Confederate Monument Potest in NOLA.

This makes me LOL.....

It's too damn hot to be outside to protest anything right now.

I would handle the statued individually:

Sell the Jeff Davis statue to Beauvoir. They want it and the city could make a few bucks.

Change Lee Circle back to its original name, Tivoli Circle. You don't know who's on top of that column unless someone tells you, so the statue can stay.

Leave Beauregard where he is. I'd love to poll those protestors and see if they can even tell you the location of that one.

Pass an ordinance making the White League monument fair game for vandalism. That statue glorifies cop-killing terrorists and has no redeeming value. It would also be hard for David Dukkke to go to court because you can get an injunction against removing a statue but you can't force the government to prosecute someone, especially if the DA knows a jury will be unlikely to convict.

Whelp, look forward to seeing these clowns at red dress run next week

Where is a drunk steam roller operator when you need one?

90% of the tards involved are White.


lol

I hope it awakens and slaughters them all with a sword.



It was a muggy August day in New Orleans, overly hot for the season, but not uncommon to the locals. The air hung heavy and damp as Skronquavious finished mugging his third tourist of the day. A fine haul of 43 dollars, an iPhone and some jewelry had been well worth beating the middle aged New York native about the face with his pistol. He left her whimpering in the alley as he grabbed the front of his sagging pants and walked away. He overheard the sounds of the local news through an open window. Apparently the city council had voted to remove the Confederate statues in the city, to a raucous applause from the assembled natives. Skronquavious mused on how the city was finally doing something to combat the terrible problems of New Orleans, and rounded the corner with a golden smile flashing across his lips.

He stood in the looming shadow. The sun no longer reflected across his grill. He raised his gaze slowly across the grey-green boots. The trunks of metal legs. The oxidized overcoat.

His brown eyes beheld a bronze beard a foot above his head. Metal eyes met his gaze, empty and unfeeling, silently judging him. His own grew wide with confusion and fear, followed by anger. His gun came up perpendicular to the sidewalk and his mouth formed into a sneer as he grabbed his crotch with one hand and fired his pistol into the obstacle in his path, each report accompanied by curse from his lips.

The bullets tore through the figure, punching neat holes through the first layer of metal skin and rattling around as they struck the other side, their velocity not enough to carry them through.

The mouth never moved. The eyes never blinked. Skronquavious's sneer turned to a trembling of lips as the golem swung its sword in a terrible arc. The blade made thick, wet sound as it sliced through his neck in a font of blood. His dreadlocks fanned out in all directions as his head rolled into the gutter, like dice in a back alley game.

The General stood sentinel straight, the red gore dripping from his saber. Seems he had his work cut out for him. But after all, it was they that had wanted him to come down...

He stooped down, metal joints creaky from a century of stillness, to wipe his blade upon the crumpled form of the former thug. And then, he began to walk. He had his work cut out for him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The crowd protesting around the confederate monument was a hodgepodge of the most virulent strains of Social Justice Warrior. Women, or rather piles of fat and flesh with short, spiked, dyed hair screamed and cackled, their jiggling arms clutching signs denouncing nebulous "racism" and "patriarchy".

Hipsters with skinny jeans and ironic t-shirts also made up clumps, apathetically vaping, their dreads smelling of patchouli and neglect. Some of the darker denizens of the city endlessly chanted tired and uninspired slogans. A motley crew for certain, annoying passersby with accusations of privilege and racism.

Yet the din began to cease as, one by one, they turned to hear the source of a peculiar, unfamiliar sound coming from down the street.

CLANK

A morbidly obese woman with a green pixie cut craned her flabby neck...

CLANK

A woman in a headscarf lowered her black power fist and stopped yelling at a father and his child and turned around...

CLANK

A skinny white male reached his tattooed hand up to remove his false glasses, sure that his eyes were deceiving him...

CLANK
CLANK

CLANK

The noise stopped, and they stood, spellbound, as the figure that should not be towered over them. There was only silence from the crowd now. No chants, no shouts, just the sound of sirens in the distance and the constant hum of the interstate. The figure stared down at the ones who wished to bring him down from his lofty perch of ages. He frowned, perplexed at this curious assemblage of humanity. And then the silence broke, with a trigglypuff hurling her big gulp at him and screaming "frick YOU SHITLORD!"
The styrofoam cup exploded against his metal chest, sending streams of orange soda splashing to the ground.

He cricked his neck twice, back and forth, as the hambeast continued to scream at him. Then, in one swift motion, he plunged his sword into her gaping maw mid-shriek and silenced the horrid noise. His blade stuck out the back of her fat head, bits of blood and brain clinging to it. The crowd stared, slack jawed, paralyzed by the unreal scene that had played out before them. And then the grim, grisly work began.

quote:

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Seems like if you can organize 30 people to wear the same color, show up united and protest in an organized manner, you could get 30 people together to run out the neighborhood drug dealers, reduce shootings, improve the school systems, etc.

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The guy that did this does a ton of community events.

quote:

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It was a muggy August day in New Orleans, overly hot for the season, but not uncommon to the locals. The air hung heavy and damp as Skronquavious finished mugging his third tourist of the day. A fine haul of 43 dollars, an iPhone and some jewelry had been well worth beating the middle aged New York native about the face with his pistol. He left her whimpering in the alley as he grabbed the front of his sagging pants and walked away. He overheard the sounds of the local news through an open window. Apparently the city council had voted to remove the Confederate statues in the city, to a raucous applause from the assembled natives. Skronquavious mused on how the city was finally doing something to combat the terrible problems of New Orleans, and rounded the corner with a golden smile flashing across his lips.

He stood in the looming shadow. The sun no longer reflected across his grill. He raised his gaze slowly across the grey-green boots. The trunks of metal legs. The oxidized overcoat.

His brown eyes beheld a bronze beard a foot above his head. Metal eyes met his gaze, empty and unfeeling, silently judging him. His own grew wide with confusion and fear, followed by anger. His gun came up perpendicular to the sidewalk and his mouth formed into a sneer as he grabbed his crotch with one hand and fired his pistol into the obstacle in his path, each report accompanied by curse from his lips.

The bullets tore through the figure, punching neat holes through the first layer of metal skin and rattling around as they struck the other side, their velocity not enough to carry them through.

The mouth never moved. The eyes never blinked. Skronquavious's sneer turned to a trembling of lips as the golem swung its sword in a terrible arc. The blade made thick, wet sound as it sliced through his neck in a font of blood. His dreadlocks fanned out in all directions as his head rolled into the gutter, like dice in a back alley game.

The General stood sentinel straight, the red gore dripping fromI his saber. Seems he had his work cut out for him. But after all, it was they that had wanted him to come down...

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