Esteban Perez starts his own protest after his application for the Rage Against the Machine street team was denied for general douchebaggery and wearing a scarf with a t-shirt.
If you’re leading an anti-establishment “fuck the man” protest, maybe you shouldn’t wear a t-shirt with a giant corporate logo, even if it is a shitty beer that hipsters sort of ironically drink.
“Damn it Brandon! You’re supposed to wear a black hoodie with a black bandana! How else will they know how dark and morose we are?!?”
“Whatever dude! It’s hot! I’m hot! Let’s party! Wheeeew!”
“Yeah, when my parents buy me my first car, it’s totally gonna be a hybrid! Or a Jeep. Jeep’s are cool.”
“I’m sorry you were molested as a child, young lady, but I’m not sure you should blame the Democratic National Convention.”
Ah, 16, the age where rebellion and waves of descent get swept into the current of surging hormones, boiling tempers, and remnants of the little boy inside who still likes to dress up like cowboys and army men.
I applaud the police’s restraint. I’d beat this shit out this little Ritalin chewer, even if I agreed with him.
“The world is full of problems. Children are starving, women are beaten and oppressed, and we’re killing each other because we have different names for the same God, so I took off my shirt, cocked my hat to the side, shot-gunned a Monster energy drink, and yelled at a police officer from Denver. You’re welcome, Tibet.”