Brian Bianco/Getty Images

First, let us pray:

Dear 7-pound, 8-ounce sweet newborn, but still with dreadlocks and a do-rag, dark-skinneded baby Jesus. We come unto you, dear Lord, to give praise. To offer up our most precious hallelujahs, amens and “Do that shit, Savior” supplications. For it was you, our melanin messiah, who, after a week of our president calling a Gold Star family out of its name, saw fit to bless we, thy people, with the most beautiful thing in this world: aNazi getting punched in the face.


Now let us raise our heads and behold the catching of hands.

By now you have probably seen the above photo that is spreading across the world faster than a cold sore at an Usher orgy. You probably already know that this happened outside, near the site where the micropenis sufferer, hatemonger and dingleberry-taint residue known as Richard Spencer attempted to spew forth hateful drivel from his anuslike mouth and infect students at the University of Florida.


But all that matters is that somebody punched a Nazi.

I do not advocate violence. I am not against violence, either. I believe in loving those who love you and smacking those who need to be smacked (I’m not the most religious person, but that has gotta be a Bible verse, right?) Now that you are aware of my neutral position on violence, I hope you will take this breakdown in the spirit in which it is intended: a purely analytical dissection of a newsworthy event.

Any joy that you may infer from the words in this article is not intended. Even if you hear an occasional giggle in the general direction of the desk from which I’m typing, please know—I’m coming down with a cold. I’m not laughing.

That’s just how I cough.

Brian Bianco/Getty Images


Let us begin by taking in the entire photograph. This allows us to appreciate the photograph as a work of art before we delve into the specifics. Notice the way in which the white supremacist closes his eyes and purses his lips in preparation of being served a fist sandwich.

From a purely medical standpoint, this is an ancient holistic regimen long used to combat constipation and irregularity. Anthropologists say that the Knockamuthafuckaowt tribe in sub-Saharan Africa often employed this technique to loosen the bowels of the pale-faced tribe they referred to as the “unpainted men.” It was discovered in the late 1800s by explorer D. Wyatt Mann, who gave the stool-softening treatment the Latin name Dookeysius exitus, which loosely translates as “having the shit knocked out of you.”




Concerning the “victim,” in this case, I have so many questions.

First of all, what’s with the sideburns? Nah, those aren’t sideburns; those are motherfucking muttons. Is he trying to bring back muttons? As a proud member of #BeardGang, I have no problem with facial hair, but if white supremacists are trying to bring back muttons, I’m moving to Canada. Joe Budden and Wolverine are the only motherfuckers in America allowed to have muttons.


Also, why is he wearing sports headphones and earbuds? What the hell does he have to listen to so badly that he needs backup sound equipment?

And where did he get that shirt? One could make an argument that he may have been targeted not for his hateful beliefs but for his fashion choices.


Maybe he wasn’t even a Nazi. It is possible that he was getting dressed for his shift working as Bozo the Clown and wandered into a counterprotest rally because he was distracted by listening to two songs simultaneously.


And this dude literally felt the punch. No one even touched him and he is in pain. Remember what I said about advocating violence? I stood behind my original statement until I looked at his entire body and noticed this:


Why is he still holding a sign when there’s important Nazi-punching going on? He looks like he’s hurting, and he should be. I can’t read what his sign says because it is obscured by the man who is busy “catching that werk,” but I know one thing: It’s a shitty sign.

He didn’t even bother to color in the hearts!

Y’all know me. I would never dare besmirch my beloved Caucasian allies, but if Chad wanted to come to the anti-racist rally with a half-assed protest sign, then he gets what he gets.


You’re not impressing us, Chad. We’re out here fighting hate and inequality by throwing “dem thangs” at mutton-wearing racists and you’re too worried about saving your aqua-colored Sharpie ink to lend a hand. That’s the epitome of white privilege. We see you, Chad ...

We see you.

But there is only one thing better than seeing a Nazi get punched in the face: actually punching a Nazi in the face. Which leads us to the most important question of all:

Who punched the Nazi in the face?

I have to give it to white dudes—they are slowly changing my attitude about white people. Contrary to popular belief, I do actually have white friends. But all my white friends are cool, soft-spoken, nice gentlemen. I do not believe any one of these guys has a racist bone in his body. I would be shocked if one of them turned out to be a white supremacist. But you know what would shock me more?


Seeing them punch a Nazi in the face!

First, there was the hoodied blur of fists and vengeance that punched Richard Spencer at the Trump inauguration. Then there was the guy who knocked out the Nazi in Seattle. Now this.


Who are these heroes? How do they remain anonymous? This guy landed the perfect punch, and all you can see is his sleeve. Bravo, good sir. Bravo.


Before you go, there is one more thing we need to talk about: this guy.


This dude is the best thing about this entire photograph. We shall name him Tanner.

Look at Tanner, standing there, mouth agape, eyebrows askew, with a struggle mustache that looks like it was drawn on with the remnants of the Sharpie that Chad didn’t use. Tanner is shocked as hell.


Tanner is all of us.

Tanner is wondering what the hell Nazis are doing walking around in 2017. Tanner is trying to figure out why shitty things like white supremacy, bell bottoms and Ebola always make comebacks. Tanner is questioning why good shit never returns, like respect for fellow human beings, competent presidents or the McRib sandwich. Tanner wants to know what the fuck is going on.


And Tanner is scared.

Tanner is afraid because he knows this is only day 272 of the 1,461 days we must endure of the citrus-skinned white nationalist in the White House. Tanner is worried that incidents like this will escalate. Tanner knows that it is not getting better—it is getting worse. Tanner knows that our arms will eventually be too sore from opening cans of whoop-ass on swastika-clad colostomy bags.


Tanner is right.

Violence does not solve anything. It may even inflame the hate of the people on the other side. It won’t stop our commander in chief from trying to build a wall. It won’t cure this country of Islamophobia. It won’t erase racism. It’s fun to laugh at a picture of a suspender-wearing Hitler clown catching “deez hands.” It feels good, but we can’t punch all the Nazis in their faces ...


But may Dreadlock Jesus damn our souls to the scorching fires of eternal hell if we ever stop trying.