It was in this period that w ran into a whole group of cultural anarchists, the extreme wing of what became the yippies, a radical prefigurement of the punks.  The group was succiently known as the Mother Fuckers, and they spent most of their time, when they were not high on something and lying around on a tenement floor, painting appropriately obscene slogans on the walls of the East Village.

The Mother Fuckers liked us.  They would come to our weekly class series in our small office on 10th Street and stand in the back (even if there were empty seats) as we went on and on about imperialism and revisionism and internationalism and several other isms, combined with a very heavy dose of contradictions and opposites within opposites and transitions and leaps.  Then came the discussion period, and up went the hand of the leading Mother Fucker.  We would recognize him and he would shout out in his loudest, proudest voice:  “Up against the wall, Mother Fucker!”  The group shouted their agreement and then they left.  They never said anything more or anything less.

 Tim Wohlforth, The Prophet’s Children: Travels on the American Left, page 147.

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