Undoctrination.org

(Warning: Language)

Remember Charles Manson? Charlie, of course, was the patriarch of what came to be known as the Manson Family, a nomadic gaggle of drug-abusing flower children whose adventures culminated in a psychotic blood-rampage throughout the Los Angeles area in 1969. (Charlie’s family didn’t just snuff their victims’ lives, either; they…did things.) Charlie had built up a following over the years since his notorious escapade, but now it appears his fan base has reached new heights. Charlie has become a bit of a folk hero for a certain political class who today look upon his disjointed internet monologues as the wondrous insights of a sage, a guru. But what type of political thinking, a normal person would ask, leads someone to idolize an insane mass-murderer, and much less one incapable of forming a single coherent thought in any given half-hour of rambling? Visitors to Charlie’s official Facebook page, Charles Mansion Music, may glean some clues from the coherent thoughts of his fans: “The people who imprison this great man are the same people who destroy the planet with their capitalism.” Or “We should have a festival for Charlie’s cause of living things on the planet.”

Charlie is an environmentalist. He’s quite the spokesman, in fact, from there in his prison cell, for all things planet. It’s a little-known tidbit that Charlie is credited with committing the first act of eco-terrorism. He and his little family torched an earthmover—a symbol of man’s destruction—as they cavorted in the desert just before being apprehended for littering the environment with mutilated corpses. But, as one fan writes in reference to Charlie’s murderous history: “It’s all bullshit slander and lies.” Of course it is. And let’s not forget that the great man is also a vegetarian and a champion of animal rights. Charlie, you see, is appalled at the thought of cutting up defenseless creatures, and so are his followers. And this all adds up to record-sales, CD and vinyl, because Charlie has an eager audience for the environmental-based lyrics of the music he somehow produces in prison. Oh, and did I mention that he was a “global warming prophet?” Well, he was, and way ahead of his time, too. He knew way-back-when that human activity would bring on this devastating rise in temperature we are experiencing this very winter. You’ll learn all about it on his page. (Yeah, he hates blacks and has a swastika tattooed on his forehead, but he probably doesn’t mean it. And hate is such a strong word.)

Charlie Manson’s following, we should note, is nothing new by any means. Cult-like adulation for the great man, for his prescience and his punitive expeditions against a racist society, began in earnest as quick as his name hit the nightly newscasts. A young woman made this comment at a 1969 student meeting in Flint, Michigan: “Dig it! First they killed those pigs. Then they ate dinner in the same room with them. Then they even shoved a fork into the victim’s (actress Sharon Tate’s) stomach. Wild!” And those accolades were well-received among that excited gathering. These were anti-war activists on a mission. The young lady, her sweetheart, and a few close friends had just dynamited a memorial to killed-in-action Chicago police, which endeavor had ignited a three-day peace-protest that left thirty cops injured and a Chicago official paralyzed. (This was after the brutal peace these same protesters inflicted upon the ’68 Democratic National Convention.) Until that moment, the group had assigned the label of “pigs” only to cops and American soldiers. Charlie Manson had expanded the definition to include all of bourgeois white society. Brilliant! The girl then shouted, “We’re about being crazy motherfuckers and scaring the shit out of honky America!” A close, peace-loving friend of hers, one Mark Rudd, was compelled to join in. “It’s a wonderful feeling to hit a pig,” he said. “It must be a really wonderful feeling to kill a pig or blow up something.” Her friend Mark, it should be mentioned,  had only a few months before taken over the Columbia University campus, bashed in doors and windows, hoisted red flags from the top of occupied buildings, pasted images of Che Guevara, Karl Marx, and Malcolm X on walls throughout the premises, and shut down the campus for six days. When planning their recent peace-protest, Mark had said, “In Chicago the pigs have to be wiped out. We’re going to fight with violence and wipe out Chicago.” This peacenik applauded her when, after her Manson commentary, she threw up a four-finger salute that emulated the fork Charlie’s girls had plunged into Sharon Tate’s pregnant stomach. This heil-Charlie would be the salute of their new group, Weatherman.

