Tovarichi wrote:Point one handgun at a cat, and I get the 3AM knock on the door.
Fortunately for me, the "enforcing officers" were in my unit in the former Yugoslavia, and were happy to see me. They did me a favor, and provided me with hard to find ammunition, so now I can dispatch that creature once and for all. After all, no dead cat is so flat that it doesn't need to be run over again! Filthy creatures, covered in cat spit!
… it is only natural that RedumDIMski would earn a BOTW. He's going to wave that like his "Commisar" title that came from a cereal box. (yawn)
Tovarichi, your words, while having a veneer of swagger and juvenile cruelty, carry no sway here.
If – when – I become serious about dispatching you, I will not send troops. There will be no knock on your door.
No. I have taken a special interest in you, tovarich Tovarichi. You are honored. I will do the deed myself.
Oh, you say you no longer have any interest in my kitten? Very good, Tovarichi. That is as it should be.
And the visitors you had in the early morning? Obviously I had an appointmnent and didn't want to be interrupted, as you are doing now. I decided to be gracious, which I see was a waste of time. Yes, you are a fine Prog, so I sent members of your old unit over to your dacha to celebrate with some of Krasno's stash of Stoli. They didn't tell you? Did they even save any for you?
By the way, you diminish our dear Pinkie when you make light of her special attentions. Perhaps she will grace you with another variety of those special attentions real soon now.
You have also insulted good Father Theo. I understand he's been itching of late to do some impaling.
Now you may depart. You have annoyed me enough for one day.
Make that : " ponderous, presumptuous, polysyllabic ponification ".
Krasno, you're merely mildly miffed that I had Tov's unit buddies liberate a little of your licentious libations. It's allright. Your agitation accentuates your alliteration.
Excellent idea, Redumdi! For such a stunning achievement I'm sure Krasno will put aside his "differences" and, in the spirit of "compromise" claim the victory of the people just for having the "partay" in his back yard! Yes! He'll go for it! An excellent choice!
I'll arrive! With many friends! Woooooo! I'm very excited about this!
Pamalinsky, thank you for the Valkyrie video, and for likening me to the Valkyries, though I am not so much a chooser of the slain as I am The Chooser of the Shovel-Whacked!
And today I choose--oh, I'll bet none of you saw this coming, especially the one chosen--Tovarichi!
WHACK!!!
That's for shooting cute fluffy kittens like some generic Republican, and not sucking up to me the way Redumdimski does!
I'll have you know, Tovarichi, that even though Redumdimski's Commissar rank did indeed come out of a cereal box, that BOTW I gave him (which I believe you yourself have never received, or if you claim you have, then you obviously got it out of the same box of cereal) is quite genuine.
Now to determine if his gratitude is equally genuine.
Oh, and by the way, Tovarichi--a whack from my shovel is ALWAYS genuine, and never out of a cereal box or some little gumball dispenser along with the rub-on tattoos and and little plastic football helmets and eggs containing plastic spiders that you hatch to scare your girlfriends--if you had any.
(right where whack #3 hit before--dammit, that hurts!)
Pinkie, I have not received a BOTW, nor have I been considered for one. I don't drink watered down vodka, nor do I respect watered down titles or awards. I do respect that dammed shovel...
Did I shoot the cat? no. I just got my valuable ammunition the other night... chronology is not an exacting science, but it has its points.
Hey Krasno! You really know how to Party for the People. How 'bout one of those Red Onion Smoothies for Pinkie?
A toast to our dear Commissarka and her Golden Shovel of Justice, righteously striking the impudent cute fluffy critter-hater in a previously applied gouge! Well-aimed, Commissarka!
Tovarichi wrote:Did I shoot the cat? no. I just got my valuable ammunition the other night... chronology is not an exacting science, but it has its points.
Tovarichi, retribution is a wonderful thing. Just for your information: Should anything happen to my kitten, I'll let Krasno test-fire another missile. The coordinates of your dacha are already programmed into the guidance package. You already know I know where you live.
Oh. OH. OH. I have been stabbed in the back. Pinkie, I have had ONLY ONE OF YOUR BEET OF THE WEEK AWARDS, and you know what are are to each other. You do know that, don't you? I cannot believe that you don't know that.
And you give a BTOW to Redumdimski, who is merely a neo-prog? I mean, here I am, the Madest of Made Progs, and I only have one? Why, that's like not getting the second Nobel Peace Price for Not Being George Bush as dear Barack said to me one time when he called for advice when Michelle found him with a salt shaker and threatened to play proctologist with him.
I know, I know, I know, I have not heretofore talked about the midnight calls from Dear Barack, PBUH, because of my blushes. But there's a reason. Dear Barry Sotero only calls really to talk to Bruno.
Lord Obama called. "Bruno, I need help. I get it that everything is drag. It's all how we want to be seen. Because then our inner abilities don't matter. You're a drag queen.
"But then I'm a drag genius. Those books of mine? I'm the Fresh Prince of Bill Ayers. And my achievements? I only threw my grandmother, you know, the one who raised me, under the bus once.
"But I have done NOTHING, Bruno, NOTHING which wasn't scripted for me. And I couldn't find my way out of a paper sack and I've directed Eric Holder to investigate TelePrompTer for those unfortunate lapses. But the problem is really that I'm not nearly as smart as people think I am."
Bruno started laughing, "Barry, only the Inside the Beltway Types think that you are. Why look at me! Not even my mother thinks that I have a brain and I know you're an idiot. But you're VERY good as a drag genius."
"You think that will get you through?"
"Oh, I expect so. After all, look at the NYT: drag reporters. The Washington Post? Same thing. MSNBC? Drag journalists. You're fine."
Tovarichi, I can attest that a whack from Pinkie's shovel is arresting. Even in the darkest of nights in my blacked-out bedroom, I sometimes still see stars.
Pinkie, notice how I just conscripted you? I learned that from Bonnie Fwank who after he created the real-estate fraud which is bringing down the world, said that he had indeed warned people about it.
Let's hear it for convenient memory. And conscripting others to our use. Oh hell, doing anything that we want to.
Because, take a breath, and repeat after me, "We're MADE PROGS AND WE'RE ENTITLED!"
Wow, Theocritus, you are pissed indeed with the typos to show for it. Didn't you read where I compared Redumdimski to you? Yes, with his proggish prose he's like a mini-Theocritus. A second rate Theocritus. A cheap bargain basement Theocritus, still clean-shaven and with a dorky bowl haircut, because for all the promise he shows, he has yet to earn that thick mustache and those lush tresses of raven hair I see streaming down your big broad shoulders.
His heart throbs for me now, but under your continued tutelage, it will soon shrivel and blacken like your own.
And then the Host will be ready for the Parasite. (Or is it the other way around?)
Since it's the Season of Good Cheer, I couldn't help but notice - Commissarka Pinkie, was that a reference to the Heavenly Host? And is Redumdimski joining the choir?
Ahh, it warms the cockles of my heart (which, frankly, tickles just a bit) to see the Joy and Frivolity of the Winter Solstice Season expressed so vividly here on The Peoples Cube™!!
