The revolution did not arrive with speeches, pamphlets, or a carefully moderated Zoom call about optics. It arrived in a cardboard box full of clearance-bin dildos, under purple neon light.
We were standing inside Smitten Kitten like lunatics planning the world’s dumbest coup. The place glowed like a queer cathedral built by horny anarchists. Purple light everywhere. Shelves of lubricated possibility. Staff who had absolutely seen some shit in their lives, but not this specific flavor of organized insanity. We explained, that we were bulk-buying dozens of dildos because we intended to psychologically dismantle a federal law enforcement agency at a hotel protest.
Nobody flinched. Nobody laughed nervously. Nobody asked, “Are you okay?”
They just nodded like hardened revolutionaries and said, “Okay, how many?”
Arianne started sorting through colors like a warlord assembling a Pride parade for ANTIFA. Neon pink. Mint green. Electric blue. Flesh-toned beige that screamed “HR violation.” Short kings. Long gods. Curved menaces. Blunt-force disrespect dicks. Matt Wagner examined girth ratios like he was calibrating a NASA payload. Chance Meeting filmed everything like an embedded journalist in the Dumbest War of All Time. I stood there realizing we had crossed a sacred threshold into a better version of America that cable news will never be emotionally equipped to understand.
Then Arianne turned to the camera, radiant and feral, and said the words that permanently altered the course of protest history:
“I’m going to hand out big dicks to little-dick ICE agents.”
The Geneva Convention disintegrated. The Founding Fathers wept. Somewhere, a federal HR manager clutched their chest and whispered, “No. Not like this.”
We walked out of Smitten Kitten carrying a box of dildos like it was radioactive plutonium wrapped in hope. The neon sign behind us glowed like it had just joined the rebellion. Arianne cradled that box like a newborn baby destined to grow up and ruin someone’s career. Chance kept filming. Matt looked like a proud dad. I felt like I had accidentally joined a cult that only worshipped humiliation.
Then we did something truly unhinged.
We went to dinner.
Because even revolutionaries have blood sugar needs.
Two doors down sits Beckett’s, warm and civilized and filled with the scent of real food instead of revolution and silicone. We sat like normal human beings, ordered meals like responsible adults, and plopped our box of dildos on the table like it was a deeply obscene centerpiece. Hot food. Soft lighting. A cardboard box full of rubberized middle fingers. The contrast was so beautiful it should have been framed. Arianne was smiling—not a polite smile, not a tired smile, but the full-throttle, eyes-crinkling, I am about to ruin someone’s whole week smile.
For ten perfect minutes, life was almost normal.
Then we walked outside and discovered my SUV had been towed.
Not just towed. Towed from a lot so poorly marked it might as well have had a sign that read: “Surprise, Fuck You.”
There is a special kind of rage that comes from realizing your car is gone while you are holding a box of dildos and trying to overthrow a federal agency before midnight. This is not covered in any mindfulness app. This is not a scenario your therapist prepares you for. This is the kind of inconvenience that feels personally targeted by God.
So what did we do?
We loaded our box of dildos into a Lyft. Yes. A Lyft.
We rode to the impound lot like four deranged fugitives from a particularly horny heist movie. The driver did not ask questions. The driver did not look at the box. The driver did not acknowledge the faint rubbery gleam of our cargo in the dim interior light. You could practically hear his internal monologue: I’m just going to pretend this is normal. Which, honestly, was the healthiest coping mechanism available to anyone involved in this nightmare.
Arianne was still smiling.
We paid the ransom. We signed the paperwork. We retrieved the SUV. And at any sane point in the timeline, the universe could have said: Okay, that’s enough. Go home. Lie down. Reevaluate your life choices.
But Minneapolis said: Absolutely not. We were not going home. We were going to the Graduate Hotel.
So we drove downtown, box of dildos intact, windows fogging, adrenaline pumping like someone had injected pure anarchist Red Bull into our veins.
