A Wet Tent Near the Bean – July 26, 2025 — Let me paint you a picture in leftover tear gas and broken pepper spray canisters.

It’s October 2011. I’m hunched over a cardboard sign in Grant Park that reads “TRUMP = AMERICA’S HERNIA.” It’s raining sideways, there’s a drum circle 3 feet from my last nerve, and Rahm Emanuel’s goon squad is circling like sharks who got a grant from Homeland Security. I’m coughing up tear gas and truth bombs, getting cuffed for “disrupting traffic” on a patch of grass that’s never seen a vehicle, and meanwhile—meanwhile—somewhere in Hollywood, South Park is workshopping their fifteenth fart joke about fascism and getting called brilliant.

Brilliant?

I screamed at a cop through a Guy Fawkes mask until my voice cracked like the American Dream.
Matt and Trey animated a sentient MAGA hat and now they’re Resistance™ legends.

Tell me, when did satire start requiring an animation budget and a merchandising deal?

I remember when resistance was cold, wet, hungry, and smelled like burnt sage and pepper spray. When our WiFi sucked, but our commitment was dial-up levels of stubborn. I remember chanting, “This is what democracy looks like!” until it echoed through the Loop like a ghost we were trying to conjure.

And now?
Democracy looks like a Comedy Central rerun and a Funko Pop.

Here’s the punchline, folks:
I lost three jobs, a molar, and half my Facebook friends for calling Trump a fascist to his face (well, to his Twitter avatar).
South Park calls him “Scroto McOrangepants” and Variety calls it “cutting-edge social commentary.”

I risked arrest for trolling Trump.
They got sponsored by Taco Bell.

Is that what it takes now? A cartoon and a dick joke?

Shit, I had dick jokes. I had good ones. I had a whole bit about Trump’s mushroom being the only thing smaller than his electoral integrity. But no one clapped. No HBO deal. No Peabody. Just a frozen burrito and a court summons.

So here’s the deal:
If they’re the resistance, then I’m the underground railroad for truth, running memes past the censors with nothing but a burner phone and a bad attitude.

And if satire is measured in ratings, not risk?
Then fine.
Call me Second City’s Last Prophet.

I’ll be here—under the EL tracks—trolling fascists with nothing but a Sharpie, a grudge, and a dream.

https://endfascism.xyz