Tovarichi wrote:I'm getting a bad reputation around here...
Your bad reputation is wholly earned. Which begs a question: What's wrong with you, boy? We Progs are entitled to everything. We don't have to earn anything. Well at least you continually prove just how mindless and bastardy you are. You just can't take a hint, can you? Even after I so magnanimously extended every opportunity to you to amend your ways.
Tov-boy, you truly are an ungrateful low-down lying mindless malevolent malcontent malfeasant misanthropic melodramatic misogynistic malodorous manipulative maligning malingering mincing mewling maggot. A finer showing of true Progdom in compact phrasing than you there never was. It appears you're ready to train our next crop of Occupussies, ‘cause they can't get a lower example of idiotic, crappy behavior than you provide. Maybe it's the cumulative effect of all the whacking that's driven any remaining neurons from your skull. Or maybe you were born that way, if indeed you were born at all. Born or not, it's undeniable you've never had a heart, you bloodless, cold, disgusting little wart on the Cube's rump. But enough compliments.
Now it's time for some juicy fun, you cat-threatening creep. Let's move along to the pièce de résistance:
Tovarichi wrote:If the Beet of the Week is awarded solely for polysyllabic pontification of the nebulous, then so be it.
and
Tovarichi wrote:Pinkie, I have not received a BOTW, nor have I been considered for one. I don't drink watered down vodka, nor do I respect watered down titles or awards. I do respect that dammed shovel...
You are hereby proclaimed guilty of assaulting Commissarka Pinkie's prerogative, incensing her to anger deserving of a whack, and insulting her Award. And that, my dippy dim-witted diminutive doughboy, deserves denouncement.
Congratulations. You're getting what you so obviously want, and in true Prog fashion, you're fully entitled to it, but for the wrong reason. You're not worthy of a Beet of the Week, but you've earned, yes earned and that's an insult in case you couldn't figure it out, you filthy animal unfit to even be in the presence of a feline, the first denouncement I've served up here in the Cubeverse. Not just a YWAD. And not out of a cereal box. A full-on, in-your-face, genu-ine one-way-ticket carryin' denouncement. Maybe you're even entitled to your own award, based on stupidity and inspired by Occupiers, but let's save that for later. I'm eagerly anticipating your scathing retort – if you can scrape up enough beets to rent the mindpower required to generate one - to this little nugget, tovarich.
It's no wonder you can't get anywhere with the womyn. Cereal boxes or little gumball dispenser rub-on tattoos and little plastic football helmets and eggs containing plastic spiders that you hatch to scare underage girls you want to be your girlfriends aside, your very speech certainly indicates the word “respect” to you is but a mouthing of misunderstood syllables. You were warned, and then you were whacked, and yet you continue to diminish dear Commissarka Pinkie, implying her BotW Award is equivalent in value and taste to watered-down vodka, and that the very Award itself is watered down.
Earlier you pined to re-invade Iraq. Perhaps, for your own safety, you should make good on that lament as an Army of One. No doubt you'd indeed be safer there among our Islamic brothers and their IEDs than here in Cube-space, where a shovel and a missile are pointed at your pointy little head.
I've wasted enough time on you, you sub-human piece of waste.
As you earlier so eloquently put it, "Have a Party™ Day!
Father Theo. Welcome back to our Kollektiv embrace.
Father Prog Theocritus wrote:{Dear 0'Leader said:} "But then I'm a drag genius. Those books of mine? I'm the Fresh Prince of Bill Ayers. And my achievements? I only threw my grandmother, you know, the one who raised me, under the bus once.”
B. Hussein is a genius in his own mind, which shares space with a certain floor-lamp orifice – it's just that everyone else is too dumb to understand how smart he is. That's why he appears dumb to us dumb ones. But in the Reality that The 0ne pulls from his anus, WE are the dumb ones. Does the conversation between Dear 0'Leader and Bruno that you related to us indicate that we are all drag dummies?
Father Prog Theocritus wrote:Pinkie, notice how I just conscripted you? I learned that from Bonnie Fwank who after he created the real-estate fraud which is bringing down the world, said that he had indeed warned people about it.
The Prog is strong in you, young Theocritus.
(And is rubbing off on me… What's that smell? Something else is happening. It looks like… Is the host morphing into the parasite?)
Commissarka Pinkie wrote:…Yes, with his proggish prose he's like a mini-Theocritus. A second rate Theocritus. A cheap bargain basement Theocritus, still clean-shaven and with a dorky bowl haircut.
…His heart throbs for me now, but under your continued tutelage, it will soon shrivel and blacken like your own.
Pinkie, at least I have the assurance that no matter what else may transpire, your Golden Shovel will be ever-ready, charged with righteous energizing power as we see in a Jimmy Carter Nano-Bunny, to whack Justice into the impenitent, impertinent Prog.
And even though you berate and betray me, yea even perchance might slay me, there will always be a soft spot that throbs in my stony little blackened heart for you.
Redumdimski wrote:Tov-boy, you truly are an ungrateful low-down lying mindless malevolent malcontent malfeasant misanthropic melodramatic misogynistic malodorous manipulative maligning malingering mincing mewling maggot.
You forgot maleficent and as far as the mincing, are you cutting in on Bruno's racket? After all, Bruno minces so we don't have to, and there's a truth in there if you hunt for it.
Let's be nice to Tovarichi. He is well on the road to complete Mindless Bastardy. I can see him setting up rules which WILL BE FOLLOWED whether or not there is a reason. As Primo Levy reported in his [unreadable because it's entirely too poignant and you gasp and cry and close the book] memoir of his time in Auschwitz, "There is no 'why' here."
We do things because we can. Just to show we can. We have no reason for it, except to show that we can. We are the straw men, the little men, the people of no ability except political, and we'll hold onto that power like grim death.
And Tovarichi is progressing nicely to being a mindless bastard. Just like you, although you are a bit more advanced on the road to Mindless Bastardy.
Ah, Pinkie, your dulcet compliment nearly unfreezes three cells of my shrunken, blackened heart. Nearly; since I'm such a Made Prog, my feelings have been put on ice until the universe has decayed, in a trillion years, into nothing but photons. And when the universe's temperature is so low that it takes a million years to decide on what to have for lunch, my proggery will still be there, my hands on other peoples' wallets, and my advice, entirely unbidden, being shoved down other peoples' throats.
There is no escape from proggery. We are what we are. We are insufficient people, people who don't exist alone in a room, and so it is a dialectical imperative that our opinions, for which read, "my opinions," be permanent. And they are permanent, just as long as I've received The Current Truth on my superheterodyne, phased-antenna-array tin-foil hat from Laika.
So. We blindly accept something which makes us sound as though we're important. We act on it, we force other people into acting as though it were true. We make people miserable, we destroy families, wealth, nations, because we're big shots who know better.
Think Diane Sawyer. That woman is a complete and total idiot but she's respected, and she should be, because she's a complete and total idiot with a microphone and a camera.
