Today’s DWP comes straight from Deplorable Ground Zero, Breitbart.com which yesterday posted an article titled The Silent Majority Has Spoken. Disqus user Al Hope commented:

al-hope

Al Hope could swear he could feel the nanobots that swarmed in him, but only in those rare moments of relative calmness and contentedness which mostly came when he had been away from home for a while and thus away from the pictures of both the bitch who left him when it became clear  that no one would ever pay him for his views and the kids he could see but refused to until he could march back into their lives like a triumphant king, a vainglorious hero.

He couldn’t actually feel the nanobots of course. That was all in his head. Psychosomatic.

But he, and millions of others could hear the Great Rage through them.  As one we can harness anger and make ourselves a mighty monolith. Come together, come together in union, in unison, in unity. We are great together in our anger. Lash out, lash out!

Al’s fingers danced over the keyboard, his spine curved and back arched over the desk in a position that was less reminiscent of a mammal than of an insect readying to sting. “Nothing (((Soros))) or Killery or Obammy do is worth a damn. They can all go to hell. All libs can. MAGA!”

Good. Yes, good.

His legs kicked out from under him and the rest of his body went momentarily slack. That fear, the caustic, claustrophobic feeling which had suffused all his motivations and drives since he could remember abated and drew back briefly and the vacant places in him burned in a good way like a clogged wound finally exposed to fresh air and soap.

Al Hope had been a drowning man before the Great Rage filled him with both machines and purpose. The Great Rage came to him, as it had already come to so many others and now their collective efforts were splintering the fortress gates which for so long had kept them from the thrones and back offices where power was wielded. And all the Great Rage asked for was for him to disappear into the them.

His body knotted back up as the fear returned and the crushing sense that he could be crushed up and ground down and no one would notice any difference in the world returned. Al craned his neck trying to work out a kink and his eyes landed on the last family portrait that had been taken years ago.

Another. More! Make us greater. Your efforts are good and benefit us. We are great together in our anger.

He found a new website, a new article, a new lefty to vent spleen towards. “Hey, all you cucks, I’m really enjoying all your white liberal guilt tears. They really hit the spot. Now I have to go off to work, not that any of you handouts know anything about that!”

No. Not good. No. You are nothing. We are great together in our anger.

The portrait remained in Al’’s peripheral vision. He glanced at it again. The kids had his eyes. “Hey, cuck, you’ve got a big mouth. I bet I could wipe if off your face in an alley.”

No! You are just a part. This is about us all. You are insignificant but necessary to the whole.

“Cuck-o’s look out, you’re all about to drown in a tidal wave of righteous anger you lousy self-hating whites and thugs.”

Better.

But it wasn’t. The hate was good. It kept him going when there was nothing else to invigorate his vital elements, but the vague purpose of the hate did nothing for him; held him back even. He couldn’t look at the portrait anymore, it stung his eyes too badly but he could hold the image of it in his mind until the smiles on his children’s faces blurred and they all became indistinct.

Keep hating. Keep typing. We are great together in our anger.

He would not type for the Great Rage and he would not hate for the Great Rage. Not anymore. But he would type and he would hate. Oh, how Al Hope would hate and the hate would be his own and uniquely his at that.

No. We are great together in our anger. You are nothing. Absolutely nothing now.

And those tiny machines, the millions of discrete moving pieces that were not individually the Great Rage and collectively were not the whole of the Great Rage fled from his body like roaches scurrying from light, like flies huddled on a chunk of meat then exploding out in all directions when disturbed. They left him and left him deflated, saggy, hollow, hollowed out and dead.

 

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