An Army of Robespierre’s!

First the ideal; then the rabble; finally Thermidor.  We are stuck in the rabble, and they are eating their own.  They are narcissists, every one of them.  Spoiled brats in desperate need of a spanking.  Some of them are dangerous; most are simply sophomoric.  One can’t help but think of Napolean and a “whiff of grapeshot.”   The rabble would quiet to remind of you monks who’ve taken a vow of silence.

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