For this is the summum ad bonum for a prog: since we have no ideas which can withstand the antiseptic light of reason, all we need is a mike and camera. Because then we can impress ourselves on other people who have other things to do, and who will regard our content as being useful, instead of the farrago of lies, character assassination, and coddled elite opinions which make hubris blench which it in fact is. I swear, what these people believe. I swear, what some progs believe.
Think of MSNBC, calling anyone who disagrees with them Klansmen. Well, what's wrong with that? Nothing. People who disagree with me are worse than Klansmen: they are traitors, and here, dear comrades, is the diamond at the heart of the lump of coal. I know best. I have the best opinions: I have decided it. Why? Well, because I said I do. This is the real meaning of "begging the question." I'm the smartest because once I said so.
Well, it worked for Dear O'Leader.
Anyone who disagrees with me, oh, I'm feeling generous, us, is a traitor to our sense of entitlement in running every single aspect of the lives of every single person, except of course for us. Would Senators Kennedy or Byrd be constricted by little things like ethical behavior when they can talk ethical behavior? I didn't think so.
We progs have the Prog Stone. The Philosopher's Stone turned what it touched into gold. The Prog's Stone curdles everything into squinty-eyed resentment, hatred, class warfare, larceny, and theft.
And I need to change my underwear, so great was my pleasure in writing that.
Oh dear. I see that I'm fulminating again.
To those who disagree with me, I offer the advice of the Red Queen: Off with his head!"
Redumdimski wrote:Tov-boy, you truly are an ungrateful low-down lying mindless malevolent malcontent malfeasant misanthropic melodramatic misogynistic malodorous manipulative maligning malingering mincing mewling maggot.
You forgot maleficent and as far as the mincing, are you cutting in on Bruno's racket? After all, Bruno minces so we don't have to, and there's a truth in there if you hunt for it.
Let's be nice to Tovarichi. He is well on the road to complete Mindless Bastardy. I can see him setting up rules which WILL BE FOLLOWED whether or not there is a reason. As Primo Levy reported in his [unreadable because it's entirely too poignant and you gasp and cry and close the book] memoir of his time in Auschwitz, "There is no 'why' here."
Thanks for the additional alliterative illustration. Another most basic descriptor would have been "maladjusted", but hey, you know what "they" say about hindsight.
While barely on the bleeding edge of Proggery, I have tried to the best of my stony shriveled heart's ability to be nice to Tovarichi. That is why mincing came naturally in the alliterative flow, because no matter how many times I gave our poor boy the opportunity, he kept chopping up my best efforts at beneficence.
And as for setting up rules which WILL BE FOLLOWED whether or not there is a reason, Tovarichi will doubtless one day be a shining star that we can but hope to follow in pale emulation.
Krasnodar wrote:Comrades FPT and Redumdum...........
" I've wasted enough time on you, you sub-human piece of waste !"
You two really know how to spread the warmth and joy that inhabits " The World of Next Tuesday !"
You are what you is.
( Query.... just how many rows of teeth does a made-prog have, anyways ? )Insert theme music from " Jaws ".
Krasno, kudos for Korrektly identifying my proudest line in that little rant of mine.
As far as teeth - like sharks, ours keep on pushing out in rows like waves, so as the outermost rows are broken, there are always more rows pushing Progressively forward, just like our policies and our dictates, unstoppably.
Tovarichi wrote:Pinkie warms my coclkes too, when she's not whacking me...
Pinkie warms your what? You misspelled cockles, Tovi. We all know what you actually meant. But, you did misspell it! What does this say about you? (Ya gotta be very careful when dealing with Pinkie, just trying to help.)
Cockles (silly not-so-smart phones and their teensy little screens.) noun, plural : the core of one's being —usually used in the phrase warm the cockles of the heart (Mirriam Webster online.)
We've all been so "open minded" here on this post, haven't we? Respecting one anothers' thoughts as if they mean something. I thought this might be a good time to post this rumination from a guy who grimly realizes he has wasted a good portion of his life listening to other peoples' unformed thoughts, etc., etc., etc.
It's a laugh's worth of attention:
Really, it's some funny apropos shit!
Pamalinsky wrote:We've all been so "open minded" here on this post, haven't we?
Pamalinsky, as Progs we have no choice but to be open minded, by definition. In fact, in some cases, if you stand right up next to a Good Prog's ear, it's not at all unusual to hear the sound of the ocean. That's because we're so open minded.
In some cases, it's possible to actually hear the wind blowing through the gravestones on Boot Hill.
ROCK, that is for progs which, and note the neuter relative pronoun, are not that advanced. True progs never hear anything except that which is of value. And if we don't find value, make it up. Dan Rather comes to mind. The very essence of proggery is the complete and utter refusal to bow to that nasty thing called reality, and so someone else has to take up the slack. Go to work. Do it.
So let's not be nasty. After all, there are a great many proglets, which is as it should be. Because if the Progressive World of Next Tuesday™ actually arrived, it would mean rationing for me, and shortages for me, and we all know, here in camera, that there is utterly nothing on earth more important than we are ourselves, and the entire nation can run over a cliff as long as we feel good about it.
Splendid points, all, Father Theo - and, in the spirit of the Solstice, I shall take it upon myself to cherish, however momentarily, the thought of those progs less equal than ourselves this holiday season. These proglets, Lenin bless them, have their place in the World of Next Tuesday™ - it's just somewhat lower (in a nearly equal way) than ours.
Oh, yes, ROCK. You've got it. Yes, they are lesser people but as long as they remain steadfast in the faith of the Progressive World of Next Tuesday™, then they are among the anointed. The saved. Now they will not sit at the feet of Lenin when the Rupture comes, but still, they will not be cast into the lake of having to deal with things for yourself.
And that is the essence of proggery: the escape from personal responsibility. And only I, as a made prog, can even utter the word "responsibility" without having to have two extra Jiffy-Lobo treatments.
Thank you, Krasnodar; I look very fetching as a stone-hearted Father Kristmaski. I think the red star is very fetching, don't you? But then all red stars are fetching. I am currently buying/blackmailing (same thing, really) Texas legislatures to change the star on the Texas flag to red, and to paint every Texas lone star red. Because it's only fitting. The fish rots from the head; we shall therefore rot the State of Texas starting with the star.
Redumdimski, I have thought about how Pinkie called you a second-rate me. A mini-Father Prog. Now I admit that in the world of proggery, I cut a big swathe but we all know it's not for my ideological purity: it's for my mindless bastardy.
Now I hate for an up-and-coming prog as self-righteous as you are to have hurt feelings.
Come to the Rancho and relax. It's very soothing here. And for your convenience I have a very good safe to hold any odd valuable that you bring with you.
Utter security. No one has ever stolen anything from that safe; that's the one that Meow doesn't know about. So rest assured that all your valuables will be safe, with me, under my control, and I'll tell you as much as you want that your valuables are safe, with me, under my control, even if I have, oh, other uses for the money.
And with your stay, you'll learn how Social Security really works.
FPT is right, Comrade Red ..... you should get a little solstice R&R at his Rancho.
