One day, in the mid-90's I was standing in line at a theatre along with several hundred other people, for a film at the Castro theatre, in San Francisco's predominately gay neighborhood.
Suddenly a carload of braying, screeching xtians passed by, shouting their filthy bible spewing messages of hatred, who would then speed off whenever anyone tried to challenged them.
They did this three times; drove around the block, shouted their pointless and stupid epiteths. After their third time around the block, a dozen people got out of line and quickly encircled their vehicle.
We turned the damn thing over, upside down, loaded with xtians screaming, pleading "Mister, please. This is my mother's car." Exquisite sound, that fear.
At that time, the theatre line moved into the theatre, leaving them outside to figure it out. As this was a premiere, it was out of the question that the cops would stop the showing to find the culprits.
One time Westboro Baptist Church showed up to protest our existence, and that fat bitch, Shirley Roper-Phelps was chased from the neighborhood. For several blocks.
Were we wrong to defend ourselves this way? Maybe. But this was our neighborhood to defend.