Forced Move

Checkmate Extremism on the Political Chessboard

Politics is a Bloodsport, Start Acting Like it

Thursday, May 15th, 2025: by Walter Curt

Nothing melts a focus-grouped façade like a plain-spoken question hurled beneath the glare of livestream LEDs: “Do you support chemical castration for minors—yes or no?” In the heartbeat it takes to swallow, the polished candidate must either clasp the label or betray the activists who forged it, and whichever path he chooses rips his coalition down the middle. This is the essence of “Make Them Own It”—a strategy every citizen-activist must master before the next campaign season begins.

The power of a radioactive brand lies not merely in repeating it but in engineering the moment your opponent is forced to embrace or renounce it while the cameras roll. That moment does not arrive by magic; it is manufactured through deliberate pressure applied from two flanks at once. One flank is you and your fellow citizen-activists, armed with a single, shocking label that condenses the Left’s most grotesque obsession into a phrase suburban parents cannot ignore. The other flank is the hard-core faction inside the progressive coalition that actually authored that obsession and resents every half-hearted ally who treats it like a family secret. Between those flanks the politician, school-board trustee, or corporate vice-president is crushed, live on stage, until he confesses allegiance or screams for air. Either confession bursts the progressive coalition; either scream cements the brand in the public mind.

Begin with reconnaissance. Every Democratic incumbent has at least one radical land mine he tiptoes around while courting the middle class. Maybe it is puberty blockers for thirteen-year-olds, maybe it is a pledge to purge “whiteness” from mathematics, maybe it is the eco-vow to ban gas stoves. Your first task is to name that mine in plain language—no euphemism, no mercy. You listen to his speeches, pore over his archived tweets, and mark the point where he slides past the hottest plank with a glide of vagueness. That glide is the soft spot in his armor.

Next, you lift the mask before two audiences: normal voters and the fanatics whose doctrine he daren’t quote at a Rotary lunch. For the voters you brand him. “Congresswoman Parker belongs to the Chemical-Castration-of-Kids Party,” you declare on a local podcast, on Substack, and in the public-comment segment of the county commissioners’ meeting. You attach a surgical-clinic video, date-stamped and grisly, so no editor can plead ignorance. Then you pivot to the zealots—the national trans-activist coalition, the Twitter blue-check academics, the TikTok therapists who brag about hormone shots in the middle-school nurse’s office. You tag them in your clip and ask, with feigned concern, why Congresswoman Parker refuses to say “trans youth need surgery now.” The radicals, ever hungry for ideological purity, storm her mentions demanding a statement. By nightfall the congresswoman’s staff is fielding calls from suburban parents who are horrified and from pronoun-brigade influencers who are furious she has not yet nailed the party line to the Capitol dome.

When the heat reaches a boil, you provide the lid. You email local journalists: “Parker dodges life-saving care question—parents demand clarity.” You call in to her virtual townhall: “Do you repudiate or endorse child gender surgery, yes or no?” She tries to pivot to veterans’ benefits; you politely restate the question. Livestream chat explodes with radicals typing “ANSWER HER!” and moderates typing “STOP THE MADNESS!” The clash is not between you and her; it is between her coalition’s extremes, each pulling an arm until she dislocates.

Suppose she falters and mouths the radicals’ prayer. At once you clip the video, splice it beside the surgical footage, and buy a cheap Facebook ad targeting every precinct she carried by five percent or less. School-board moms share it inside car-pool chats; youth-soccer dads forward it to group texts; talk radio plays it on loop at drive-time. Overnight the label “Chemical-Castration-of-Kids Party” fuses to her name like a tattoo. Moderates peel away from her campaign, wallets snap shut, and primary opponents scent blood.

Suppose instead she panics and condemns the policy. In that minute you race to inform the zealots: “Congresswoman Parker just threw trans kids under the bus!” You post her quote to the influencer who bullied her hours earlier and to the activist nonprofit that bundled donations for her last cycle. They erupt with betrayal posts and vow to recruit a primary challenger. A circular firing squad forms before you finish your morning coffee.

Either path leads to fracture. The Left’s vaunted diversity becomes centrifugal force, each faction screaming that the other has betrayed The Cause. Your role is only to maintain pressure and keep receipts. You file a FOIA for any federal grants the congresswoman steered toward the very clinics she now denounces. You leak staff emails in which her aides scramble to placate activists with promises of “private support.” The scandal drips, week after week, until boredom evaporates and resignation feels like mercy.

Critics will moan that such tactics are ruthless. They forget the past decade of conservative defeats earned by playing the gentleman while opponents closed churches, censored scientists, and mutilated language itself. Truth told without fear is not ruthless; it is righteous. The congresswoman is free to pick a side—protect children or placate zealots. All you have done is turn up the lights and invite the public to watch.

The beauty of “Make Them Own It, and Never Let Them Forget It” is its portability. One activist armed with a smartphone can run the operation. Ten activists can blanket a congressional district. A hundred, linked by group chat and shared video drives, can nationalize the brand in forty-eight hours. Every left-wing official has a tender spot, and every tender spot has a radical gatekeeper eager to punish wavering allies. We need only press the bruise and let their own confederates do the crowbar work.

Alinsky taught his followers to pick the target and personalize it. We answer by picking the poison and universalizing it. Their weak plank becomes their party plank; their private shame becomes their public headline. Once the brand sticks, it never fades—because the radicals you enlisted will not permit a single silence without fresh loyalty oaths. Meanwhile ordinary Americans, grateful for someone willing to name indecency in plain speech, drift inexorably toward the camp that defended reality.

That is the battlefield we must cultivate in every precinct, every district, every boardroom. Identify the radical rot, weld it to the Left’s forehead, and refuse to let the sweat of electoral panic wash it away. Make them own it; never let them forget it. When their coalition finally breaks under the strain of its own contradictions, the republic will breathe easier—and truth will at last catch up to power.