He's really got the place fixed up nice..... in fact, one of the most recent improvements was the installation of a new " security perimeter "to keep the coyotes and other assorted Texan varmits from getting in the trash and disturbing his guests.
If you haven't been to The Rancho, drive 15 miles PAST the middle of nowhere and hang a right at his " Santa Vlad " statue. Have your picture ID's ready.... the guards should only take about two or so hours to interrogate you and let you pass into FPT's compound.......
ah...... " resort ".
PS : I asked Theocritus to give you special accommodations as a reward to you leaving my dasha in such great shape after your party. And cleaning up afterwards has been both a facinating and instructive experience as well. I've learned that some party attendant's colon is several feet long. What a wonderful gift that was ! Truly memorable. And just think, I have you to thank for it.
Father Prog Theocritus wrote:Tovarichi, if you want causus belli with sesquipedalianism, bring it on.
Causus belli has kept groceries on my table for a long time. Sesquipedalianism is however, grounds for a mercy killing just to protect the innocent.
I must admit, your young acolyte, dog-walker, and protector of kittens is picking up the habit quite nicely. Perhaps he will find a position as a speechwriter for Dear Leader (PBUH) or find gainful employment.
I find that in communicating to the MTV generation in the land of blazing internet speeds, small words and big pictures are absorbed and at least digested later, while long words are ignored, bypassed, left behind and soon forgotten.
Now, now, now, Tovarichi; sesquipedalianism is just another way to obfuscate. Mark Twain said there three sorts of lies: lies, damned lies, and statistics. Just so with big words. I myself have been coining big words for quite a while to excuse some of my, and I blush here, less than entirely legal, in the outdated 18th-century republic sense, activities but I can assure you that it was All for the Party™. Except of course for the trifling convenience fee. Well, if you knew what it costs to buy Bruno's shoes, you'd do it too.
The reason that I so adore Dear O'Leader (PBUH) is that he's learned to lie with short words. Turn head to one TelePrompTer, utter five staccato words, turn head toward OTHER TelePrompTer (three needed for an elementary school; they have not yet been acculturated to know you cannot scream "bullshit!" when bullshit is served for it doesn't go down well on the Upper East Side) and then he says five other staccato words.
And the same with Nanski except that she's receiving her instructions from her specially embedded BrainWave chip, which only increases her head two hat sizes, and which instantly downloads using Laika's satellite transmissions but ALSO using WiFi and BlueTooth and 4G.
And all verbiage? Persiflage. Not a single thing that they say is true, or sensible, or even approaching sensibility. They are nearly mentally ill, so great is their flight from reality.
Oh Lenin, how I do love them. I grovel at their feet. Even I, Father Prog, sometimes have to bow to reality.
Oh to be a prog so made that no one dare contradict me. Like Lord Copper in Waugh's Scoop, I want to be at the level that when I'm right, my underlings say, "Absolutely, Father Prog!" And when I'm wrong, if I could be, it's, "Up to a point, Father Prog!"
And one day I'll get so there will be Potemkin villages for me, and then when I see that, I'll know that I've followed in the steps of His Royal Oiliness and finally destroyed the hated USSA for all time.
Krasnodar wrote:I've learned that some party attendant's colon is several feet long.
Oh. I see that you're interested in being the Commissar for Revenue Enhancement. In other words, the Commissioner of the IRS. Nothing like a good fisting to wring out that last bit of money.
Why once I was friends with an IRS agent, and just a lowly one, but then I was a proglet. I hadn't even rolled a drunk, snootered a Christian, excused a bomb-throwing Muslim, defended partial-birth abortion, or lied about a KKKonservative yet.
See how young I was? My lord; that's in my DNA now. In fact I had my genotype run and they found a lying gene, and they named it FPT-1138! So that's how young I was.
He told me some of the IRS's secrets. When you're next at the Rancho--and do mind Rafael in the tower; loyal but not a good shot and he has an assault rifle, and bring your valuables--I'll fix you the most amazing drinks as a master of mixology.
Well, I'll put the Mickey Finn in the second one but you'll like them both. When you drink them. And you'll be drinking the lime juice from a lime that I bought four years ago.
You can't rise in the IRS to take others' money to insult them with it without being able to wring at least two gallons of juice out of lime.
Father Prog Theocritus wrote:Redumdimski, I have thought about how Pinkie called you a second-rate me. A mini-Father Prog. Now I admit that in the world of proggery, I cut a big swathe but we all know it's not for my ideological purity: it's for my mindless bastardy.
Now I hate for an up-and-coming prog as self-righteous as you are to have hurt feelings.
Come to the Rancho and relax. It's very soothing here. And for your convenience I have a very good safe to hold any odd valuable that you bring with you.
Utter security. No one has ever stolen anything from that safe; that's the one that Meow doesn't know about. So rest assured that all your valuables will be safe, with me, under my control, and I'll tell you as much as you want that your valuables are safe, with me, under my control, even if I have, oh, other uses for the money.
And with your stay, you'll learn how Social Security really works.
Yes my feelings were hurt, due in part to my selfish (is there any other mode of operation for an upstanding Prog?) longing for our dear Commissarka, even though she is a Korrekt New Soviet Woman of all the People, particularly all the men – who knows who she's with tonight, or where. All we know for certain is that her Golden Shovel of Justice accompanies her wherever she roams. (Krasno, I thought your lackeys were responsible for her whereabouts.)
Frankly, dear Pinkie is doing me a favor. She's helping me become even more Proggish by reminding me that male or female, we Progs have no allegiance to anyone, including each other; our only allegiances are to our feelings and our whims The People™ and The Children™. My foolish opening of what small space was left in my blackened shriveled stony heart and declaring my affection for her was merely a smacked-down misstep away from our True Purpose, for which - One question: What is this "effin"? Is it anything like "elfin", only misspelled? I have never been referred to as "elfin", but since I'm doing it to myself, it must be okay.
(Just an aside: All hail the Power of the Pinkie! Thanks to her (because I'd never take responsiblity for any of it myself), we've got a BotW, a Whack, and two Denouncements on ONE page... So far...)
So a brief pre-Christmas Winter Solstice respite at the Rancho would provide a welcome relief from the sorrow I'm steeped in; my followers are getting less attentive due to my wallowing in self-pity while I waste away in sappy sycophantism. I'm always self-absorbed, but this is too much even for them.
You know I have very expensive taste in my culinary fare so we'll go over the menu in a separate communication. I'll bring the eggnog. Krasno will have the adult beverage duty.
Thanks for the offer but I wouldn't want to take up valuable space in your safe so I won't bring any personally identifiable information or cash or credit cards or any other form of "legal" tender; just the clothes on my back and another one or two day's worth to stay fresh and sparkling – but without the glitter or cheap bling that Bruno seems to find so necessary. Since my mind is so tiny I don't have any of my federally mandated numbers stored there so the relaxation will be complete and inviolable. And besides, I know my credit with you is impeccable.
