Something’s rotten in the fairy-tale kingdom of progress. It is crumbling like the magical land of Fantastica after people stopped believing in it. Progs are melting like toons under the green shower of Judge Doom. Is our never-ending narrative finished? Comrade Red Square investigates.
Comrades!
170 years ago, Karl Marx began his Communist Manifesto by writing, “A specter is haunting Europe – the specter of communism. All the powers of old Europe have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise this specter.”
Marxism has since been upgraded with many new features and functions. The revolutionary class is no longer the workers, but the white-color coalition of identity pressure groups, spearheaded by transsexuals and financed by international currency manipulators. Imperialism and colonialism were replaced with globalism and mass migration. The violent revolution was replaced with the march through the institutions, class struggle with culture wars, and historical materialism with phallophobia.
Even the specter of communism has been replaced. As karmic retribution for Karl Marx’s known penchant to sexually harass his female subordinates, the world is now being haunted by the specter of Pussy™, with all the progressive powers entering into a holy alliance to enable this haunting and protect it from exorcism, even as it’s fixing to swallow the entire progressive movement, chew it up, and spit out the bones.
The haunting began on Friday, Oct. 7, 2016, when we released an 11-year-old Access Hollywood tape, in which the merry bachelor Trump was recorded bragging about his status as a celebrity, which was why beautiful women in the industry allowed him to kiss them and “grab them by the pussy.” Designed to destroy Trump, this October surprise barely made a dent. We followed it up with a massive media campaign, in which the P-word was memefied in thousands of images, but the nation’s psyche remained unscathed. We organized million-strong marches of pussycomrades in pussyhats, but the country treated them as clowns.
Nothing in our playbook was working; we should’ve just stopped. But when a prog hits a wall, the answer is always to push harder. We became possessed by the P-specter. It made us fixated on P-issues, repeating the P-word like a magic spell and howling it at the moon as we channeled our rage toward white cisgendered hetero-males who we imagined were all guilty of P-grabbing. In the process we became impossible zero-tolerance prudes. If Marx were still around, we’d have called him a creep, pressured him to resign, and mocked his theories on late night shows. Our sexual revolution became a Freudian slip-and-fall mess. We began to purge everyone who didn’t live up to the new puritanical standard, even if it meant losing valuable comrades.
It wasn’t always like that.