Why I am a journalist and Anti-Fascist
How, when I was knock, knock, knocking on Heaven's Door, my best pal, my dog, Lamont, and anti-fascists, intervened and told St. Peter "He is too early. We still got unfinished stuff to do here."
By Nate Thayer
August 30, 2022
This is one of the best friends of my best pal, Lamont, the anti-fascist Rod Webber. Rod does not like Nazis. Me either. We had never met in real life when I was taken by ambulance to hospital a few months ago. I was in critical condition in hospital and they wanted to do emergency surgery etc etc.
But my biggest problem was Lamont was alone and I promised him, ever since he was fished out of a Mexican trash dump, so young that his eyes were still closed, 11 years, four months and 26 days ago, after some idiot threw him away, that I would never, ever let anyone fuck with him again.
From my hospital bed in the ICU, in God’s Country, on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, a network of anti-fascists got to work. I had never met any of them in real life. They dispatched Mr. Webber to drive many hours to take care of Mr. Lamont so I could give the green light for the surgeons to do the things they went to school to do.
Mr. Webber makes polite society nervous. He not only doesn't like Nazis, he does not like cops. A 21st century incarnation of Abbie Hoffman, Rod Webber spends his days pissing off cops, filming them while he hunts down confused wannabe Nazis who emerge from their very dark underground bunkers, like rats from a sewer, and Webber exposes their confused, still-pissed-off-at-their-mother-for-whatever-reason faces in the public square, until they flee back into their sad holes.
I’m too old and crippled to put up with Nazis in my AO. Here are the rules: you can be a Nazi in Fall River, Brockton, New Bedford, Providence—wherever. But No Nazis allowed to cross the bridge onto Cape Cod.
We love each other here.
Rod Webber documents these Nazis on video every time they emerge from the sewer, and too close to my neck of the woods to make me comfy. That is his life mission. He is doing the Lord’s Work.
That is, when he isn't busy taking time off to make sure my best pal, Lamont, is safe and his cookie supply is sufficient. When I called the ambulance early in 2022, because, well, because I couldn’t walk and my right leg was three times the size of my left leg, and bright red and appearing to want burst the seams, the excellent Wellfleet, Massachusetts volunteer EMT’s showed up at my door, their lights flashing and blinking, and walked into my bedroom where I was lying with my best pal, Lamont. Lamont had been incessantly licking my leg for days. He knew that ‘Houston, we have a problem.” He protested like a screaming banshee when the EMT’s wheeled in a gurney, and lifted me onto it, to take me away to the nearest hospital, one hour away. He protested loudly and tried to jump onto the stretcher, forcing one of the EMT’s to restrain him while the other two wheeled me out, in Lamont’s mind’s eye, maybe to never return.
I love Lamont like the earth loves the sun, and visa-versa. In the 11 years four months and 26 days since he was fished out of that Mexican trash dump and smuggled across the Mexican border to California, put on a United Airlines plane, in the cargo section, and flown from San Diego to the very belly of the beast, the capitol of the Free World, Washington, D.C., where I picked him up in the cargo section of Dulles International Airport, he and I have been a team. We had spent exactly 4 nights not sleeping in the same bed.
A few months later, in June 2022, while I was being given a routine super duper Infusion Therapy of antibiotics in another hospital to try and kill a sepsis infection that had spread from my feet to my bones and up north through my organs, the newly FDA approved antibiotics tried to murder me. My blood pressure plummeted to 70 over 50. That is flatline, you're dead territory.
Fortunately, the Infusion Therapy Center was 25 meters from the Emergency Room, which did their job and revived me. The medical experts who went to school to learn about this stuff, said it was very important that I be dispatched to an Intensive Care Unit, because the super duper antibiotics that I had a very bad reaction to, had sparked a heart attack and other very bad stuff. I needed to sign a document saying I agreed to be transported by ambulance to Brigham's and Women's hospital in Boston. I said 'Not until I can make sure my best friend, Lamont, who has been waiting in the car, with the engine on, the air condition running, and copious amounts of water, for the last five hours waiting for me to come back, is taken care of.
Lamont was familiar with waiting for me in this hospital parking lot. It was not his or my first rodeo at that hospital. The hospital security guards, along with the doctors and nurses, hovering around my gurney in the emergency room, me hooked up to many, many tubes and machines that went 'beep' every few seconds and sometimes stopped beeping to make sounds resembling a siren, attracting the attention of emergency room personnel who trotted in with looks on their faces that scared the bejesus out of me.
The security guards had gone and confirmed that Lamont was patiently waiting, sitting in the driver's seat, staring out the windshield at the scary looking hospital building he saw me enter but not exit. I’m pretty sure Lamont, like me, views hospitals like the Roach Motel pesticide—someplace you can check in, but never check out. Lamont smooched the hospital security guards when they poked their head in the car, and they returned to my prone self lying on †he antiseptic steel gurney in the emergency room and said "Don’t worry, we will call the cops and they will take Lamont to an animal shelter." I said "No, you fucking won't. I will rip these tubes out of my arms before you involve law enforcement. There will be no taking Lamont and putting him in a cage. Those are the rules." The medical professionals and hospital security guards looked at me like I was batshit crazy. They may have been correct, but they also knew I was a problem and not to fuck with Lamont.