As for getting through security screening on the compound, let the guards know what I'll be driving:
(Look familiar? And you thought it was stolen.) Don't worry that I'll have no PII or anything but myself of value; I'll do what I always do – Claim to be an illegal alien. “No hablo inglés.” Gets me through every checkpoint and traffic stop without another word, no papers required. (I've also used it to vote for our favorite Dimocrats multiple times, in multiple locations.) If your guards are insufficiently steeped in political correctness for that to work, I'll talk at (not to or with) them until out of sheer desperation they allow me to pass. Works every time! I don't have multiple rows of razor-sharp serrated teeth and interminable insufferable run on-and-on (very like the Energizer Bunny and derivative Jimmy Carter Nano-Rabbits we developed) of the mouth merely for the handsome appearance and breezy attitude they respectively afford me. The great Made Prog Jean-Luc Picard had the same ability, and lauded it when he explained it: “He just kept talking in one long incredibly unbroken sentence moving from topic to topic so that no one had the chance to interrupt (it was really quite hypnotic).” Typically I'm still talking as with slack expressions and blank stares the guards wave me through. An old Prog Mind Trick.
One other thought comes to mindlessness: Isn't it great that we know the same Proggish people? We're both of equal value to all of them. Would any of them miss either of us?
Krasnodar wrote:If you haven't been to The Rancho, drive 15 miles PAST the middle of nowhere and hang a right at his " Santa Vlad " statue. Have your picture ID's ready.... the guards should only take about two or so hours to interrogate you and let you pass into FPT's compound.......
ah...... " resort ".
PS : I asked Theocritus to give you special accommodations as a reward to you leaving my dasha in such great shape after your party. And cleaning up afterwards has been both a facinating and instructive experience as well. I've learned that some party attendant's colon is several feet long. What a wonderful gift that was ! Truly memorable. And just think, I have you to thank for it.
So, have a nice stay !
bastard....
Krasno! Red Rooster's kick to your insubstantial head at The People's Party a couple of weekends ago must've done a lot more harm than we thought – We were both at Father Theo's Rancho later that same weekend to honor him. Is it starting to come back yet? Remember I told you not to take any PII or valuables other than yourself (even though you have value only to yourself), and you did anyway? Remember the sunset you, Theo, Pamy, and I reveled in as we wrapped up the weekend?
No? It's okay. Here, have another Red Onion Smoothie. I hardly remember myself. Or the weekend. Yes, I can be as mindless as any other Prog, but I know who my dad was.
Say, that Santa Vlad statue really gets one into a Winter Solstice sort of mood, doesn't it?
Tovarichi wrote:...Sesquipedalianism is however, grounds for a mercy killing just to protect the innocent.
I must admit, your young acolyte, dog-walker, and protector of kittens is picking up the habit quite nicely. Perhaps he will find a position as a speechwriter for Dear Leader (PBUH) or find gainful employment.
Father Prog Theocritus wrote:...Dear O'Leader (PBUH) {and} Nanski... are nearly mentally ill, so great is their flight from reality.
Now you've insulted some of my dearest and highest Dimocrat friends. Mentally ill? B. Hussein (PBUH) and Nanski are not mentally ill, they are not mentally anything, so mindless are they, and if you have the honor of talking at them in private, they will proudly announce it with every blank stare, every “ah” and “um”, every incorrect “fact” – heck, every utterance they expire, like a fetid swamp gas, as clearly as if you could see the negative pressure (some would say vacuum, sucking the very life out of whatever room they inhabit) inside their skulls. Their Proggish mindless bastardy is total and complete.
How could you forget? You who yourself wish to be like Lord Copper in Waugh's Scoop. You are referring to two of the Madest of Made Progs who have never had to face an inconvenient truth or anything which could be portrayed as a negative comment directed toward them or their (our) ideology that was not immediately shouted down by their adoring accompanying protecting toadies with devastating destruction of the foolish accuser's reputation, family, and fortune. Lord 0'Leader and Nanski are two of the most accomplished Class Warriors ever to grace our Progressive World, and so must have appropriate shielding. These Madest Progs are fully protected from reality that is not pulled from their anuses, living their entire lives in a protective bubble. Their Potemkin Villages have surrounded them their entire lives, so of course their solipsistic Proggery is complete and completely vacuous, never needing an iota of thought or search for evidence devoted to its defense or reflection upon it, never seeing something not of The World We Make, merely needfully engaging in offensive attack and division directed against any perceived slight or slander or opposer. That is to say, for examples, producers, patriots, KKKapitalists, Tearrorist Teabaggers, RethugliKKKans, the “rich” (are we down to $40,000 – our current goal – yet?) etc., ad nauseam.
Note how, in Our World, I have accorded highest praise to these bastards bastions of Progress. Would that everyone could be so mindless. The Progressive World of Next Tuesday™ would have arrived globally long ago.
Market Grilled wrote:Quite the long winded rant while ignoring a main adjective such as NEARLY.
I NEARLY saved you the time it would take to type a rant, but I didn't.
MG: Isn't that a defunct British automobile manufacturer? No wait, that's Morris Garage.
Isn't that a cooked chicken? NEARLY, but...
No, no... That's Boston Market.
Who are you again?
Welcome to the thread, NEARLY-Proglet!
Don't you feel puffed up and proud?
Just learned about adjectives in your third-grade pubic school English class? Oh that's right; if those parts of speech are taught at all, the NEA insists on waiting until ninth grade.
Let's see... I can tell by the miserable quality of your self-important snideness balanced by the juvenile nature of what you think is meaningful and important to focus upon that you've probably spent most of your life in pubic schools (a pat on the head and a red star to Market Grilled!) and have had to repeat several grades several times, but don't worry - you're not a failure or a dummy, all your indoctrinators teachers told you so - so you're probably about twenty-two. Additionally, the slovenly stupidity of your short statement, along with your handle, and your interest in this thread, scream "Occupussy". (The incoherent chattering emanating from your reeking malodorous mouth, your general stench, your pallor and weakness, your long, matted hair, and rumpled, torn, body-fluid and mud-stained clothing point to that conclusion as well.) A proud start to a shining, whining Prog career of uselessness!
Why so quiet now? Waiting for your fellow protestors to tell you what to say?
A word of warning: If you want to keep using that iPad here at the Rancho, you need to pay - yes, PAY - Father Prog Theocritus in advance for the electricity to keep it charged. The prices for energy have necessarily skyrocketed, as Dear 0'Leader told us they would, so you'd best have a big stash of cash. I doubt you remember FPT telling you that, do you?
You are NEARLY too smart by half. Just not quite.
I couldn't ignore your apparent inability to perceive the point of a post. You're NEARLY a Proglet, but you're not. I NEARLY decided to spare you from a logorrheic flogging, but I didn't.
Leave it to a non-Proglet to latch on to the non-essentials.
