Nice Little Supreme Court You Got Here. Wouldn’t Want Anything To Happen To It.

Lisa Benson


Barack Obama is the community organizer as president. Of course, Obama is more refined than other community organizers like Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton, but he operates from the same playbook written by the Pope of street organizers, the late Saul Alinsky.

Alinsky taught his flock that “the threat is usually more terrifying than the thing itself” and urged them to:

Pick the target, freeze it, personalize it, and polarize it. In conflict tactics there are certain rules that [should be regarded] as universalities. One is that the opposition must be singled out as the target and ‘frozen.’…

“…any target can always say, ‘Why do you center on me when there are others to blame as well?’ When your ‘freeze the target,’ you disregard these [rational but distracting] arguments…. Then, as you zero in and freeze your target and carry out your attack, all the ‘others’ come out of the woodwork very soon. They become visible by their support of the target…’

“One acts decisively only in the conviction that all the angels are on one side and all the devils on the other.”

During his tenure and especially this past week, Barry has shown that he learned much from his master and fellow Chicagoan. After freezing, personalizing and polarizing the Congress (half of which is run by the Democrats), Barry has now added the Supreme Court to his axis of evil. You could say he’s the only candidate in history to run against all three branches of government by avoiding his own record and instead harping on the long dark night of the soul that, he claims, would be ushered in by the election of a Mitt Romney joined at the hip with Paul “the Mad Monk” Ryan.

Back in 1970, Tom Wolfe homed in hillariously on the community organizers and their prey in his great piece Mau-Mauing the Flack Catchers. A few excerpts:

…There was one genius in the art of confrontation who had mau-mauing down to what you could term a laboratory science. He had it figured out so he didn’t even have to bring his boys downtown in person. He would just show up with a crocus sack full of revolvers, ice picks, fish knives, switchblades, hatchets, blackjacks, gravity knives, straight razors, hand grenades, blow guns, bazookas, Molotov cocktails, tank rippers, unbelievable stuff, and he’d dump it all out on somebody’s shiny walnut conference table. He’d say “These are some of the things I took off my boys last night … I don’t know, man … Thirty minutes ago I talked a Panther out of busting up a cop …” And they would lay money on this man’s ghetto youth patrol like it was now or never …

Then [the community organizer] would say, “Now when we get there, I want you to come down front and stare at the man and don’t say nothing. You just glare. No matter what he says. He’ll try to get you to agree with him. He’ll say, ‘Ain’t that right?’ and ‘You know what I mean?’ and he wants you to say yes or nod your head … see … It’s part of his psychological jiveass. But you don’t say nothing. You just glare … see … Then some of the other brothers will get up on that stage behind him, like there’s no more room or like they just gathering around. Then you brothers up there behind him, you start letting him have it … He starts thinking, ‘Oh, good God! Those bad cats are in front of me, they all around me, they behind me. I’m surrounded.’ That shakes ’em up.

“And then when one of the brothers is up talking, another brother comes up and whispers something in his ear, like this,” and the [community organizer] cups his hand around his mouth like he’s whispering something. “And the brother stops talking, like he’s listening, and the man thinks, ‘What’s he saying? What kind of unbelievable shit are they planning now?’ The brother, he’s not saying anything. He’s just moving his lips. It’s a tactic … you know … And at the end I’ll slap my hand down on the desk–whop–and everybody gets up, like one man, and walks out of there. And that really shakes ’em up. They see that the people are unified, and disciplined, and mad, and tired of talking and ready for walking, and that shakes ’em up.”

Then there’s the flak catcher:

…The man’s a lifer. He’s stone civil service. He has it all down from the wheatcolor Hush Puppies to the wash’n’dry semi-tab-collar shortsleeves white shirt. Those wheatcolor Hush Puppies must be like some kind of fraternal garb among the civil-service employees, because they all wear them. They cost about $4.99, and the second time you move your toes, the seams split and the tops come away from the soles. But they all wear them. The man’s shirt looks like he bought it at the August end-of-summer sale at the White Front. It is one of those shirts with pickets on both sides. Sticking out of the pockets and running across his chest he has a lineup of ball-point pens, felt nibs, lead pencils, wax markers, such as you wouldn’t believe, Paper-mates, Pentels, Scriptos, Eberhard Faber Mongol 482’s, Dri-Marks, Bic PM-29’s, everything. They are lined up across his chest like campaign ribbons…

Why do so many bureaucrats, deans, preachers, college presidents, try to smile when the mau-mauing starts? It’s fatal, this smiling. When some bad dude is challenging your manhood, your smile just proves that he is right and you are chickenshit–

Of course Obama is now the community organizer-in-chief, and he seems to be channeling a great Monty Python skit in which a couple of mafiosa threaten an army colonel. As Obama might put it: Nice little Supreme Court you got here, Mr Chief Justice. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to it. Would we, Mr.Chief Justice?

I hope the Supremes and Mitt Romney don’t wear Hush Puppies.

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