And what a busy flower girl the young lady was after that meeting in Flint. A few weeks later, with the help of her lover, she set a bomb under a window at the Park Police Station in San Francisco. She was only able to kill one young cop, but she injured eight others—and one even severely. This would only be the beginning, anyway. America, with its capitalism and corporate greed, was the “greatest enemy of mankind,” as the mantra went, and cops and soldiers were pigs. So were all white people (well, except for her peace-protesting friends—and herself, of course), and they too went on her list.

She and her enlightened phalanx of would-be Ghandis then set about making nail-bombs. These were for killing Viet Nam vets attending a scheduled dance at Fort Dix, New Jersey. The soldiers would be on leave, meeting their wives, girlfriends, and families, and all these people deserved to have nails drilled into their eyes and faces and skulls while agonizing in their death throes. Yeah, maybe there would be some black people there, but what the hell, man? They shouldn’t be selling their souls to the master. Lucky for her, she was taking a doobie-break from bomb-making when one of her friends put this thing here and that thing there when he shouldn’t have, and, blammo!—his body and two others ended up decorating the floor of their Greenwich Village bungalow Manson-style after a premature explosion.

Not in the least dissuaded from waging peace against U.S. imperialism, her little group sent its members to Cuba, where they received training in guerilla warfare from Castro’s people and the KGB. Their contacts were made through the Cuban embassy in Canada. Castro’s former sidekick Che Guevara was, in their eyes—as he is in the eyes of the political left today—a martyred saint, and every move they made was as if to do St. Che proud. The girl’s name, by the way, was Bernardine Dohrn, and she and her future husband, Bill Ayers, went on—after Bill and she bombed the Pentagon and NYC police headquarters—to become very good friends and neighbors with the Obamas. Barak and his pal Bill initiated projects together, sat on boards together, ran funding drives together, let their children play together, and even wrote a book together. (Well, except that Barak was never a very good writer and Bill wrote the whole thing himself, as he later confessed. Since it was Barak’s first autobiography, though, Barak went ahead and took all the credit for the wonderful prose style in it.) Like Bill, Barak was an admirer of Che Guevara. But Che had been a cold-blooded executioner; and that may be why Barak, when running for president, sent orders to his campaign offices to remove their Che posters. Che’s face kept popping up in news videos filmed in those offices, and that probably wasn’t helpful. This all happened, of course, after Weatherman became the Weather Underground, whose members killed, among others, an African-American Brink’s guard while trying to steal money for fighting racism in America.

On the morning of September 11, 2001, anyone who saw the New York Times before two planes crashed into the twin towers would have seen an interview with Barak’s close friend and peace activist Bill. “I don’t regret setting bombs,” Barak’s close friend said in the interview. “I feel we didn’t do enough.” That was probably true. During his Weather Underground days, Barak’s good pal had announced plans to re-educate the masses in a prison-compound in the Southwest, and to execute, Che-style, some 25 million hard-core capitalists who would likely refuse the indoctrination. (Yeah, the murders and injuries of a few piddly pigs must be quite the disappointment for Bill as he enters his gray years.) The Times article went on to quote Barak Obama’s confidant and fellow peace lover as finding “a certain eloquence to bombs.” He spoke of their poetry and pattern, and their wild displays of noise and color. He especially liked “the Big Ones” with their “loud concussions.” Ooooo, the thrill up one’s leg.