A drunk non-Proglet mixing cheap vodkas. Oh, are you gonna hurt in a few hours. And you'd better clean up that stinking mess you've left on the floor. Coming out of both ends, I see. See how the room is concrete? With a big drain in the center. See that hose attached to the wall? There's a handle over there to turn on the water. Here, I'll close the door so you can clean yourself up, but I have less confidence about the cleanliness of your act. The water's very cold and bracing for a reason. The scalding water is much more expensive. I'm sparing you. I NEARLY didn't. And even the bracing water's more expensive than the electricity. But Father Theo insists his understudies be clean of body. I'll have Bruno fetch you a wire brush.
Theo, this latest batch of acolytes of yours is not nearly up to your former standards. Maybe Bruno needs to... Yes, work with it. Again the use of the impersonal neuter pronoun is appropriate here, especially since it is so fond of parts of speech. But it'll make for a fun time here at the Rancho! I see Bruno likes what he sees. No, ask Theo if you can help MG scrub with the wire brush. You say it's bristly and very stiff?
Well, I was wrong, and I'm Prog enough to admit it. Market Grilled'll be hurting a lot in a lot less than a few hours. It'll just be a different kind of pain. Somehow, though, I get the impression it will enjoy it. (We can have fun analyzing that sentence, too.)
(Krasno, I told you to guard the stash... Yeah, right. It's just the cheap stuff. Never mind.)
Redumdimski, I much applaud your sense of style but let's keep it private. As you know, a truly humble prog drives a Trabifurz; the body is cotton batting covered with resin. You put the oil in one hole, the gas in another, and shake the car. What could be better? Now I admit that it doesn't have two satellite receivers like my Acura, but then I keep that one hidden in The People's Barn, behind the South Forty impaling stakes, lest people steal it.
Because although I'm a made prog, and very proud of it, I am not quite at the level that Nanski and Barry are, where they can do anything that they want without a blush.
You see, I know when I'm lying. Now I'm not complaining; I lie and I lie well. I am after all a prog, and lying is in my DNA. Hell, that's why progs, elevated progs, tend not to have large families. It's not to Save the Earth. It's just that we're shooting attitude and lies and nothing actually seminal.
The problem with Lord Copper is that there is still someone, his secretary, who is bound to reality. Progs don't do reality. It makes our heads hurt. The essence of proggery is to ignore reality, you know, the real stuff, and then pull our reality out our asses.
I personally have never done any proctological spelunking and since I am, by definition, not an autoencephaloproctologist, I've never seen the inside of my ass myself.
We don't really want to know how the reality is made, do we? Churchill's comment about politics and sausage is right on the money in this case. Let's not subject it to the light.
The person I hate most in this country is Brian Lamb, the big cheese behind C-SPAN. He served as the speculum by which the world could look into Washington. And he showed people things that they just didn't need to know.
People have more feelings than they really need, you know, unless they're manufactured Occupy feelings. We do not want our proles having any feeling except the outrage and resentment that we steep them in. Empty vessels for our class warfare.
So off with Brian Lamb's head.
You know that when a ray of light exposes a pigsty full of shit, the solution is not Augean. It's to turn off the light.
Or blind the observers, which our universities have gotten very good at while displaying a rapacity that would make Bluebeard blush.
Remember when you poo poo'd my concern about Karen Lewis? You thought she was small potatoes. I have posted something that might interest you about this matter on another thread.
Father Prog Theocritus wrote:Redumdimski, I much applaud your sense of style but let's keep it private. As you know, a truly humble prog drives a Trabifurz; the body is cotton batting covered with resin.You put the oil in one hole, the gas in another, and shake the car. What could be better?
Theo, humble? The insults (real or perceived, it's all the same in our World) have been flying thick and fast in this thread, and I can but hope that when you refer to a truly humble Prog, you do not refer to yourself. What could such a referent be but a self-inflicted insult, particularly when referring to a Made Prog? Surely you know that only the Little People™ are supposed to hate the rich, and love us - even though many of us are quite rich. This is so they will not balk as we make them poorer.
Now it's time to speak in camera, as you are wont to say. Of course, we hate everyone, while we say we love everyone, and since we see everyone through the twin prisms of class and race, there are several varieties of people to hate. But we know how tasty it is to eat the rich (I find my multiple rows of teeth particularly effective in this endeavor). It is much more satisfying to consume the fatness of the rich than to try to derive a little sustenance from the leanness of those we keep poor. Poor and stupid, like our Occupussies, that's the way we like 'em. Since the ranks of the poor are expanding while the numbers of "rich" (I keep seeing $40,000 as the new standard of "rich", like visions of Winter-Solstice sugarplums dancing in my empty head) are necessarily dwindling thanks to our policies, regulations, and discouraging hateful rhetoric and class warfare, eat what you can while you can!
So please, Theo, you are among "friends" here, insofar as Progs can be said to have and to be "friends". Enjoy what luxury you can steal and do not be concerned about the withering jealous glances of your fellow Progs. Referring to two of our favorites, Lord 0'Leader and Nanski, do you suppose they care what other Progs think of them? In their Realities, they are so smart and wise and worldly that no one can look upon them without throwing up adoring them and recognizing they are our salvation.
Redumdimski wrote:I find my multiple rows of teeth particularly effective in this endeavor
As I age, I find it takes up to two days for one of the teeth in a back row to move up to a front row. This is worrisome for I now sometimes have to wait a day before I chew off another hunk of flesh from some poor prole.
And why do you think that my prating about humility is anything other than birdlime? A Made Prog can boast about being humble, and it works. Because we say it does. Because we can.
Redumdimski, I think the world of you. You're nasty, mean, evil and horrible, and that's just what I can see beneath the surface. Who knows what glories lie beneath the skin? You might make David Axelrod blush, but then you might not. Bear in mind that Jaws would have been made on dry land had Axelrod been in common parlance.
It is of course entirely correct to complain that the rich have all the money but the truth is that the rich pay most of the taxes but do NOT have most of the money. To fill our coffers with all that lovely lucre requires that we screw over the middle class. You know, the little people who go to work, and do what they're supposed to do and pay the earned-income tax rate.
We could confiscate the entire earnings of the 1% and still not have enough to fund the government for any decent expansion of totalitarianism. To expand the dictatorship of the professoriate we have no choice but to screw over the middle class. Because when you multiply the number of middle-class people times the screwing-over factor, you get the real money.
Market Grilled wrote:Quite the long winded rant while ignoring a main adjective such as NEARLY.
I NEARLY saved you the time it would take to type a rant, but I didn't.
MG: Isn't that a defunct British automobile manufacturer? No wait, that's Morris Garage.
Isn't that a cooked chicken? NEARLY, but...
No, no... That's Boston Market.
Who are you again?
Welcome to the thread, NEARLY-Proglet!
Don't you feel puffed up and proud?
Just learned about adjectives in your third-grade pubic school English class? Oh that's right; if those parts of speech are taught at all, the NEA insists on waiting until ninth grade.
