The year is 2019, 2 years after the events of Part 1. Antifa has taken over the United States, and enforces their insidious law of “no fascism” with an iron fist. Freedom of speech is dead. I am an Enlightened Centrist, and now the last of my kind.
–
As I ascended the hilltop, Antifa Tower came fully into view. The massive obelisk pierced the sky and loomed over me, daring me to challenge it. On the very top floor resided Professor Ciccariello, who was now the President of Antifa. “Last time, the professor got egg on his face…” I said to myself, “but now, he will get pie on his dick.” And so, with an all-american blueberry pie in hand and my sights set on Prof. Ciccariello’s dick, I stepped forward, towards the monolith.
As I walked through the surrounding slums, I saw scenes of suffering in this world. To my left: hunger, poverty, illness. To my right: corruption in video games journalism. And there, ahead of me, soon appeared to the entrance to the tower. “HALT,” said the large, burly Antifa guarding the door. “To see President Ciccariello, you must first ascend the 5 floors of this tower, and complete a challenge on each floor. You get 1 skip.” And he led me to the elevator, in which the only two buttons were “Up” and “Skip.” I took a deep breath, and pressed “Up.” The elevator whirred and lifted me upwards.
“Welcome to Floor 1,” said the speaker system. Another Antifa faced me. “On this floor, you must prove your loyalty to Antifa by brutalizing this trash can.” She threw a baseball bat into my hands. “B-but why?” I stuttered. “FOOL!!! FASH = TRASH!!!” she screamed. “Okay,” I said. “AND BY THE PROPERTY OF EQUALITY, THAT MEANS THAT TRASH = FASH!!!” And then I looked over at the trash can again and noticed that it had a little Hitler moustache taped to it. So I as she asked. I absolutely destroyed that trash can. And, as I walked towards the next elevator, I overheard the conversation behind me between the Antifa that greeted me and another one.
“Now to dispose of this wreck,” she said.
“Yes. If only we had some invention that would allow us to do so. Some kind of… container…” pondered her friend.
And the doors of the elevator closed.
“Welcome to Floor 2,” the speaker system resounded. The Antifa there approached grimly. On the walls of this floor were pictures of various historical communist leaders, like Mao, Stalin, and Che Guevara. The Antifa spoke. “Here you must identify … the one that was TRUE communism.” And so, I went into the center of the room, and started looking around. “Well, it’s certainly not Kim Jong-un, and I don’t think it’s Tito or Stalin either… wait a minute.” And then I pointed right at the Antifa all jojo-like. “NONE of these are true communism.”
“You’ve solved my semantic bullshit puzzle!” the Antifa said, and let me through to the next elevator.
“Welcome to Floor 3,” said the speakers. In front of me stood an Antifa guard, next to a cart on a rail. “Get in,” the Antifa grunted, “I’m about to show you just a microcosm of the ideal communist utopia we hope to create.” I got into the cart with her, which then budged off of its break and began moving. Before me unfolded a green valley that seemed to stretch beyond the limits of the building we were in. Upon it danced beautiful people, wild and free, while intelligent machines provided them with food, clothing, and entertainment. Scarcity, as well as social constructs like gender and whiteness, were a thing of the past. Then, night fell upon the valley. I saw a group of people with a yellow and black flag crawl out of the tunnel leading into the underground, grab one of the pure, innocent communists of the valley, and drag them back into the tunnel, kicking and screaming. “What was that??” I asked the Antifa. “Those are the Ancaps,” they replied, “they live underground and breed the communists like cattle for sustenance. Such is the price we pay for ideological purity.” “Oh,” I exclaimed, with realization in my eyes,”so the Ancaps have, over time, evolved into a different, underground-dwelling species??” “No,” said the Antifa, “that is just how Ancaps are normally.”
Tears formed in my eyes once again. “Please…” I begged, “please put at end to this horrible journey. I don’t want to see any more.” And then the soviet national anthem began playing and the Antifa made me sing along while crying. Eventually we go to the end of the ride and she let me into the next elevator. I went up.
“Welcome to Floor 4,” boomed the speaker system, “on this floor you must listen, for 15 minutes, to the discourse of a person with an overly-specific communist ideology.” In the middle of the room stood a lanky bearded dude, holding an organic granola bar. “Hello,” he said, “I’m a marxist-leninist-hoxhaist post-modernist situationali-” but that was all I heard as the elevator doors closed, because I had already started aggressively jamming the “skip” button as soon as I heard “marx.”
“Welcome to Floor 5,” said the speaker system. It was a large room with a small desk and a chair in the center, and an open laptop upon the desk. The laptop was hooked up to a USB device emitting a small flame, and open to a ‘compose new tweet’ window on Twitter. Next to the setup stood an Antifa, arms folded. “On this, the final room before you face President Ciccariello,” said the Antifa, “you must compose The Hottest Take.”
I sat down at the computer cautiously, and placed my fingers on the keyboard. I began typing.
The flame grew a little bigger, and I stopped momentarily to observe it, then continued typing.
The flame flared up significantly, and I knew that this was a sign I was going in the right direction.
The flame absolutely roared – so much so, in fact, that the Antifa got startled and backed away. “Y-you’re take is approved… you… you are worthy to proceed to President Ciccariello’s office.”
I entered the final elevator, and pressed the “Up” button.
Prof. Ciccariello’s office was elegant, but utilitarian. A wide desk. A large window. The professor himself stood looking out of the window, facing away from me, casting a shadow upon the room. “I suppose you have come to toss a baked pastry at my weiner,” he said, after a pause. “Yes. So turn around, so I can do that,” I replied as I readied my blueberry pie. And he started slowly turning around… but as he did so, I saw that he was holding something in his hands:
A mirror.
I saw myself in the mirror, and my gaze was drawn to my centrist shirt, which was a political compass with a dot directly in the center.
I gasped.
The dot has moved about an inch to the left, and was no longer PERFECTLY in the center. “NOOOOOOOOOOO,” I screamed, falling to my knees and dropping the blueberry pie, “BY STARING FOR LONG ENOUGH INTO THE NOT-VOID, I HAVE SOMEHOW BECOME THE NOT-VOID MYSELF”
“THAT’S RIGHT,” screeched Prof. Ciccariello joyously, “NEVER AGAIN SHALL YOU BE A PERFECT, DIVINE CENTRIST, HAHAHAHAHA!!!!” Tears streamed down my face. And then Prof. Ciccariello threw a bowl of borscht at my dick.
if he has clinical depression he oughta off himself, one less mayo
I personally believe that Howe and Strauss are absolute bellends without any proof, but this doesn't necessitate them being wrong about the weak times
A grim reminder that people bend over backwards to defend him
I guess I shouldn't be surprised such an unfunny man emulates Jim Davis
why don't he just do normal shite like the rest of us?
I've seen 6 year olds with shirts that say this, that's not healthy for a grown man to do
