Even when I was just a wee tyke, I understood that if you played in the street, you were liable to get run over. Apparently, that’s just too darn complex a cause-effect relationship for Woke Supergenii to figure out on their own.

There is, I think, among many, a weariness of seeing escalating levels of fucking about with too little of the customary finding out.

The activists’ power lies in an assumption that their victims will not risk injuring their assailants.

But to insist that the victims should remain trapped, inert, and at the mercy of their aggressors, indefinitely, and while risking greater danger to themselves or their property, does not strike me as a morally persuasive position. And note that the activists typically rush from all sides, rapidly surrounding the car and its occupants, intensifying the alarm, the likelihood of panic, and drastically reducing the driver’s options. This is not accidental.

There’s an implied dare. The game being, “You won’t do what’s needed, despite our alarming and menacing behaviour, because you’re nicer than us, less vain, and not unhinged, and so we can dominate you and terrorise you, and break your stuff, for as long as we want, for shits and giggles.”

Well. I would suggest that the activists’ own actions render their wellbeing of very low importance.

“Low?” Howzabout NO, David? Better still, none whatsoever, at least as far as I’m concerned.

Gangs of cowardly, violent Leftard bully-boys charging up from behind the dumpster they’d been hiding behind, encircliog some innocent motorist whose only wish was to get back home from work without incident—the mob threatening their victim, beating on his car, kicking dents in its body panels and/or hood, wrecking the paint job with keys, pocket knives, or other metal objects, rocking the car furiously on its suspension just as a psyop intended to terrorize their horrified prey, etc. of right ought to be mown down by the blameless drivers they’re assaulting. For the life of me, I really can’t understand why a lot more of these rectal polyps weren’t put in the hospital (or the morgue) long ago, back when the Left’s War on Western Civ first began. We very much need to do our utmost to get those disappointing casualty numbers up to where they should be.

What the actual fuck is up with all this, anyway? There you are, locked in your car snug as a bug in a rug—safe, sound, and totally secure inside a 2-ton metal enclosure which is perfectly capable of racing away from this confederacy of dunces under its own steam, anytime you feel like applying pressure to the accelerator pedal under your right foot. In fact, that is precisely what the car was designed to do, the reason for its very existence.

As for the aforementioned confederacy of dunces, either they have at least the bare minimum of intelligence required for them to comprehend that, once the car is under way, the “protest” is o-v-e-r OVER, and he/she/xhir/it really needs to get out of the street and well clear of said moving vehicle, or they do not. If he/she/xhir/it elects NOT to move his/her/xhir/its stupid ass out of the way, then our cognitively-challenged Leftards really shouldn’t find it too upsetting  when their stupidity results, as it inevitably must, in their being flattened and/or becoming entangled in the car’s undercarriage and dragged down the street a ways, sustaining numerous painful injuries including but not limited to:

• Road rash over most of human hood ornament’s body
• Cracked ribs, flailed ribcage, punctured/deflated lungs
• Fractured skull, brain swelling
• Broken arms, collarbone, hip(s), and/or legs
• Miscellaneous bruises, contusions, lacerations, and asphalt burns

It’s as David says: the activists count on the assumption that the victims of their feral brigandry will never strike back against their assailants. That assumption badly needs to be, absolutely MUST be, radically altered so it can better align itself with a more balanced, equitable, mutually respectful social compact which is bound to emerge from the current disorder, irremediable enmity, and systemic dysfunction. Likewise, childish tantrums evincing a total absence of self-discipline, self-control, and mature, reflective self-assessment; low/no regard for the rights of others; near-pathological narcissism; a boundless, ungoverned self-indulgence which the afflicted Wokester believes himself/herself/xhirself/tself to be not just entitled to, but altogether deserving of—bestowed on him by natural right, as integral a part of who and what he is as are his blonde hair, lanky frame, and blue eyes; no more than is due and proper for such a wonderfully superior, elevated human being as he/she/xhir/it so obviously is;

Right straight to Hell with just sitting passively in the car, hoping against hope that the approaching Wokester jackal-pack will decide to just go away and leave you be, without any real harm done to either your person or your ride. You know as well as I do that that is NOT going to be the way this scenario shakes out. Keep in mind, too, that it isn’t just a car you’re sitting in; it’s also a weapon, and a damned effective one when deployed properly, by someone who has no intention of just rolling over and playing dead for a passel of spoiled, snotnosed little toerags who couldn’t punch their way out of a wet paper bag without bursting into tears at the sheer horror of such brutal violence—which is to say, someone who is a flinty, gimlet-eyed realist that, although he likes people generally and is therefore viscerally appalled at the prospect of inflicting grievous bodily injury on his fellow man as long as he himself is treated with the respect, restraint, and friendly, affable charm far more typical of him. Even so, if these refugees from Coney Island’s infamous Freak Show really do want to throw down, he’s perfectly prepared to get all in amongst ‘em himself, and this is a man who plays strictly to win.

So why the actual fuck would any self-respecting American man let a mincing assortment of chickenshit pussies, scrawny, slope-shouldered gamer-geeks, and fat, repulsive broads sporting third-degree friction burns on her legs caused by the way her inner thighs rub together as she waddles along have their way with him, anyway? They started the shit, time for us to finish it. Don’t just sit there like an inert lump, go proactive: put the pedal to the metal, point those shiny chrome grill teeth at dead-center of the closest-packed cluster of giggling oxygen thieves, and bring some REAL pain down on those empty heads. Teach ‘em a lesson they won’t easily forget. The sooner Normals stop putting up with Lefty’s shit, the sooner there won’t be any more shit for us to put up with.