Let's see... I can tell by the miserable quality of your self-important snideness balanced by the juvenile nature of what you think is meaningful and important to focus upon that you've probably spent most of your life in pubic schools (a pat on the head and a red star to Market Grilled!) and have had to repeat several grades several times, but don't worry - you're not a failure or a dummy, all your indoctrinators teachers told you so - so you're probably about twenty-two. Additionally, the slovenly stupidity of your short statement, along with your handle, and your interest in this thread, scream "Occupussy". (The incoherent chattering emanating from your reeking malodorous mouth, your general stench, your pallor and weakness, your long, matted hair, and rumpled, torn, body-fluid and mud-stained clothing point to that conclusion as well.) A proud start to a shining, whining Prog career of uselessness!
Why so quiet now? Waiting for your fellow protestors to tell you what to say?
A word of warning: If you want to keep using that iPad here at the Rancho, you need to pay - yes, PAY - Father Prog Theocritus in advance for the electricity to keep it charged. The prices for energy have necessarily skyrocketed, as Dear 0'Leader told us they would, so you'd best have a big stash of cash. I doubt you remember FPT telling you that, do you?
You are NEARLY too smart by half. Just not quite.
I couldn't ignore your apparent inability to perceive the point of a post. You're NEARLY a Proglet, but you're not. I NEARLY decided to spare you from a logorrheic flogging, but I didn't.
Leave it to a non-Proglet to latch on to the non-essentials.
A drunk non-Proglet mixing cheap vodkas. Oh, are you gonna hurt in a few hours. And you'd better clean up that stinking mess you've left on the floor. Coming out of both ends, I see. See how the room is concrete? With a big drain in the center. See that hose attached to the wall? There's a handle over there to turn on the water. Here, I'll close the door so you can clean yourself up, but I have less confidence about the cleanliness of your act. The water's very cold and bracing for a reason. The scalding water is much more expensive. I'm sparing you. I NEARLY didn't. And even the bracing water's more expensive than the electricity. But Father Theo insists his understudies be clean of body. I'll have Bruno fetch you a wire brush.
Theo, this latest batch of acolytes of yours is not nearly up to your former standards. Maybe Bruno needs to... Yes, work with it. Again the use of the impersonal neuter pronoun is appropriate here, especially since it is so fond of parts of speech. But it'll make for a fun time here at the Rancho! I see Bruno likes what he sees. No, ask Theo if you can help MG scrub with the wire brush. You say it's bristly and very stiff?
Well, I was wrong, and I'm Prog enough to admit it. Market Grilled'll be hurting a lot in a lot less than a few hours. It'll just be a different kind of pain. Somehow, though, I get the impression it will enjoy it. (We can have fun analyzing that sentence, too.)
(Krasno, I told you to guard the stash... Yeah, right. It's just the cheap stuff. Never mind.)
Father Prog Theocritus wrote:And why do you think that my prating about humility is anything other than birdlime? A Made Prog can boast about being humble, and it works. Because we say it does. Because we can.
Oh, Market Grilled, I'm so glad to see that you understand the virtue of being utterly without virtue. That means that the charge of hypocrisy cannot be leveled at us, since we never pretended to be anything other than base shit anyway. Think Diane Sawyer. If there was ever a sillier person, I don't know it.
If we are not limited by ethics, then we are limited by nature. If we find no moral reason to limit our reach, then we will stop only when reality steps in. This is just ONE reason that I hate reality but then that's another topic.
The real thing is: We do it just to show we can. Tremble, proles. Quake, kulaks. Shiver, bourgeoisie. We'll do it just to show we can.
If you can feel the steely force of totalitarian compulsion, then you're late to the game. I sweat it out my pores.
Oh, Comrades, you little people of the prog-faith. You just don't get it. I know that Vince could give me a good Sham-Wow and I'd love it--for erasing fingerprints.
And as far as hygiene goes, I'll have you know that I ascribe to Mao's regimen. Never wash the privates, because it cuts down on the virility. And anyway, if I washed my privates, it might make it more pleasant for people and then they wouldn't resent it as much as they might had we put our minds to it. Because the essence of proggery is of course, all together now, doing it to show that we can.
Isn't that the essence of proggery? I'll have to channel Erik Honiger or Enver Hoxha about that one. And I need them for advice. They have the same beliefs but twice the charisma of Dear Senator Reid.
I neglected to mention that if I DID wash my junk, I'd do it like the hippies in Santa Fe: twice a year go to a car wash. Strip off, get sprayed down, go home.
I am not making this up. And that's the town of peace and love and unicorns which requires lucite cages around the cashiers in all the motels. Like a Houston 7-Eleven on the southeast side or a Dallas one around the State Fair.
Father Prog Theocritus wrote:You're nasty, mean, evil and horrible, and that's just what I can see beneath the surface.
…It is of course entirely correct to complain that the rich have all the money but the truth is that the rich pay most of the taxes but do NOT have most of the money. To fill our coffers with all that lovely lucre requires that we screw over the middle class.
Father Theo, thank you for your kind words concerning my villainy. Higher words of praise I have never received. But it comes so easily. It is merely the natural result of my natural meanness, encouraged and allowed to grow and expand to blossom, although even now I am unsatisfied with my level of mindless bastardy. Like our insatiable appetites, the meaner I get, the meaner I am compelled to become.
Your statement regarding the actual location of the wealth of the US of KKK – the hated and soon-to-be-eliminated “middle class”, as so termed by our forbear Marx, and the noted inequity of our “progressive” tax system, again a Marx-championed bit of brilliance – is of course Korrekt and is, thank you for helping me realize this, the reason the vision of $40,000 per year for a family of four being the new definition of “rich” keeps dancing in what would be my mind, if I possessed one. That's because as we drive down and eliminate the ability of proles to produce wealth and rise in our class system, we must also drive down the measuring standard of what we call wealth. Of course it will all still be ours, and finally the economic pie truly is shrinking with no opportunity to expand, but since we who control all are a very small percentage of the total population (well under our trumped-up “1%”), we will still live in relative luxury, even when machines that derive power from hydrocarbon or nuclear sources, electricity, and electronics, indoor plumbing, and large-scale manufacturing, along with the science that made them possible, are distant memories – say in about five years.
The Soviets had their timetables, but not our brilliantly advanced methods to bring them about. Always destroy from within, after ensuring your enemy will not even recognize you because you have indoctrinated him to love you and hate anyone whose opinion differs from your own. Then you are free to start working on his vital organs until your cancer has eaten his heart out. Then the remainder of the body will have no capacity to fight us as we continue to consume it.
As we continue to demonize and consume the “rich”, and find useful “rich” idiot dupes to parrot our siren-song of allowing us to take more of what they call “their” wealth, we will continue enforcing the related prong of our class warfare dictate which states that all wealth produced is ours and that whatever crumbs we decide to generously give to The People™ and The Children™ from what we have taken are sufficient reason for worshipping us and keeping us at the pinnacle of whatever standard of living may be available in our World. It doesn't matter that our methods always destroy any motivation for people who would otherwise be productive to labor, since they will not see any benefit accrue to themselves whether they are diligent or lazy. Forced labor is always required in our World and is always useful to not only produce what our whims demand, but as an additional benefit, the suffering that forced labor engenders is a delightful byproduct for our egos to feed on. The purpose of sheeple is to work as we demand they work, and then to be slaughtered as we see fit when their ability to serve the State, that is, us, diminishes.
