Death of a Doofus

My nostrils dilate while savoring the acrid odor of gunpowder and blood. Crazy with fury I will stain my rifle red while slaughtering any vencido that falls in my hands!

That quote is from mass murderer Ernesto Guevara’s infamous Motorcycle Diaries. For some reason this gem didn’t make the cut in Redford’s idyllic movie version of the dunce’s memoirs. This past Saturday marked the 43rd anniversary of Guevara’s execution. He unceremoniously died the whimpering little coward he was.

I’m always baffled at the number of idiot trust fund babies that continue to worship the iconic image of a killer. More disconcerting is the anomaly of local moonbat Maria Isabel. She and her family emigrated from Cuba after the Castro “revolution”. I’d love to know what her parents think of their daughter’s sick fascination with the man responsible for the murder of so many of their countrymen.

Each year on this anniversary Humberto Fontova reminds us who this petty little hobo who fancied himself a tyrant really was:

So for many, the question remains: how did such an incurable doofus, sadist and epic idiot attain such iconic status?

The answer is that this psychotic and thoroughly unimposing vagrant named Ernesto Guevara de la Serna y Lynch had the magnificent fortune of linking up with modern history’s top press agent, Fidel Castro, who — from the New York Times’ Herbert Matthews in 1957, through CBS’ Ed Murrow in 1959 to CBS’ Dan Rather, to ABC’s Barbara Walters, to most recently, the Atlantic’s Jeffrey Goldberg — always had American reporters anxiously scurrying to his every beck and call and eating out of his hand like trained pigeons.

So basically all the poor little rich white kids wearing Che shirts are useful idiots to a man who was himself a useful idiot to yet another man who was a useful idiot to the Soviets. It would all be so comedic if not for the thousands of men and boys for whose murders he is responsible.