I get the catharsis of Nazi punching, but why are we still talking about Nazi punching?
First, let’s call it something else. Dude didn’t punch an actual Nazi. That term refers to a specific group of people from last century, and you’ll have to comb the retirement homes to find a living one. Otherwise, find a shovel or a time machine and go to town.
We could call it white supremacist punching, but then you’d have to take the aforementioned shovel or time machine and punch many of the often-lauded women’s suffragists. Every time I read a liberal reply to a conservative poop about protesting and it mentions Susan B. Anthony in defense, I check to see if the author is white.
It always is.
Maybe we can water it down from the historical ramifications by calling it Neo-Nazi punching? Fascist punching? Asshole punching might get you in for more than you’ve bargained for, but don’t knock it. You could make a lifelong connection.
Thing is, that guy wasn’t the queen white supremacist. The hive isn’t going to die off now. He’s not the boss enemy, whose defeat will cause his pixeled underlings to blink off the screen.
It’s not my job to tell you what to do, but I feel some responsibility as Chairman of the Brocialist Party of America. While shitposting is the thing to do right now, harder and shittier than ever, maybe we could shitpost about the ACA being dismantled or the massacre that’s probably going to occur in North Dakota, now that the pipelines are going through.
Being a big lefty is a double-edged sword. The very quality that enables our nuanced opinions causes us to question authority always, therefore getting consensus on anything is a bit like herding cats. We have a different brain, else our lack of empathy would have us marching the mad drill against the tide of progress.
Still, I offer this bit of advice two minutes before the end of my lunch break: if we’re still celebrating something so insignificant days later, at a time when they’re spending their mornings signing executive orders (thanks, Obama) and throwing everything at you but the kitchen sink (full of Flint, Michigan tapwater), perhaps it’s time to move on.