It never ceases to delight me to see how easy it is to convince otherwise “intelligent” people of every “class” that we are their masters and that we know best what to do with what they produce, and how they are to live their lives, while we in turn merely act as vampires, vacuums, leeches, and ticks, consuming from the host and giving nothing back but empty promises, feel-good slogans, entitlement enslavement, deception, decay and disease (in the original sense), all while doing whatever we please. Our dictates exist to be imposed on others; they do not apply to us. We are beyond rule, beyond control. This is our function and it is good and natural in the World We Make, even though some of our otherwise advanced Prog members still shy away from speaking in what they would term so “bold” a fashion. When those same Progs recognize that we hold all power and dominion, hopefully their reticence will lessen and they too will delight in the liberation of speaking freely the ultimate Current Truth™ of the day. Our Prog brothers and sisters, if they are to continue their advancement along our Path, must recognize that what the Little People™ believe or demand is of no consequence. Our reality is All, and All-Consuming. We determine what the Little People™ believe, and we do the demanding. Anyone who is so deranged as to disagree is rapidly thrust into a new state of non-being; what some have termed non-personhood, and at a minimum shuffled off to jail for a hate crime, to receive further indoctrination and possibly remediation, at which point he can be given a ballot if he is reformed sufficiently to vote Dimocrat. Perhaps multiple times per election.
Of course, out of what we claim to be the generosity of our hearts and the expediency of maintaining – toward us, yet not toward the hated business and “religious” (read Jewish and Christian) classes, or RethugliKKKans, Tearrorists, etc. – a calm and hungry-to-please-us proletariat, we continue to tell the proles that we love them and do what we do to help them. We baselessly claim (but that doesn't matter because we say we did it and that is all that matters) that we have averted the sure economic disaster that would have occurred if evil KKKapitalist methods had been utilized, how much better off they are with us in charge of them, how the world loves us now because we are in power, and beat it into their heads continuously that our policies just haven't had time yet to produce the glorious world we've promised them. Even though we never define what that world will look like, or how long it will take to arrive. They believe us because we repeat it ad nauseam and because they want to believe it. They believe because we have indoctrinated them to believe we are to be obeyed and worshipped. We are their de facto gods. And because, as you have wisely written regarding humility but which also applies here, “it works. Because we say it does. Because we can.”
I am reminded of your brilliant thread, “Let's pay our fair share!”. I trust that even now our bought-and-paid for political class, both Dimocrats and Repubican'ts, realizes that what we have termed “poor” in this country once again must be dumbed down. When we have convinced the proles to recognize that the USSA level of poverty must reflect the world standard, as we are diligently and successfully achieving, and that B. Hussein's half-brother who lives in a small hut near Kenya on about the equivalent of twelve dollars per year is actually upper middle class (which is the reason he is not on a redistributive government welfare program devised by Hairy and Nanski's teams of bureaucrats and implemented by Dear 0'Leader, who as we all know is the King of Compassion), then our control over the proles will have tightened to the point where the lowering of expectations will finally ease us into the blessed Progressive World of Next Tuesday™ once and for all.
Our Prog Goal: The Progressive World of Next Tuesday™'s wealth and health level of the average World Citizen Prole (Ushanka tip to Father Prog Theocritus)
Commissar Redumdimski wrote:Deleted due to M.G.'s inability to fathom any words more complex than "Market" (e.g., organic vegetable) or "Grilled" (as in what fun it is to grill M.G. on a one-prole open flame)
I did not read it......
Oh goody goody! Look what's back from its zesty soapy session with Bruno and his Magic Brush!
It's M.G.! (still neuter I see.)
Don't fret, M.G., no one could ever accuse you of being able to read.
How much did you have to pay one of your Occupussy compadres to write that brilliant bit of wit for you?
(Tovariches, in a couple of days - say, around MarXmas - Market Grilled will be able to scrape up enough stolen cash or drugs to recruit one of its Occupussy buddies to read this message for it and then reply to it. Wait for it... Wait for it...)
Market Grilled, you're going to work out just fine around here, Welcome Comrade!
Well Tovarichi. I see you've found something that shares your same mindlessness.
A soul-mate, as Pinkie might say, for dear Tovarichi. Truly though, as M.G. cannot read, who could accuse you of having a soul, or (less controversially) a personality? Ah - another aspect you two have in common.
Too bad Market Grilled is a neuter prole. But I'm sure you two can cook up some nastiness anyway. If Bruno will allow it. Bruno's become quite fond of M.G., you know. And quite possessive.
Now make yourself useful. Maybe Market Grilled still has some of that stolen cheap mixed vodka it got wasted on the other night and will share it with you if you read the preceding post I blessed it with to it. Then perhaps between the two of you there'll be some bright single-neuron activity you can employ to come up with some clever two-word witticism and a big picture for me.
Who knows? You may even work up the brain power to tap out a couple of four-letter words, which is about what I, or anyone here at the Cube, would expect as your best.
Market Grilled, you're going to work out just fine around here, Welcome Comrade![/quote]
Migwich, however,it is not my first Beet Field Comrade Tovarichi , so "let's" get "comfy" with "your Vodka" and the good ties should be rolling in , we've got the time for I heard a rumor that Next Tuesday™ is possibly cancelled, but it's definite to look forward to The Tuesday after that!
Of course that is only if the rumor was read to me correctly.
Drum stick rolling on the floor goes to the M.G. fan for my last line prior to this One.
The uncontested absurdities of today are the accepted slogans of tomorrow. They come to be accepted by degrees, by precedent, by implication, by erosion, by default, by dint of constant pressure on one side and constant retreat on the other - until the day when they are suddenly declared to be the country's official ideology. ~ Ayn Rand
Pinkie, I wish to express my gratitude in a more personal venue. I liberated some of Krasno's Stoli from the People's Party to share with you... 
You are hereby proclaimed guilty of assaulting Commissarka Pinkie's prerogative, incensing her to anger deserving of a whack, and insulting her Award. And that, my dippy dim-witted diminutive doughboy, deserves denouncement.
B. Hussein is a genius in his own mind, which shares space with a certain floor-lamp orifice – it's just that everyone else is too dumb to understand how smart he is. That's why he appears dumb to us dumb ones. But in the Reality that The 0ne pulls from his anus, WE are the dumb ones. Does the conversation between Dear 0'Leader and Bruno that you related to us indicate that we are all drag dummies? 
- One question: What is this "effin"? Is it anything like "elfin", only misspelled? I have never been referred to as "elfin", but since I'm doing it to myself, it must be okay.
©* 1917 – 2022
The People's Cube, Politburo and Central Committee of the Socialist
Shadow Party, Ministry of Truth, Comrades of Armed Organs, Young Pioneer
Organizations, Komsomol, Society for Sport and Technology, Society for
Advancement of Secondary Sexual Characteristics, and other groups and collectives
of our great Socialist American Motherland.