Maybe Half True
It’s more than a slogan. It’s our commitment to you.
NATIONAL RIPOSTE is the supreme repository of maybe half true tales of politicians and political figures, present and past, and everything in between.
What is Politics?
Some say that politics is a cesspool, but we believe it’s a five dollar slot machine that politicians play with our taxes.
And every pull is a jackpot.
Seeking ever-greater altruism, politicians graciously and courteously gift the winnings to us in the form of yearly tax returns and endless tax-funded public benefits.
Politics is, therefore, a goldmine.
Oh the terrible trials and tribulations that the vanquished party has faced!
Never across the decades of altruistic expression have democrats faced a time of greater peril and derision—and at the hands of a felon, no less. Yes, a fork in the road has been reached.
Lo, nearly laid waste, refuse, dung, a byword among the nations. National Riposte has an eye upon them.
Will Democrats rise again? Will they follow in the wake of Illinois Governor J.B. Pritzker’s call for revolution? Will they bestow upon him the mantle of democrat presidential candidate in 2028?
“Never before in my life have I called for mass protests, for mobilization, for disruption. But I am now. These Republicans cannot know a moment of peace. They must understand that we will fight their cruelty with every megaphone and microphone that we have. We must castigate them on the soap box…and then punish them at the ballot box.
Maybe half true tales of politicians and political figures, and everything related.
Alas, J.B.! Where have thy companions erred? Speak as a prophet unto the beleaguered souls clamoring for hope, for peace, for justice, for revolution.
At National Riposte, we aren’t those who preach sermons from half-baked soap boxes of homespun political ideologies.
We are the voice of the vanquished, tracking the progress of these erstwhile pilgrims as they sojourn in a land no longer their own.
We are also the voice of reason in an unreasoning world, calling upon all to heed the decades-old stance of PROGRESS, PROGRESS, yea and verily, PROGRESS!
Rent by war and terrifying tariffs, we have nothing to offer but the literary equivalent of the appropriate cutlery offered during Thanksgiving dinner, that we might all feast on sumptuous turkey, prepared just the way you like it, then collapse in tryptophan-induced coma, at last to rest and be at peace.
When will the revolution come?
Oh yes, the revolution will come.
Do you hear those drums, child?
The drumbeat that today pitapats at a vast distance from the American conscience will one day beat loud and proud over the land of the free.
It will boom in the ears of every American, it will slam its way, one way or another, into every heart, every mind.
Oh sure, that day isn’t today, probably won’t be for some time.
But one day—oh yes, friend, one day—that drumbeat will come crashing down with all the power of a revivifying tidal wave, the full force of every decibel will beat down on every naysayer and yeasayer.
Yes, one day—one day….
Every year—or maybe just once every decade—that drumbeat will sound a little louder.
Schoolchildren, longing for the fabled day, will say to their teachers, “What’s that banging sound? Did Charlie get stuck in the trashcan again?”
“That, comrade children,” their state funded teachers will editorialize, “is the sound of the revolution, the one we are all working for, despite long hours, low wages, and the ever present threat of being accused of pederasty. It’s the revolution at hand, children, the one for which I have sacrificed everything, the blue tidal wave that will wash away every blight and stain, and cleanse us of every evil of capitalism, and those who follow in its wake.”
But for now, the voice of the vanquished, giving voice to the woes and wiles, the hopes and the trials, of those vanquished souls, their associates, and all things related.
Their voices will not be silenced.
Whether they go underground or remain afloat somewhere in the republic, believe us, they will be heard.
The swans will not be singing, nor will the obese transgendered woman who, straightening her horned helmet upon her head, believes she will be going onstage any moment.
This is far from over….
One finger is weak; but many fingers together make a fist—of strength, of power, of opportunity, of new beginnings.