But yesterday’s progressives and peace activists are relegated to academia now, to filling the heads of our future leaders with notions of goodwill and love and planet-saving from behind lecterns in auditoriums. Indoctrination is the province of the old folks. The trenches are being manned now by a new crop of docile poets. America was introduced to a few of these in St. Paul, Minnesota during the Republican convention in 2008. David McKay and Bradley Crowder, heroes to the progressive left and subjects of a glowing Hollywood documentary about their selfless sacrifice, organized several groups of anarchists to shut the convention down. Their tools of preference were guns, riot shields, bombs, and Molotov cocktails. People being blown to bits and burning to death, the duo had clearly determined, would be the optimal way to get their message of love and anti-racism across. Republicans had no right to say things and think things—not the things they were saying and thinking, anyway. It was unfortunate for the peace twins and their admirers that they were infiltrated by a snitch, a rat, a man by the name of Brandon Darby, who had once been one of them. This traitor had carried the love banner for years, until he began to realize, in his words, that America, with all its faults, wasn’t really such a bad place. He also came to the conclusion that his friends in the peace-and-planet movement were pretty damn violent. If you doubt him on that score, google Brandon’s name and feel the love for yourself as you scroll through the entries. Wade Rathke, founder of the peaceful and progressive community-aid group ACORN, was livid with Darby’s treachery, and he said so on his website. Burning, writhing, screaming, dead and disfigured people—and ACORN’s founder (and Obama’s friend) was enraged over its aversion.

But the true peace-meisters among the political thinkers whose numbers include all the Che and Charlie devotees, the crowd that cares for nothing if it’s not about fair pay, civil rights, and human dignity, are the leaders of the workers’ unions. President Obama would undoubtedly agree, as union head Andy Stern has been his most frequent visitor at the White House. If you want civil discourse, good cheer, or fellow feeling, look no farther than the AFL-CIO. Everyone on the peace-and-love progressive side of the spectrum is a friend of unions. Peaceful union retaliation mostly goes unreported, but 2000 brave souls have made such reports since 1990. Union civility includes stalking of family members, sliced tires, busted windows, wrecked houses, busted heads, broken bones, dead pets, snapshots of family members posted in the mail, and murder. In 1993, boss Richard Trumka ordered a strike of some 17,000 miners in seven states as a means of inviting all miners to join his union. The striking miners cut off power to strand ninety-three workers underground. Then, true to the tender feelings of their politics, they shot one Eddie York in the back of the head as he drove by. As Eddie lay dying, union members threw rocks at anyone who attempted to help him. When asked for a reaction to Eddie’s death, Boss Trumka muttered something about getting burned when you stick your finger in a fire.

Trumka, and indeed all union leaders and progressives, are outspoken about keeping the U.S. southern border open. This is just a manifestation of that union spirit, that politically-progressive culture of brotherly love. The unions have partnered with La Raza in peaceful protests to these ends. It’s all a matter of civil discourse and making the American people understand that there is no place for racism in modern society. Here is what Jose Angel Gutierrez, a Texas lawyer and founder of a pro-illegal-immigration group said: “We have got to eliminate the gringo, and what I mean by that is if the worst comes to the worst, we have got to kill him.” These sentiments of love and civility are roundly expressed at all open-border rallies in different ways. Alongside bobbing images of a manly Che Guevara, in which his determined eyes seem focused on a righteous dream, words of goodwill and charitable intent ornament each poster. The protesters only want to eliminate an imperialistic, capitalistic, racist culture in order to spread the love that bubbles over inside them. They are, after all, La Raza—The Race. (And blacks in Mexico are reminded of that constantly.) There is no room for racist white Nazis in a country, Aztlan, that belongs to The Race.

Just across the racist border, particularly near Arizona, there are many heads without bodies and bodies without heads strewn about through the desert. Decapitation, as the peaceful and oppressed product-distribution specialists of Mexico have learned from the peaceful Muslims, is the best way to convey a message in lieu of civil discourse. Charles Manson, too, conveyed messages like that. The workers’ unions have a similar program. Even President Obama’s good, good, friends Bill Ayers and Bernardine Dohrn of fork-salute fame, and the other bomb-making peace-protesters of the 60s who were all welcomed with open arms into the highest positions of progressive, planet-saving academia, adopted such measures. And I take my leave with this note:

Dear Liberals,

That orchestrated crap you pulled this week? Don’t ever try it again.