They said "OK, do you have anyone who can come and pick up Lamont?" I said "Yes, I do. I have some anti fascist friends. Please retrieve my telephone because, with all these tubes and needles and bags of medicine you have attached to me, it makes it difficult for me to access my personal commo system." They fished out my telephone from the hospital bag that contained all my worldly possessions--my phone, chewing tobacco, my notebook, a pen, and some narcotics that help me navigate the very, very bad, big bad world out there.
I called Mr. Rod Webber, who lives three plus hours away from said hospital parking lot where Lamont was waiting patiently in the car for the last five hours. "I'm in a bit of a pickle," I said. "I just died, but now I am not dead, thanks to the excellent work of professional medical people who went to school to un-dead people like me. The problem is they aren't sure I will remain un dead. The bigger problem is Lamont is in my car in the parking lot. Can you come and make sure he is OK?" Mr. Webber--this is now after dark--said "Of course. I'll be right there" and drove three hours with his long-suffering anti-fascist wife from Boston and picked up Lamont and took him to his home and fed him an excellent diet of raw hot dogs for a number of days and I was transported by ambulance to the ICU unit of Brigham and Women's hospital in Boston .
A few days later, I insisted that the also excellent medical professionals whose job was to keep me un dead in the ICU, unhook the extraordinary amount of tubes I was hooked into--including one I had to sign a piece of paper agreeing that tube might kill me and I was OK with that and they then inserted it directly into my aorta in my heart--and hourly injections of insulin into my tummy, and a Gobsmackingly number of needle pokes extracting my bodily fluids which showed I had a heart attack and "Cirrhosis spots on your liver,” and they needed to use sharp metal instruments to remove my gall bladder--which use to have a function when humans swallowed small rocks while hunting and gathering but does not anymore--and the sepsis infection--which is a real problem--had spread to my brain, etc etc. Not to mention that when I was wheeled into the ICU days earlier, they said ‘Oh, by the way, you have Covid-19.
This all was very alarming and I was—and remain— very very tired of it all and I insisted on checking out, which I did, "Against Medical Advise" and they wheeled me out in a wheelchair and dropped me off on the curb. And the anti-fascist Rod Webber shows up with Lamont and picked me up and drove me and Lamont the three hours back to my two-room cottage on a Cranberry bog in Falmouth Cape Cod, Massachusetts.
This is why I am a journalist and an anti-fascist and why I support the ACAB (All Cops are Bad) community. Because, at the end of the day, it isn't the government one can count on, but anti-fascists. They get the point. These are the rules: No Nazis allowed. We take care of our own. Never count on the cops to do the right thing. Anti-fascists and Anarchists step up to the plate. As I told the doctors and excellent nurses “You need to remember this: Here is the pecking order; I retain executive decision making powers. Then there is God. And then there is you.”
God Bless those who set their own rules in life, and people who never, ever forget that Nazis are the incarnation of all that is bad and Lamont is the poster boy of all that is good
hxxps://www.oafnation.com/hitter-feed/u6b0is77fvsul9kul8nfpsxinhm33h
Oct 20
Written By Ben Tupper
So about two months ago, I got an email notification from Nextdoor, which is a national platform for neighbors to locally communicate on all things relative to good ole American suburbia. Normal posts involve a lost dog notice, a block party being planned, or a local school fundraiser. However, this notification was an urgent warning to everyone, from a concerned neighbor, about an impending “invasion of Antifa rioters” who were headed to our little corner of paradise to “burn down all the stores AND our homes.”
The person making the post reported that large numbers of riot police were being mobilized and deployed to protect our area. Based on the responses to the thread, it was clear many people were shitting their pants. Me? Well I knew better, and laughed at the hysteria while sipping on my happy hour Double IPA.
How did I know this whole warning was fake? In part because I had read many articles about a viral information operations campaign being spread by far right organizations, which was successfully creating an Antifa Army where none existed. But I also knew that the “sky is falling” Chicken Little campaign against Antifa was missing some basic truths about the movement; specifically, that Antifa has no money, is highly decentralized and unorganized, and lacks any leadership structure to mobilize a suburban invasion force. Fact is, the only way many Antifa supporters can get to the suburbs is on their skateboard, which last time I checked has a seating capacity of one. So while the hoax proclaimed “bus loads of Antifa were on the way,” the reality was no one was coming to disturb the ‘burbs.
Not to be outdone, in the coming weeks, the purveyors of this fantasy PSYOPS campaign upgraded Antifa from buses to first class airline tickets. The nation was subjected to stories about mysterious plane loads of Antifa activists, dressed in black, traversing the country to sow their seeds of chaos. POTUS got in on this one, and helped amplify the fake talking point via his Twitter feed and interviews with Hannity.
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To read the whole thing, replace xx with tt to get the whole article, as I couldn't let Marek's comment be the only one as he's full of shit about who and what Antifa is.