- Forum Clout
- 19,460
“BAHAHAHAHA, THOSE FUCKIN’ BLACKS WON’T KNOW WHAT HIT ‘EM!” Tyler Bandertrot exclaimed obnoxiously.
The college junior had just finished spray painting “WHITE PPL RULE!!!” on the Downtown Milwaukee African American Center for Intelligence and Intellect, a magnificently melanated establishment that was black owned, and devoted purely for the furtherance of tolerance, peacefulness, wisdom, and education, and was purely black owned. It was a building that served as a refuge from the cold winds of oppression that haunted the streets of downtown Milwaukee. It was a building that served as an essential means of escape from the ceaseless and endless traumas inflicted on the African American community in Milwaukee. It was a building that served as a stark reminder that black people CAN and DO be cookin’ wit da spices, y’all.
But with just a couple of cans of spray paint and the unbridled privilege that can only come from a young, straight, white, “normal” (fascist), college student, the historic monument to progress and beauty was defaced and disgraced in an instant.
Tyler, Brent, and Alexander had had a busy day. That is, if you can call raping and doing hate crimes “busy.” As Tyler squeezed the last bit of spray paint out of the can onto the side of the building, a cop drove by. A white cop, or “jackboot fascist,” as we used to refer to them prior to 2016.
“Keep up the good work, boys. I am a cop, and I am also a Nazi just like you guys. As you all know, President Trump has seen to it to make this sort of thing legal and encouraged. HEIL HITLER!”
The boys began to hoot and holler obnoxiously, waving their Nazi salutes for all to see. You see, at one point, these brototypes wouldn’t be caught dead flaunting their horrific “viewpoints” (murder opinions) in public. But the “Cheeto in chief” had emboldened them to such a degree that they no longer felt shame nor remorse in voicing their volatile ideals. They were under the impression that just because Donald J. Drumpft had stolen the office of President Hilary Clinton that they were free run amok and terrorize minorities and gays to their wicked hearts’ content.
But they were wrong. So, so, wrong.
For you see, these brotosaurses hadn’t yet encountered anyone brave nor strong enough to call them out on their bullshit yet. Everyone who had encountered them previously had been too weak and lacked the conviction nor fortitude to meet their intimidation and bullying tactics head-on with aggression and, if necessary, violence. Stupid and infantile and petulant little baby children, they never expected someone of their own pigment to make a stand and put an end to their domestic terrorism. The last thing, they, expected, was, an, attack, from within…
Until that night.
“OH MY GOD! THEY’VE VANDALIZED THE BLACK PEOPLE INSTITUTE FOR BLACKNESS AND MELANATED HIGH EXALTED EXCELLENCE!!!!!” A brave, black, employed, college educated, doctor black woman cried.
“Shit, boys. Let’s split! The God damn blacks are wise to our tricks!” Bret shouted.
“Yeah, let’s go to Hoolie’s and see if we can’t rape or harass some lesbians into doing rapes with us! We love rape and beer!! WOOO-HOOO! RAPE AND BEER!”
“SIEG HEIL!!!”
They ran away, and the black person who noticed them talked to the cop, but it was the cop from before, and so the cop just emptied his weapon into her head and killed her and then they gave him a key to the city.
The trio of terror hopped into Bret’s BMW, which had been paid for by his father’s money, which his father had not earned, because he was a billionaire. Bret had no concept of working nor money as he had never known hardship because he was wealthy and Caucasian.
They cruised on over to Hooligan’s, a lovely little watering hole in the heart of Milwaukee. It was Meatloaf Monday, and so the bar was a bit crowded. Hooligan’s always attracted a wonderfully diverse crowd. It was widely considered to be a safe space where folx of all sorts of backgrounds, orientations, and ethnicities could congregate and enjoy some beverages. And it was all thanks to one gentleman in particular…
For you see, security is noT free. SafeTy is noT free...
As soon as the bromosexuals entered the establishment, all was, quiet. They took a seat at a table and ordered nachos, and a pitcher, of beer.
A young non-binary trans lesbian girl sat at a nearby table, visibly uneasy as Alexander licked his chops and snarled rape signals toward her, each sip a micro aggression, each sip an admission, each. Sip. A. Fascism.
“I don’t know about those guys, A’loue’fhclicky’cloppy’clooah’OkeeDokee’Artichokee.” She said to her black friend who was a Sudanese national and identified as oppressed.
Her friend’s nose looked like a ghost from Halo, her nostrils flaring with ebonic excellence as she opened her wide, hazel, irises, and turned, to, the boys. She showed no fear in the presence of their racism. Her ancestors had fought fascism when fascism was the founding fathers, who only founded slavery.
