The “D” in DNC must stand for “drama.” Ever since the week-long party that was the Republican National Convention ended, the Jackass Party has been in nonstop turmoil. First came Wikileaks’ DNC emails, confirming what most of us already knew: the Democratic Party had screwed over senile populist Bernie Sanders in favor of Wall Street’s bottom bitch, Hillary Clinton. In response, the Democrats handed marmalade-skinned DNC chair-yenta and Tracy Flick wannabe Debbie Wasserman Schultz her walking papers before the weekend was up.
Then came Colonel Sanders and the Kentucky Fried Cucking. Knowing full-well that his party had conspired to derail his presidential campaign in favor of a woman who opposes everything he’s fought for his entire life, Sanders chose to endorse her anyway, to the unfathomably sad tears of his underemployed fanboys. If schadenfreude were porn, I’d have priapism right now. The Left is collapsing into a feeding frenzy of victimology and mutual excommunications, like piranhas fighting over the last bits of sinew on a cow’s corpse.
Yesterday, I hit the streets for the first day of the Democratic National Convention in Philly along with the Bechtloff, Cynic in Chief and a number of other guys. Bernie Sanders’ spurned fans were to assemble at City Hall and march south to the convention proper… or at least as far as they could get before they hit the DNC’s border wall and had to go back. I was hoping for a riot. Instead, I witnessed the most bizarre collective triggering I’ve seen in my life.
The gang and I showed up to City Hall around noon, looking for the action. On the south side of the building, the Bernouts massed like funeralgoers at a wake. There were several hundred assorted hippies, jobless college grads, and various riffraff assembled at the intersection of Penn Square and Broad. A giant inflatable joint labeled “Bernin’ Up the DNC” and a massive papier-mache racist caricature of Michelle Obama were among the more notable sights. Every so often, the dejected protesters would chant “HELL NO, DNC! WE WON’T VOTE FOR HILLARY!”
After milling about watching the hippies do nothing, we went over to the Independence Visitor Center to cool off. While walking back to position ourselves for the start of the march (which had swelled to several thousand people), we ran into the Bechtloff and Cynic in Chief. Two things about the march jumped out at me almost immediately. The first was that there was almost zero mainstream media presence contrasted with the RNC, which had more reporters than protesters. Second, the police presence was bizarrely light, with only a handful of bike-riding cops on the scene.
Not only that, I wasn’t recognized once during the march. There were no antifas trying to chase me off, no Fat Albert lookalikes snitching on me to Instagram and no skinny Indians calling me a “Nazi.” In fact, more than once I got offered free water or free iced tea from the socialist front groups running the march. Even better, one self-described “medic” handed me and a couple of other volunteers free Vitamin C packets along with our bottled Dasani.
The march began at three and was unexceptional, as we tromped down Broad towards the armed compound where the DNC was taking place. The biggest incident happened about midway through, as the marchers suddenly stopped at the corner of Passyunk, chanting “TAKE IT DOWN! TAKE IT DOWN!” I initially assumed that they had been stopped by a police line, until I looked up and a dawning sense of horror overtook me.
That’s right. The entire protest ground to a halt because the Leftists were angry over the Mississippi state flag—which incorporates the Confederate battle flag—hanging from a telephone pole. The cries of “TAKE IT DOWN!” were directed at the police and fire department, who were expected to stop saving lives long enough to remove the flag themselves. Keep in mind that all the other state flags had been hung in alphabetical order up and down Broad.
The crowd became increasingly angry, chanting “TAKE DOWN THAT RACIST FLAG!”, throwing shoes at the flag and even lighting what looked like a Molotov cocktail. One of our guys also witnessed one kid trying to scale the pole. Finally, the Fire Department wheeled in a truck to take the flag down, to Bechtloff’s, Cynic’s and my disbelief, as the anti-authority crowd cheered and screamed, “THANK YOU, PHILADELPHIA FIRE DEPARTMENT!” As we headed further south, Bechtloff remarked, “We just saw what democracy looks like in its purest form: mob rule.” One volunteer would later remark that he believed the police had intentionally put the flag up to distract the protesters (as the flags had not been there before).
We kept walking with the march up until they hit an intersection with I-76, at which point we decided to call it a day. The protesters were petering out and there was very little that would top the limp-out we saw with the flag. Another volunteer would later tell me that he recorded a kid bragging about how he’d scored a Bernie Sanders-themed condom but hadn’t been able to use it yet; he also said he’d witnessed a bunch of old Jewish anarchists getting angry at how the crowd was mangling old protest chants. For example, the marchers chanted “THE PEOPLE UNITED WILL NEVER BE DIVIDED,” to which they yelled, “IT’S ‘THE PEOPLE UNITED WILL NEVER BE DEFEATED,’ DUMBASS!”
Overall, the first day of the DNC already featured more action—even if it was limp-wristed—than the RNC. The Republican convention ended with unity and hope for the future: the Democratic convention is devolving into a clash of defectives, each with their own grievance against the straight White male patriarchy. I expect the wheels will come straight off the convention as the week rolls on.