Two—OK, Maybe Three—Cheers for Will Stancil!

“The spirit of the world tends to be talk and no action,” declared St. Francis. If only the father of hermetic asceticism could have seen Will Stancil fighting the power!

The Minneapolis-based woketivist is no stenchful keyboard warrior. His ratty Converse are slapping the frozen pavement, a nasally cri du cœur splays from his dried, cracked lips. The loci of Stancill’s ire: the Trump administration’s ICE-enforced illegal immigration rundown.

Long a rage-tweeter, Stancil is tired of unremuneratively spleening onto the chat board. The Left is too comfortable ineffectually typing its anger to no avail. With many of his fellow alien-sympathetics, Will is embracing nominative determinism: putting passion into praxis.

Too much to call it Triumph of the Will? Yes? Fine, bedwetters.

Stancil is one of many snow-skinned libs banding together to turn their city into an illegal resident harborage. They’re also lawbreakers, impeding the enforcement of federal law. But hey! This wouldn’t be America without a little statute-skirting. Lèse-majesté runs in our blood. “An unjust law is no law at all!” our SJW activists would shout, if it wasn’t coined by some Christian bigot who lived long before the Civil Rights Act passed.

Wily Will is no war-weathered commando. Nor does he have a militant’s history of tossing off tyranny’s heel. He’s just your average liberal agitant: 40-something, childless, single, a tad paunchy. Sensible frames slide the bridge of his bulbous snoz. A $20 haircut. JCPenney wardrobe.

But ‘neath these unassuming accoutrements lives the heart of a proggish hussar.

When the ICE Watch group chat sends up a signal, Stancill races to his Batmobile: a ten-year-old Honda Fit with a patchy transmission. Wheels spin, the shifter cranks into Drive, and off he flies to… dodge and weave between unmarked SUVs in train.

“[A]nother great tactic is to idle in a street parking spot and watch for sus SUVs, and just swing in behind them ambush-syle when they pass. [T]he [F]it is small and zippy enough I can sometimes cut in front of anyone behind them, or even cut a convoy in two,” our modern John Brown boasted on Bluesky. With enough from-the-jump cutoffs, Will just might irritate ICE agents enough to send them packing.

Jacqueries without documentation stir no hearts. For posterity’s judgment, Stancil records his tooling escapades. And he doesn’t just wield three-point turns as a truncheon. He tails ICE autos, tapping his meek horn incessantly, pealing to warn illicit migrants of snatchers.

A superhero’s justice can’t just be served in transport. Pavement must be trod. Nonrecirculated air ought to be breathed. Evildoers have to be confronted mien-to-mien. Stancil ventures out from the comfort of the Fit’s faux-leathered helm, parking in the closest non-metered space, to confront government goons head-on, armed only with a smartphone and rape whistle.

Yes, ICE impeders’ weapon of choice is the nickel piccolo freshmen ladies are issued at college orientation. Stancil approaches loitering deputies barking exhortations to “leave” and “go home” in between toots on his plastic chirper. The din falls on deaf ears, but protestation is noted nonetheless.

In one simmering confrontation, Stancil was even “fired upon,” meaning tear-gas canisters were shelled at him and other recusants. “YOU STUPID THUGS, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” he shrieked, his reedy voice splintering like balsa wood.

All this explication may come off as mocking. Please believe your treasured columnist that I by no intention mean to insult Will Stancil. His Midwestern intifada tactics, accented with his Mickey Mouse tenor, create an unavailing, even jocular, impression.

But I come to praise Will Stancil, not bury him with textual chaffs. A failed House candidate, Stancil could have beat the easy path, planted his sizable glute in an ergonomic chair and discoursed into a sweating dander until death’s call. He could have joined ranks with thousands of tankie viralists, sniping with quips and subtweets. But a higher purpose called. Nobility requires sacrifice. For political commentators, the biggest sacrifice of all comes in logging off. Like the ancients who slit steer’s throats before bloodied altars, the aggrieved advocate commits oblations not in owning anons but in corporeal attendance.

Lawyerly disclaimer: Thus far, Stancil hasn’t recorded himself running afoul the law. He isn’t double-parking in an ICE paddywagon. Exercising his First Amendment right of assembly, no matter how bootless, is his play.

For stepping outside the algorithmic void, Stancil has invited snark from Twitter cons. These jabs only punch air. Stancil embodies the Chinese proverb: You’re standing there talking, but your back isn’t the sore one. And your whistle isn’t the wet one, is an appropriate add-on.

But lo! The critics’ wit is yet again wearied. The President and Minnesota Governor Tim Walz have reached an accord. The Trump administration is dialing back its aggressive operations in the North Star State, dumping snarl-faced Border Patrol head Gregory Bovino for straightlaced Tom Homan.

A victory lap in the Honda Fit seems fitting for the indomitable Will Stancil.