiled over what I should write on mine sign.
“Down with the man, up with the people!” I thought to myself. “Wait. No, that’s largely contradictory when you think about it. I mean, no matter how big a jerk this ‘man’ is, he’s still one of the peoples, so that would be raising him up too, and I don’t want to do that…rrrrrrickets!” I scratched my chin in deep thought. “Ok, how bout something bold like “Fuck Rich People”. No…that’s too general. I mean, what about Warren Buffet? He’s rich as hell and he voluntarily lives in Omaha and gets mad about paying too few taxes. I’m down with that richhomesplice. Dang this quandary!” In an attempt to gain inspiration off of other peeps’ signs, I took a look around.
I looked to my left and saw a woman dressed as a zombie with a sign that read, “Fascist Corporate Pigs are Dead Inside.” Yikes…I’m not sure corporate greed and fascism are quite the same thing. No, check that, I’m positive they’re not the same thing. That sounds like misplaced daddy issues to me. I then looked to my right and saw a guy smoking a joint with a “legalize it” hat on and a shirt that read “Got Weed?”. I then caught a whiff of his lifestyle stench. My first response was, “Holy christchild. Got Shower?” As I continued to look around at the crowd, I became highly concerned. It just seemed to be an amalgam of peoples who adopted Wall Street as a forum to complain about random shite. “Make the Banks Pay!” read one slogan. “We fight for the Rights of The Unions!” read another. A third read “9/11 was an inside job!” My curiosity grew egregiously. “What is this place, I thought? What the hell are all these hobos protesting? They look like Bob Dylan. But they sound like Bobcat Goldthwait.
To gain clarity, I went onto the movement’s website (www.occupywallst.org) on my iPhone for ghosts. My first stop? The About Us page. “Aha!” I thought to myself. “This will surely help me define what I am doing here, and help me forth with mine protest sign writer’s block.
Whence peeping the about page, I was appalled. The opening paragraph states: “Occupy Wall Street is a horizontally organized resistance movement employing the revolutionary Arab Spring tactic to restore democracy in America.”
What the fuck? Arab Spring? I may be thinking with my blueballs here, but this is ridiculous. Hey hobos. Let me clue you in on something here. The Arab Spring protestors were united around a pretty solid issue. They were fed up with being the subjects of totalitarian rule—you know—the kind where you don’t have any freedom and you and your family get killed if you do anything contrary to that which they tell you to. And the actual Arabs had some pretty solid evidence to back it up their protests. The personal pain you suffer from Rick Perry’s latest campaign contribution from Pfizer or Obama’s latest ‘Clean Energy’ clusterfuck ain’t exactly in the same column of the newspaper. “But what about the bank bailout you say? That TARP money was totally fuckin misappropriated to the very peeps who caused our economical issues in the first place.” Sorry Charlie, still page six bullshit when compared to Bahrain’s “Don’t tell me cuz I’ll fucking kill you” policy regarding the gays. In fact, claiming any American political problems are on par with or in need of an ‘Arab Spring’ is borderline—no, check that, definitely offensive. I mean sweet yam legs! A bunch of the actual Arabs actually sacrificed their actual lives in their protests. All it seems that you’re willing to sacrifice is your hygiene and two or three weeks of your second sophomore year of community college.
I’m not saying that corporate greed isn’t a big, if not the biggest problem in this great nation of which I founded. I’m saying that if you want to successfully fight against it, there are signoficantly more effective ways of fighting than inviting all of your Facebook friends to lower Manhattan for a few weeks of bongos, bonghits, and blowhorns.
You’ll notice that in the great Revolutionary War of which I was the victor, we did not succeed until we pinpointed the battles we wanted to fight, selected the place we wanted to fight it, and attacked with the vigor of a Mike Tyson uppercut circa 1986.
So, my dear compatriots of the Occupy Wall Street movement, your cause of economic injustice at the hands of those pulling strings from the high rise penthouses on Wall Street is an inarguably noble one. Your action of staging a ‘complain-fest’ with no plan, no organization, and no end-goal, is not. You strike with the vigor of a Mike Tyson therapy session circa 2004. If it is true change you desire, I advise you fight as we Colonials fought. With precise cuts to the kidney, rather than broad swings of the fist. I recommend you start by redefining your About Us page, and going from there. That’s a battle you can win by the morrow.