Oh, Richard Spencer, coiner of the alt-right designator, founder of Radix Journal and author of this article. It’s a bit old, but I thought it would be interesting to see how the deplorables responded to Spencer getting banned from Twitter. I was wrong. It was not interesting. It’s just the same “they can’t handle our truth/censorship!/they’re just like Nazi’/this will only make us stronger” crap that every group of terrible people use when the real world listens to their arguments and then says, “nope”. To be fair though, I wouldn’t have been happy with any reaction other than, “oh, maybe this is a sign that we should be Nazis. Literal, 21st century Nazis”.  Oh well.

By the way, if you want to get a sense of how weak this movement really is, please notice that this week old article only has 48 likes <looks at his own likes counter, cries in corner>.

And yet, despite the blandness of this whole response, one commenter, Alec, did manage to craft a fairly serviceable DWP (from what other people on the thread said, that website he’s pimping is for some alternative Twitter service. I haven’t actually been there because consider the source):


Micaiah could not believe what he was seeing. When word had come from the Court that the King desired to know if God would grant his favor should war be declared against Ramoth of Aram, it had taken the other 400 royal prophets only the span of two blinks of an eye to begin throwing on their vestments, coating cold ashes on to their hands and smearing their faces with chicken blood.

“But what of God’s judgment?” Micaiah cried over the din of 400 men excitedly rehearsing their holy babble and mystic hand gestures.

“Does God feed you? Does God clothe you? The king wants war and the king will get his war and we will see our stock rise in his eyes.”

“But Aram is a strong nation and it’s people committed wholly to its lands. The strength of our troops is depleted and our people tired.” In the core of his trunk, Micaiah could feel a sick, deep, coldness that positively stopped his heart and constricted his lungs.

Jubal, the senior most prophet, so aged and wizened that he had passed the point of being able to maintain a beard and instead had clumps of long facial hair that dotted his face, separated from the huge cluster and put a trembling hand on Micaiah’s shoulder. “Even if what you say is true, even if we cannot win this war that the king has wanted for so long, do you really doubt in God’s benevolence towards us? Is there even a single fiber in you which doubts in God’s love and protection?”

“Yes, of course!” Micaiah exploded, the cold in his body battling now with the heat in his head and throat. He shook the feeble man’s weak hand from his shoulder. “Any reasonable person would! God’s love is great, which is why he despises the wasting of life unnecessarily for the pleasure of foolishness and powerful men. God may love us today but lean quickly to despise us tomorrow for our wanton cowardliness.”

Jubal clucked his dry tongue once and shook his head tremorous head. “Perhaps you should more acutely fear the punishment you will receive today from the king if you disagree with us than the punishment you may receive tomorrow from God.”

Micaiah could feel physically the stares of four hundred men as if each was an assault on his body and he bowed his head and blinked back tears.

“Micaiah,” Jubal continued. “I tell you this now, if you cannot assent to what the king has already decided to do, then keep the back, keep to the far corner of the room and say nothing. That way, years from now, you can bravely tell your grandchildren how you never gave the king counsel you didn’t believe.”

The prophets, all 401 of them, walked from length from the Oraclus Tabernacle to the palace bragging to each other of how grand and eloquent each of their prophecies would be. Micaiah alone was quiet, trying to quiet the voice in the back of his mind telling him to speak up in front of the king. To raise his voice like a mighty hammer and bring it swiftly down upon the lies these charlatans were prepared to lay at his feet. But he doubted, just as he did that God would be gracious in his treatment of them, that he would find the fortitude to do so.

As the prophets came to the mighty silver-wrought gates of the palace and Micaiah had made what peace he could with the farce he was about to silently, and tacitly, lend his approval to, he saw from the corner of his eye a hawk dive into the street and sink its claws into a plump rat. The hawk took off back into the air, crying out in it’s jagged screeching, “Micaiah, Micaiah.”

Jubal, old, doddering, foolish but not without some shred of awareness, quickly sought out Micaiah and cautioned him, “take nothing from that. That was no lesson. No prescription from God. Stay silent before the king.” Micaiah looked straight ahead and took heart knowing that he would find, somehow, the strength to open his mouth.



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