NY Republican Chairman Stephan Minarik:

“The Democrats … can be accurately called the party of Barbara Boxer, Lynne Stewart and Howard Dean.”

George Orwell, 1984 (with my edits):

The next moment a hideous, grinding speech, as of some monstrous machine running without oil, burst from the big telescreen at the end of the room. It was a noise that set one’s teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of one’s neck. The Hate had started.

As usual, the face of Liberal, the Enemy of the People, had flashed on to the screen. There were hisses here and there among the audience. The little sandy-haired woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust. . . . The programmes of the Two Minutes Hate varied from day to day, but there was none in which Liberal was not the principal figure. Liberal was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party’s purity. All subsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries, acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out of Liberal’s teaching. . . .

Liberal was delivering his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines of the Party — an attack so exaggerated and perverse that a child should have been able to see through it, and yet just plausible enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that other people, less level-headed than oneself, might be taken in by it. : Liberal was abusing Big Brother, Liberal was denouncing the dictatorship of the Party, Liberal was demanding the immediate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, Liberal was advocating freedom of speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, Liberal was crying hysterically that the revolution had been betrayed . . . .

Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncontrollable exclamations of rage were breaking out from half the people in the room. . . . [T]he sight or even the thought of Liberal produced fear and anger automatically. Liberal was an object of hatred more constant than either Eurasia or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war with one of these Powers it was generally at peace with the other. But what was strange was that although Liberal was hated and despised by everybody, although every day and a thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen, in newspapers, in books, Liberal’s theories were refuted, smashed, ridiculed, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rubbish that they were in spite of all this, Liberal’s influence never seemed to grow less. Always there were fresh dupes waiting to be seduced by Liberal. . . .

In its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy. People were leaping up and down in their places and shouting at the tops of their voices in an effort to drown the maddening bleating voice that came from the screen. The little sandy-haired woman had turned bright pink, and her mouth was opening and shutting like that of a landed fish. Even O’Brien’s heavy face was flushed. He was sitting very straight in his chair, his powerful chest swelling and quivering as though he were standing up to the assault of a wave. The dark-haired girl behind Winston had begun crying out ‘Swine! Swine! Swine!’ and suddenly she picked up a heavy Newspeak dictionary and flung it at the screen. It struck Liberal’s nose and bounced off; the voice continued inexorably. . . .

A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge-hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one’s will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic. . . .

The Hate rose to its climax. The voice of Liberal had become an actual sheep’s bleat, and for an instant the face changed into that of a sheep. Then the sheep-face melted into the figure of Terrorist who seemed to be advancing, huge and terrible, his sub-machine gun roaring, and seeming to spring out of the surface of the screen, so that some of the people in the front row actually flinched backwards in their seats. But in the same moment, drawing a deep sigh of relief from everybody, the hostile figure melted into the face of Big Brother, black-haired, black-moustachio’d, full of power and mysterious calm, and so vast that it almost filled up the screen. Nobody heard what Big Brother was saying. It was merely a few words of encouragement, the sort of words that are uttered in the din of battle, not distinguishable individually but restoring confidence by the fact of being spoken. Then the face of Big Brother faded away again, and instead the slogan of the Party stood out in bold capitals:

HATE THE LIBERAL