Do it for Karl Marx baby, do it for Bakunin...

“You make me feel like Emma Goldman with all of your ratiocinations! Dialectical materialism never felt so good, and I don’t even understand it, but it’s time, it’s time!” she purred.

"That's OK, he said with the copyrighted voice of authority, "I don't either, and neither do any of the readers out there." Their radical studies sessions had gone on for months and months and it was becoming clear that a very hot, sweaty, wet, and prolonged Hegelian synthesis was inevitable. Their vent worm ancestors smiled.

He grabbed her by her long, flowing hair, stroked her swan-like neck, and caressed her fulsome breasts: “Look—woman—Marxist-Leninist forced production never made for a worker’s paradise! What difference is there between Taylorist assembly-lines in the West and the moldering Taylorist factories of the former Soviet Union?” She looked up at him with her saucer-eyes and their daffodil-eyelashes, all coy and childlike, and could have been the French symbol for Liberty.

It could have been the very first time a woman gazed at a lover in adoration, and he returned it with the very same passion. Her gaze was so innocent--but focused--with constructive intent rather than the predictable power play found in human social groupings. She grabbed him and held him in the palm of her hand like all good comrades do. His excitement rose and he thought his heart would rip out of his chest and his face went flush. Beads of perspiration instantaneously formed on his brow. Revolution never felt so good, at least not since 1968 when the fluids were flying over the barricades.

“Women’s lives have been circumscribed by confining gender-roles and have only been truly able to join the fight in recent times, the last one hundred years. But women have been and embody an even greater dialectical potential for constructive subversion of hierarchy.” He smiled at that, and moved his hand towards her venus mounds, gently caressing her and stroking her back at the same time. She shivered and giggled, purred again.

“Give it up for Bakunin baby, give it up for Marx, haw-haw-haw!” chortled the thirty-something leftist to his radical studies partner. It all began with books, but like the rest of life, it ended in fucking.

“Now give it to me like a fucking man!” she screamed, and they dropped all their books for a time, all the bound-essays, and returned to the Garden, like children, like glorious children. Could this be? Could a relationship without an alpha, without a leader, a peaceful coexistence, compete in a market driven world? The revolution had begun, under cover of night, and things would never be the same.

Alex Jones makes coffee (A satire?)

It was one of those Pleasant Valley Sundays: He awoke to the sound of his motion detection sensors--all of them were going off. What could it be? More precisely: who could it be, and why were they coming for him, especially on Sunday?

He knew why, he had no illusions--only certainty--and the wimmen folks eat that shit up, jack, even when one is clearly wrong. He was used to being wrong, sure, but he never told anyone and never displayed it openly. This was part of his key to success. Since he was surrounded by paranoiacs, he wore his fear on his sleeve...like a swastika. OK, in fact it was a swastika. Like everyone, he had his own secrets, buried deep in a closet. What were they?

The fact that he had a small penis--hey, nothing doing pal! That off-camera Bohemian Grove incident still stung him like the clap, it was all some Fifth columnist plot that he'd hatched on himself, so he scratched himself and shivered, nearly gagging. This was a momentous moment every morning, like mounting D-Day. Yes, it was time to get out of bed. It could become problematic: there were unnamed legions of conspiracies working against him at every moment, even while he slept...especially when he slept. He used to cover all of his windows with blinds but he started suffering from Vitamin D deprivation so they had to go.

He itched all over. It must have been something that was purposefully slipped into his eczema cream by a faceless cabal of geriatrics, this was certain, he knew it, he knew it, he goddamned well knew it. What was he thinking about earlier? This modern life was too much for him, which is why he needed someone--anyone--to blame for his inadequacies, especially nameless, faceless ones who could never be identified, who could never talk or fight back. Jews weren't going to cut it anymore, and besides, they tend to give as good as they get. No, one can never have enough fictional enemies, it's true, he decided, patting himself on the back so hard he sprained his fat, flaccid American wrist.

Oh yeah, he remembered what came next: coffee. Shit. He trembled violently. This would mean walking across the room into the line-of-sight of Black Ops snipers. The blinds were gone now. One time he tried leasing a room in the highest building in Texas but saw a Black helicopter hovering outside of a window as the suspicious realtor showed him the apartment. She was clearly a operative working for Mossad, but he needed a new place so she'd have to do.

Instead, she found him a unit that was less elevated in (and than) Austin. He could see the tower that Charles Whitman shot dozens from where he was at, finally shrugging off the erection he get at the thought of that 1966 incident. He had no questions in his mind--Whitman was a victim of MKULTRA mind control experiments, and so was he. There was nowhere to run--he knew this--and accepted that when it was his time...you know. He'd tuck his head between his legs and run like a pussy, c'mon people.

Over an hour had now elapsed since his first thought of coffee, and now he had to urinate badly. This presented other problems and conundrums. There were other windows open to the line-of-sight of other NWO snipers. How would he get to the bathroom? He had a plan...

He covered himself in an Army blanket but then worried that it might be tainted with smallpox, so he dropped it and started crawling on the floor below the windows. He was clever and wouldn't allow these forces arrayed against him to alter his life one bit, and they hadn't, no way, not even close. He'd always been like this, a paranoid. As a child, he was certain that the Boogeyman was coming to get him and had been through this drill before, he was a proactive kind of a guy. Coffee. Boogeyman. Crap. That was it: he'd have to call one of his assistants to come over, so he made a call, collect. There was no answer, dammit. Oh boy, oh Jesus Christ.

The time had come to be a man: he would walk upright into the kitchen and make a cup of coffee. This would mean putting his life on the line for millions who didn't even know his name, but he would make the sacrifice. He put one foot in front of the other, moving forward with great reluctance and spine-tingling fear. The kitchen grew nearer and his fear reached a fever pitch. He was quaking, but he had it under control and grabbed one of the NWO mugs he sold in the thousands on his website, grabbed the Guatemalan coffee from the freezer and was about to pour it into the filter when he realized he'd forgotten something crucial: the toxicology kit.

Great, now he'd have to run to the cupboard across the kitchen. He did, then got the coffee started. After twenty minutes it was ready. He felt something warm...he'd wet himself. Not again. Oh well, there would have to be another cover-up with the fans, but that was no-problemo, they'd swallow anything, even what was now running down his leg. By this point he couldn't control his laughing and abruptly stopped as he raised the cup of coffee to his mouth--he'd almost forgotten the toxicology test, how careless. It would take a few days for the results to come in, but he could stand the wait. It would be worth that good cup-o'-Joe...