re: Mitch Landrieu solves all problems by writing an op-ed piece

Landrieu 2020

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With the rumors of out of town money funding all of this, we should be very very concerned that outside influences can so easily steer our local politics. It's going to be very interesting to see who ole Mitch works for after his term as mayor is over. I'm guessing Al Sharpton.

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So why aren't the locals privy to this information? It seems like something like this should be transparent. You open a very dangerous can of worms when you allow this shite to occur.

The first comment is awesome, many are

Political Suicide , Congrats B(M) itch

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After we’re done moving these monuments, we’ll face an even greater task: coming together to decide who we are as a city

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What the hell does that even mean?

shite is all so exhausting.

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What the hell does that even mean?

shite is all so exhausting.

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who knows? it just sounds good in his campaign errrrrr op-ed piece

A bunch of the money came from a Nola local. Some would be very surprised/disappointed

Oh spill it. Come on.

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I wish Mitch would get trampled by a pack of wild horses

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Statues part 2:

The streets around the square ran red with streams of blood, like piss after Mardi Gras. In fact, piss was amongst the foul liquids that flowed that day. Severed limbs and multicolored heads lay around the statue. The General had been brutally efficient. The ones who had been so loud turned into whimpering messed under his long shadow, begging for mercy, pleading with a thing that had no pity.

Some tasted the swift, sweet death of his saber. Others weren't so lucky. The giant hand of the General closed around the helmet shaped purple-hair of one particularly loud woman. "Take it back!" She screamed, "I DON'T WANT THIS ANYMORE!" The General's grip tightened. Her eyes bugged out, then she began to bleed from her sockets, her ears and nose. Finally the top of her skull imploded from the mighty metal grip. She stopped screaming.

A cry arose from behind the General.
FASCIST SCUM!
He slowly turned, the viscera still dripping from the purple helmet of hair in his palm, to face the new addition.

Three black clad men with face masks stood defiantly, holding glass bottles filled with liquid, rags hanging from their tops. One held a lighter and all three lit their wicks, flames blossoming like spring flowers. In unison the hurled their Molotov cocktails at the metal menace and laughed as he erupted in a massive gout of flame, so hot they were forced to withdraw several yards.

The General was ablaze, his massive arms waved and slapped at the flames on his chest, but this only served to spread them to his hands. The masked group's cries of jubilance grew silent, however, when the General stopped his attempts to smother the fire, shrugged his shoulders, and advanced upon them, smoke and flames billowing off his surface.

They attempted to backpedal again but tripped backwards over a body, falling on their rumps as the sound of boots clanged closer on the concrete. They tried to scrabble back on their hands but they were too slow. A metal boot came down with such force on the chest of the first one it caved it in. He vomited a stream of blood and then lay still.

The other too just sat there in shocked silence as the burning figure reached down. His hands had grown red hot from the flames and as he palmed both of their faces their masks caught fire. Their hidden faces became infernos as their hair caught. Their skin began to sizzle and pop. The noises they made as they were lifted from the ground and struggled in abject agony were horrible.

Rising crescendos of unimaginable pain as their flesh was cooked by the brazen hands. Finally their squirming ceased and their bodies went limp, screaming no more. The General slammed their heads together and the baked brains spilled out like half boiled eggs. If he could smell the foul stench of burning excrement would have assailed his nostrils. He tossed them aside like unwanted toys and looked around to surveil what he had wrought.

Bodies burned and bled on the pavement. Sirens wailed from across town. No survivors were left to protest his presence now.
News crews tracked the carnage from nearby rooftops, and a chopper circled high in the air. A hand went up to stroke a metal beard, leaving a residue of soot and brains behind.

Then he began to walk.

~~~~~~~~~

The Mayor watched the news coverage in stunned silence as The General rampaged through town unimpeded. He'd given a press conference earlier, doing everything he knew he should.
He blamed the police for failing to stop it. He blamed the Republicans for not voting to do what he wanted. He blamed White people in general for racism. He'd done all he could. He knew his decision to tear down the historical statues had been the most important issue the city had ever faced, and this was proof.

He called to his driver to take him home. He hummed the first bars of "The Battle of New Orleans" to himself with a smug satisfaction on the bumpy trip until the car came to a lurching halt. Apparently the officers had barricaded the road for some sort of "safety issue." He cursed them under his breath as his driver made a detour.

Dodging the larger of the potholes, The Mayor was thrown left and right as his driver tried to navigate the roads without crashing. Again the Mayor thought of what issues the city faced and decided what needed to be done next was to change all the racist names of the streets. The names were obviously causing the roads to deteriorate.

Suddenly the car came to a screeching halt. A strange sound rang increasingly louder in the Mayor's ears. A rapid Ka-Klunk Ka-Klunk Ka-Klunk Ka-Klunk, getting closer and closer. Then a shattering of glass and a ripping of metal as the top of the car was ripped open. A blade began to saw around the Mayor's head, as if someone was trying to open a tin can with no can opener.

Suddenly metal hands appeared to rip back the canopy as the mayor stared up at what had befallen him. Seated atop a bronze horse was General Jackson with a glare in his eyes that made the Mayor's bowels loosen. His mouth opened, and a banshee wail erupted from his lips.

I SAVED THIS CITYYYYYYYY!

The metallic voice hung in the humid air, echoing off the ancient boulevard. A dark spot grew on the front of mayor's pants.

AND THIS IS HOW YOU HONOR MEEEEE?

YOU DISGRACE THIS PLACCCCCCCE!

General Jackson reached down and picked the mayor up by his collar. The dark spot now dripped and ran down his legs. He began to stammer.

"B-b-b-b-but you're a raci-"

He never finished the statement. A bronze glove backhanded his face, sending teeth skittering into the street. General Jackson's horse began to whinny, sounding like a hurricane wind. The mayor burbled and bled profusely from his swollen face. His left eye dangled from his socket and his lips were mangled from when they smashed his teeth.

He tried to speak again but was immediately stopped by another hammer-blow, this one shattering his remaining teeth and leaving his jaw hanging lopsided from his head. General Jackson began to pummel his fist into what remained of the Mayor's face, his body shuddering with every blow. Finally he tossed the mayor's body to the street where it landed in a gargantuan pothole, limbs askew at odd angles. His face was a mangled ruin of blood and bones.

General Jackson rode his horse over the corpse, the metal hooves crushing the mayor's tiny genitals in the process. As he rode away, a tinny rendition of "The Battle of New Orleans" whistled down the boulevard, and General Jackson laughed.