Outside agitators. Yeah, that's who to blame for the unrest in Wisconsin. Not those victimized-by-commies state employees who, up to now, were happy to just have a job...
Jesus, could it get any more blatant? Case in point: I grew up in Oklahoma in the 1950s, where "everyone" knew that the "negroes" were a bunch of happy-go-lucky-but-lazy chuckleheads who could barely manage to tie their own shoes, even while they were shining yours, and who were just fine with their second-class-citizen lot in life, until those goddam "outside agitators" (aka "Reds" -- e.g.., communists, socialists, liberals, voting rights reformers, civil rights activists, etc. etc.) got them all stirred up against their benign benefactors in the white race. After all, everyone knew that the "negroes" were just a shade above the animal level, and they were run basically by their lowest emotions. No wonder that they were easy prey for those goddam Red agitators...
Jesus, it would be funny if it weren't so fucking seriously pathetic. "Outside agitators"? Really, governor?
Here's an appropriate quote from The Grapes of Wrath:
[Tom Joad:] "Well, I was there. They wasn't no agitators. What they call reds. What the hell is these reds anyways?"Yeah, when it comes down to supporting the Working Man against the Corporations, we're all "Reds".
Timothy scraped a little hill level in the bottom of the ditch. The sun made his white bristle beard shine. "They's a lot of fellas wanta know what reds is." He laughed. "One of our boys foun' out." He patted the piled earth gently with his shovel. "Fella named Hines- got 'bout thirty thousand acres, peaches and grapes- got a cannery an' a winery. Well, he's all a time talkin' about 'them goddamn reds.' 'Goddamn reds is drivin' the country to ruin,' he says, an' 'We got to drive these here red bastards out.' Well, they were a young fella jus' come out west here, an' he's listenin' one day. He kinda scratched his head an' he says, 'Mr. Hines, I ain't been here long. What is these goddamn reds?' Well, sir, Hines says, 'A red is any son-of-a-bitch that wants thirty cents an hour when we're payin' twenty-five!' Well, this young fella he thinks about her, an' he scratches his head, an' he says, 'Well, Jesus, Mr. Hines. I ain't a son-of-a-bitch, but if that's what a red is- why, I want thirty cents an hour. Ever'body does. Hell, Mr. Hines, we're all reds.'" Timothy drove his shovel along the ditch bottom, and the solid earth shone where the shovel cut it.
Tom laughed. "Me too, I guess." His pick arced up and drove down, and the earth cracked under it. The sweat rolled down his forehead and down the sides of his nose, and it glistened on his neck. "Damn it," he said, "a pick is a nice tool ( umph ), if you don' fight it ( umph ). You an' the pick ( umph ) workin' together ( umph )."