Hello, readers.
We know what you’re here for.
An open letter to the political left.
The Bolsheviks would turn away, and Mao’s radicals might feel repulsed. Stalin? Disgusted.
Dear leftists, why this sense of weakness? And why the fakeness?
How can one expect to lead us if, spiritually, your figure is that of an elderly woman or a cross-dressing man?
Robert De Niro, Jane Fonda, Bette Midler, and Patti Smith headlined an event meant to counter Trump’s shocking UFC show—dubbed “Stand Up and Sing: A Concert for the First Amendment.” As if we really believe you care about free speech after a decade of depersonalization and jailing ordinary folks for merely joking online.
Several hundred people spent a good sum to sit in an air-conditioned space and listen to an elderly woman’s crowing. Meanwhile, American military members attended Trump’s event for free, witnessing real warriors compete in bloody arenas.
There were around 80,000 people at that venue. No cover charge. Just a beer in hand, celebrating a show of masculinity.
Billion-dollar shows may blast the national anthem, but your event featured tired Vietnam-era figures strumming and dancing. It felt like the final gasps of a fading movement. Billionaires donned designer clothes, lamenting over their so-called “resistance.” It all came off as fragile, dressed up as courage—the shadow of 60s radicalism.
You let this evening unfold with a mindless enthusiasm that resembled someone who, well, might have taken a few too many hits to the head.
Hollywood is in on it too. A director known for lowbrow humor turned to horror satire about women’s mental health. Yet, they’re still managing to spend lavishly while contributing to a narrative of diversity. This film? Probably a hit, because who really wants a watered-down version of The Odyssey?
Just so you know, I could easily overshadow the likes of Ellen Page, whom you cast as Achilles.
Isn’t that amusing?
You brought in Joy Reid and Julia Roberts to spark some inspiration. More recently, there’s been a media personality who made headlines for, well, imagining time-traveling Russians, alongside a woman known for her role as a reformed prostitute three decades ago.
We have our own icons: Teddy, Abe, and George. Sporting names like Justin Gaethje, Dana White, and Sean O’Malley, our humor is sharp, while your actors struggle even in sequels.
Patti Smith had the audience practice “People Have the Power” before the event. A staged call-and-response echoed: “The people rule.” It was clear just how rehearsed this performance was, with audience members prepped for their enthusiastic responses. Smith’s raspy voice and the song’s soaring melody attempted to convey a moment of collective delusion—one where singing folk tunes might challenge “serious politics.”
It all felt fabricated and feeble. “No Kings and Indivisible,” financed by foreign communists and, as it seems, someone who doesn’t yet realize their own identity, led a social media push to a crowd of hundreds. My guess? In a couple of days, there will be more ridicule of you online.
The day after, David Ellison took note, reaching out to Dana White. Paramount+’s figures must have been telling. A testament to America’s strength, indeed.
Your narrative? Your theme of vulnerability was unmistakable. Fonda, now in her late 80s, has a history that includes endorsing nonviolence while cheering for violent communists. Midler reworked the lyrics to make a point against Trump because the initial song didn’t hit hard enough. Your heavy reliance on Broadway singers and drag queens like Peppermint shows a preference for aesthetic over substance.
“Fake, weak, homosexual”—these aren’t slurs, but descriptors capturing an identity-obsessed performance devoid of real action. You don’t build or fight; you merely express feelings and signal your ideologies.
Your vision of America embodies a cycle of emotions far removed from actual resistance.
We exemplify discipline, meritocracy, and resilience. No safe spaces. No trigger warnings. No corporate apologies.
“Who’s the pushback?” Dana White asked.
“From folks saying, ‘This shouldn’t happen on the White House lawn?’” a reporter inquired.
“Forget that. I don’t care.”
Inside the arena, skills shone through, and a new champion emerged, thanking American servicemen and women, and giving thanks to God.
Meanwhile, your undercover operations exposed serious corruption. You’ve deserted the working class, peddling a culture that thrives on coastal elitism. Your defense of the First Amendment seems selective; you’ll only protect speech that aligns with your agenda. Banning books? You’re effectively teaching kids about homosexual relations while advocating for content warnings and the removal of curricula. Cancel culture? You were its architects. Corporate meanness? Silicon Valley and Hollywood have bowed to progressive pressures for years. Now, here I am, feeling accountable.
Your fading icons carry a stale aroma—like bleach drying on a government-subsidized nursing home floor. Your latest face merely fills a diversity quota. There’s little excitement stirring in American hearts.
You’re a movement in decline, singing a dirge for a fading cultural dominance. You stand up on stage to parade your clichés but lack the courage to genuinely engage in a battle of ideas and strength.
Your policies are not just mistaken; they’re naive. You fake toughness, aesthetics, and vision—but to what end? Your male symbols are nothing but weak depictions, and your female models seem more like caricatures.
Trump’s UFC night was more than entertainment; it was a declaration. Your counter-event only underscored the essence of that statement. While the true warriors fought, the weaklings sang and played tambourines.
In America, strength is chosen. Everything else? Just fake, weak noise.