But the three boys soon found a new adversary in their crosshairs. Sitting at the bar, quietly, quietly was the key, was a man who defied description. You see, this man, was typing away on a laptop computer, at a bar. Now, you may think, upon hearing. That description. That this man, was, a nerd. But, you see, he, was very strong and handsome and jacked diesel. It sent Tyler’s prehistoric neanderthal brain into short circuit mode as he struggled to compute what he was seeing.
Just then, Lenny, a gay Vietnam vet who understood the necessity of war and had many philosophically fulfilling and enriching conversations with the strong and masculine writer guy, who also considered an honorary soldier because he knew so much about war despite not serving, and who agreed that Russia needs to be wiped off the face of the earth, along with China, made his way from the bathroom, headed to the barstool next to the not fat at all writer guy.
You see, manners did not come easily to our three villains, who were bad, and not good guys. Tyler grabbed the man’s wrist, which triggered his gay Navy SEAL instincts, and almost left Tyler in the grips of a fearsome Judo chop. He would’ve definitely needed help from the still unidentified writer man if he started fighting him, but upon realizing that he wasn’t a threat, he relenTed.
“What can I do for you!?” He growled. You’d never know he was gay with the way he spoke.
“Who’s that guy over there? At the bar? With the laptop?” Tyler barked.
“Oh, him? I wouldn’t tangle with him. That’s Torque Wheeler…”
The brotohomos guffawed. “HA! What’s he supposed to be? An actual tough guy?”
The gay Vietnam vet cracked a wry smile. He could see Mr. Wheeler preparing to close his laptop. As he did this, Brent realized his laptop had several “I VOTED” stickers on it, as well as another one that says “THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS.”
“HEY! WE’RE FASCISTS! ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL US!?” He shouted.
“How’s he gonna kill us!?!? He’s not a tough guy! He’s writing! Tough guys can’t write! We’ll make mincemeat out of him!” Alexander reassured his douchebag brethren.
Torque Wheeler said nothing, he just donned his sunglasses. Suddenly, Tyler threw their pitcher of Miller Lite at Torque.
But, he caught it.
In.
Mid.
Air.
And without even turning around.
“Actually… I’m an actual tough guy… And something of a…”
He turned to face them, and chugged the entire pitcher of Miller Lite, his favorite beer.
“…Stealthy geek.”
The boys gulped in unison. They had finally realized, all too late, that they had kicked the hornet’s nest. It was then, and precisely then, that Headstrong by Trapt began to play from the Hooligan's jukebox, and Torque calmly took off his leather jacket, and adopted a horse stance.
Torque dispatched them quickly and easily, and the girls from earlier in the story both wanted to fuck him and show him their titties but, as he said, he was a kepT man. They sent him nudes anyway though. The end.
The college junior had just finished spray painting “WHITE PPL RULE!!!” on the Downtown Milwaukee African American Center for Intelligence and Intellect, a magnificently melanated establishment that was black owned, and devoted purely for the furtherance of tolerance, peacefulness, wisdom, and education, and was purely black owned. It was a building that served as a refuge from the cold winds of oppression that haunted the streets of downtown Milwaukee. It was a building that served as an essential means of escape from the ceaseless and endless traumas inflicted on the African American community in Milwaukee. It was a building that served as a stark reminder that black people CAN and DO be cookin’ wit da spices, y’all.
But with just a couple of cans of spray paint and the unbridled privilege that can only come from a young, straight, white, “normal” (fascist), college student, the historic monument to progress and beauty was defaced and disgraced in an instant.
Tyler, Brent, and Alexander had had a busy day. That is, if you can call raping and doing hate crimes “busy.” As Tyler squeezed the last bit of spray paint out of the can onto the side of the building, a cop drove by. A white cop, or “jackboot fascist,” as we used to refer to them prior to 2016.
“Keep up the good work, boys. I am a cop, and I am also a Nazi just like you guys. As you all know, President Trump has seen to it to make this sort of thing legal and encouraged. HEIL HITLER!”
The boys began to hoot and holler obnoxiously, waving their Nazi salutes for all to see. You see, at one point, these brototypes wouldn’t be caught dead flaunting their horrific “viewpoints” (murder opinions) in public. But the “Cheeto in chief” had emboldened them to such a degree that they no longer felt shame nor remorse in voicing their volatile ideals. They were under the impression that just because Donald J. Drumpft had stolen the office of President Hilary Clinton that they were free run amok and terrorize minorities and gays to their wicked hearts’ content.
But they were wrong. So, so, wrong.
For you see, these brotosaurses hadn’t yet encountered anyone brave nor strong enough to call them out on their bullshit yet. Everyone who had encountered them previously had been too weak and lacked the conviction nor fortitude to meet their intimidation and bullying tactics head-on with aggression and, if necessary, violence. Stupid and infantile and petulant little baby children, they never expected someone of their own pigment to make a stand and put an end to their domestic terrorism. The last thing, they, expected, was, an, attack, from within…
Until that night.