The protest was already feral. Pots clanged like industrial thunder. Whistles screamed like caffeinated banshees. Smoke detectors shrieked like dying cybernetic birds. Guitars wailed in the key of We Are Not Taking This Anymore. Protesters chanted. People laughed. The air vibrated with that very specific end-of-empire energy where your brain says this is insane but your soul says don’t stop, this is sacred.
Across the barricades stood a row of cops in riot gear. Helmets. Batons. Armor. Gas masks. High-vis jackets. The full authoritarian cosplay kit. They looked like they were guarding nuclear launch codes. They were guarding a hotel lobby full of ICE agents who were about to be spiritually obliterated by a box of clearance-bin dicks.
We opened the box.
The first dildo flew through the air like a rubber prophecy and skidded to a stop directly at the boots of a state trooper.
And that’s when the United States government lost its entire fucking mind.
Before anyone could even laugh properly, before a second dildo could achieve liftoff, before reality had time to process the absurdity of what had just happened, the cops panicked like Victorian men seeing an ankle.
Tear gas.
Pepper balls.
Instant chaos.
The very first rubber dick to touch government-issued leather boots triggered a full-blown chemical weapons response. That is not metaphor. That is not exaggeration. That is a literal sentence that happened in America in 2026.
They gassed us.
They launched pepper balls.
They turned a dildo joke into a war crime speedrun.
I inhaled it. Full lungful. A spicy little bouquet of authoritarian seasoning straight into my sinuses. My eyes started burning like I’d just snorted a jalapeño dipped in Satan’s cologne. My throat closed up. My face felt like it had been slapped by a ghost made of cayenne pepper and disappointment.
And through my tear-blurred vision, I saw them.
The dildos.
Just sitting there.
Mocking them.
The cops stood there, choking us, shooting pepper balls at people holding noise makers and rubber penises, desperately trying to reassert dominance over pieces of silicone that had emotionally defeated them in under sixty seconds. They couldn’t pick them up. They couldn’t leave them there. They couldn’t kick them away without becoming a meme. So they did what every insecure authoritarian does when confronted with humiliation.
They escalated.
The crowd scattered and regrouped. People were screaming, laughing, coughing, swearing, filming. A dildo rolled across the pavement like a wounded soldier while tear gas fogged the street. Someone picked one up and held it aloft like a freedom torch while coughing their lungs out.
I stood there, half-blind, lungs on fire, thinking:
We just got tear-gassed over a dildo.
Not a brick. Not a Molotov. Not a weapon.
A rubber dick.
That is how fragile federal masculinity is in 2026.
ICE agents peeked out of hotel windows like scared children witnessing a public execution, except the execution was their dignity and the executioner was a $5 clearance dildo. Arianne was still smiling—not because it was funny, not because it was cute, but because she knew, in her bones, that we had just cracked reality in half.
We didn’t even get to the full distribution phase before they freaked out. The mere presence of one dildo at their feet was enough to trigger chemical weapons. That’s how paper-thin their authority is. That’s how little it takes to make them go full riot-cop meltdown mode.
This wasn’t crowd control. This was panic control. This was the federal government throwing tear gas at a punchline because they couldn’t arrest a joke.
While we didn’t shut down ICE that night, we did show that their power collapses the moment it’s confronted with absurdity.
We proved that you can bring a trillion-dollar security apparatus to its knees with one well-aimed rubber cock.
As I stood there coughing, eyes streaming, lungs on fire, watching cops lose their goddamn minds over a dildo, I realized something sacred and stupid and true:
You can’t baton your way out of satire. You can’t gas a punchline. And you absolutely cannot maintain authority while tear-gassing people over a rubber dick.
The Dildo Distribution Delegation did not even reach Phase Two.
And ICE still lost.
Somewhere in that hotel, federal agents are still washing their hands and questioning their self-worth before falling asleep and dreaming about the dangers flying dildos.
This post has been syndicated from CLOSER TO THE EDGE, where it was published under this address.