This is not a protest.
This is a derailment.
The spirit of the Merry Pranksters is loose again, and it’s hungry for icy sidewalks, stiff faces, and the kind of joyless authority that thinks a clipboard counts as charisma. We are not arriving quietly. We are not behaving. We are not asking permission from the people who brought laminated certainty to a joy fight.
WEAR A COSTUME.
Regular. Inflatable. So stupid it becomes philosophical. Dinosaurs. Giraffes. Hot dogs. Alligators. A banana with unresolved childhood issues. If it squeaks, inflates, flops, honks, or blocks peripheral vision, it belongs here.
BRING THE NOISE.
Kazoos. Cowbells. Drums. Whistles. Speakers that sound like they survived a war. Karaoke mics. Anything that rattles the air and scrambles the script. Noise is the solvent. Noise melts the performance. Noise makes the radio crackle with panic.
BRING NONSENSE.
Signs that don’t explain themselves. Movements that don’t resolve. Dancing where dancing is not expected. Smiles in places that demand grim obedience. The goal is not clarity. The goal is short-circuiting. Authority depends on you playing your role. We are setting the roles are on fire.
At the center of tomorrow’s swirl will be Rob Potylo, aka Robby Roadsteamer, a man who has repeatedly walked into federal zones dressed like a hallucination and forced the government to explain, in writing, why karaoke scared it. Portland tried to swat the joke. Minneapolis cuffed the punchline. The lesson keeps landing and they keep refusing to learn.
This is precision absurdity. It is not random. It is engineered to make power overreact in public. Overreaction is the tell. Overreaction is the truth leaking out of the seams. When armored adults arrest a giraffe for singing, the curtain drops and the audience learns more in ten seconds than a semester of civics.
We are doing this at 9:00 in the morning because daylight exposes everything. Because coffee hasn’t worn off yet. Because seriousness is weakest before lunch. Because nothing rattles a building like a parade of inflatable mammals and unrepentant laughter at business hours.
Do not come polished.
Do not come quiet.
Do not come reasonable.
Come unhinged with purpose. Come like the bus doors flew open and everyone fell out laughing. Come ready to refuse the performance of fear and replace it with spectacle so loud it rattles the filing cabinets.
They will have fences.
They will have rules.
They will have radios whispering, what do we do about this?
We will have costumes, noise, and the oldest trick in the book: treating tyrants like the joke they keep proving they are.
Tomorrow. January 31st. 9:00 AM.
Bishop Henry Whipple Federal Building.
Inflate the suit.
Warm up the kazoo.
Paint your face like reality already cracked.
Let’s make the empire explain itself again.
This post has been syndicated from CLOSER TO THE EDGE, where it was published under this address.