“OH MY GOD! THEY’VE VANDALIZED THE BLACK PEOPLE INSTITUTE FOR BLACKNESS AND MELANATED HIGH EXALTED EXCELLENCE!!!!!” A brave, black, employed, college educated, doctor black woman cried.
“Shit, boys. Let’s split! The God damn blacks are wise to our tricks!” Bret shouted.
“Yeah, let’s go to Hoolie’s and see if we can’t rape or harass some lesbians into doing rapes with us! We love rape and beer!! WOOO-HOOO! RAPE AND BEER!”
“SIEG HEIL!!!”
They ran away, and the black person who noticed them talked to the cop, but it was the cop from before, and so the cop just emptied his weapon into her head and killed her and then they gave him a key to the city.
The trio of terror hopped into Bret’s BMW, which had been paid for by his father’s money, which his father had not earned, because he was a billionaire. Bret had no concept of working nor money as he had never known hardship because he was wealthy and Caucasian.
They cruised on over to Hooligan’s, a lovely little watering hole in the heart of Milwaukee. It was Meatloaf Monday, and so the bar was a bit crowded. Hooligan’s always attracted a wonderfully diverse crowd. It was widely considered to be a safe space where folx of all sorts of backgrounds, orientations, and ethnicities could congregate and enjoy some beverages. And it was all thanks to one gentleman in particular…
For you see, security is noT free. SafeTy is noT free...
As soon as the bromosexuals entered the establishment, all was, quiet. They took a seat at a table and ordered nachos, and a pitcher, of beer.
A young non-binary trans lesbian girl sat at a nearby table, visibly uneasy as Alexander licked his chops and snarled rape signals toward her, each sip a micro aggression, each sip an admission, each. Sip. A. Fascism.
“I don’t know about those guys, A’loue’fhclicky’cloppy’clooah’OkeeDokee’Artichokee.” She said to her black friend who was a Sudanese national and identified as oppressed.
Her friend’s nose looked like a ghost from Halo, her nostrils flaring with ebonic excellence as she opened her wide, hazel, irises, and turned, to, the boys. She showed no fear in the presence of their racism. Her ancestors had fought fascism when fascism was the founding fathers, who only founded slavery.
But the three boys soon found a new adversary in their crosshairs. Sitting at the bar, quietly, quietly was the key, was a man who defied description. You see, this man, was typing away on a laptop computer, at a bar. Now, you may think, upon hearing. That description. That this man, was, a nerd. But, you see, he, was very strong and handsome and jacked diesel. It sent Tyler’s prehistoric neanderthal brain into short circuit mode as he struggled to compute what he was seeing.
Just then, Lenny, a gay Vietnam vet who understood the necessity of war and had many philosophically fulfilling and enriching conversations with the strong and masculine writer guy, who also considered an honorary soldier because he knew so much about war despite not serving, and who agreed that Russia needs to be wiped off the face of the earth, along with China, made his way from the bathroom, headed to the barstool next to the not fat at all writer guy.
You see, manners did not come easily to our three villains, who were bad, and not good guys. Tyler grabbed the man’s wrist, which triggered his gay Navy SEAL instincts, and almost left Tyler in the grips of a fearsome Judo chop. He would’ve definitely needed help from the still unidentified writer man if he started fighting him, but upon realizing that he wasn’t a threat, he relenTed.
“What can I do for you!?” He growled. You’d never know he was gay with the way he spoke.
“Who’s that guy over there? At the bar? With the laptop?” Tyler barked.
“Oh, him? I wouldn’t tangle with him. That’s Torque Wheeler…”
The brotohomos guffawed. “HA! What’s he supposed to be? An actual tough guy?”
The gay Vietnam vet cracked a wry smile. He could see Mr. Wheeler preparing to close his laptop. As he did this, Brent realized his laptop had several “I VOTED” stickers on it, as well as another one that says “THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS.”
“HEY! WE’RE FASCISTS! ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL US!?” He shouted.
“How’s he gonna kill us!?!? He’s not a tough guy! He’s writing! Tough guys can’t write! We’ll make mincemeat out of him!” Alexander reassured his douchebag brethren.
Torque Wheeler said nothing, he just donned his sunglasses. Suddenly, Tyler threw their pitcher of Miller Lite at Torque.
But, he caught it.
In.
Mid.
Air.
And without even turning around.
“Actually… I’m an actual tough guy… And something of a…”
He turned to face them, and chugged the entire pitcher of Miller Lite, his favorite beer.
“…Stealthy geek.”
The boys gulped in unison. They had finally realized, all too late, that they had kicked the hornet’s nest. It was then, and precisely then, that Headstrong by Trapt began to play from the Hooligan's jukebox, and Torque calmly took off his leather jacket, and adopted a horse stance.
Torque dispatched them quickly and easily, and the girls from earlier in the story both wanted to fuck him and show him their titties but, as he said, he was a kepT man. They sent him nudes anyway though. The end.
