While we were all busy dancing in the streets, praising the accomplishments of one Mr. Christopher Columbus, you’d think he’d have gotten an honorary doctorate from somewhere by now, another anniversary very quietly passed us by with very little fanfare. There is good reason for this of course, mostly because no one gives a damn, even the people who say they do…they really don’t, they’re just empty shirts for the most part. No the anniversary I’m speaking of is the death of Ernesto “Che” Guevara in Bolivia on 8 October, 1967. Yes, yesterday marks forty-five years that we have been free of the insane monster who was Che Guevara.
Honestly, if it wasn’t for the pictures of him that adorn a million hipster and rebel wannabe t-shirts, hardly anyone but the historians would remember anything about him. Painted as a counter-revolutionary figure by revisionists, who have no academic standing or training, Che has become a status symbol as one who fights for the downtrodden of all society. Che has been called a physician, author, guerilla leader, diplomat, and military theorist. Even his wiki-page alludes to his assassination, when in fact he was executed in Bolivia in 1967 attempting a coup against the rightful government of that country. And yet somehow he is revered in this country, like I said before he adorns the t-shirts of most of the occupy movement, and every hipster out there. Hell, his image has even been plastered in the democrat headquarters in recent years. But why, because he is cool looking, because his politics are “groovy?”
I’m not sure, but it certainly isn’t because they know anything about the mentally disturbed man who was Che. This guy, a pan-handling, vagrant, loser, was wandering through south and central America during the fifties when he hooked up with Castro in Mexico City in 1955. That led to a friendship that would put him in a position of power when Castro overthrew the corrupt Batista government in 1959. Che would be right there to run the prisoner camps. He had a firing squad set up and got himself a gun and went to work. When there was other work to be done in his office, he had a section of the wall torn out so he could watch the executions. He jailed men in UMAP camps for the mere crime of a rock and roll lifestyle, defined as jeans and a t-shirt (screen printed), having long hair or just for being effeminate.
A Rumanian journalist named Stefan Bacie visited Cuba in 1959 and was able to get an audience with the already quasi-famous Guevara. Upon entering Castro’s chief executioner’s office, Che brought him to the office’s newly constructed window. Bacie got there just in time to hear the command of FUEGO! and see a condemned man crumple to the ground in the hail of gunfire. When the sickened journalist left he composed a poem, titled, “I No Longer Sing of Che.” He would kill defenseless men and boys for the next several years until the revolution needed him again.
Then, Che went to central America to serve the revolution. In October of 1967 battle with the enemy, government forces, was imminent so Che took steps to ensure the failure of his men might not be exploited by the western media should they not prevail in the battle. He ordered his guerrillas to give no quarter, fight to their last breaths, and to their last bullet. When his men engaged the enemy and were clearly outmatched, dying to a man, a slightly wounded Che sneaked away from the firefight. He would later surrender, his weapons fully loaded, to the Bolivians. He told them, “Don’t shoot! I’m Che. I’m worth more to you alive than dead!” The soldiers viewed the situation differently and put the agitator up against a wall and shot him dead, a fitting execution for the man who executed so many others.
The best description I can come up with is that Che was an occupy movement kind of guy, railing against the one percent. Then someone gave him a gun and permission to use it. He immediately set to killing the one percent, the way many an actual occupy demonstrator wants to, and when he ran out of the one percent his blood lust led him to the two percent, then three, and on down the line to the point he was killing for fun. No, Che was no hero, just another whiner, unable to hold a job or take care of himself, given a chance to change the world. Instead, as marxists are wont to do, he bathed it in blood. Good riddance to a piece of human trash.