King Hussein Obama I, flanked by his bodyguards, stepped out of his blinged Limoscalade and marched up the gold-lined marble steps of Washington Palace. It should have been a glorious day, yet under his heavy yet exquisite crown of carved human fetus-ivory his brow was ridged deeply as he silently brooded. Still, his posse, boomboxes on their shoulders, dance-walked up the steps, chains and gats jangling over the din as they grabbed their crotches.
As his trusted associates T-Von and Mook-Mook the Bushman pushed open the grand organic farm-grown cruelty-free redwood doors paid for by his 95% tax rate, he stepped into the antechamber of the gold-domed palace. Outside, ShariaVentalism reigned, but in here his word was law, and all his white teen sex slaves cowered before his glare more than even the hemp whips of their latte-drinking tweeded atheist masters.
He walked down the hallway toward his office and a prisoner in chains passed before him, lead by two turban-wearing Mexicans. He spotted the King and began shouting curses.
"You fucking fascist! I knew it! I knew it! I told them, but they wouldn't listen, that your health care platform was a slippery slope to all this! You won't get away with this! The will of the Free Market will not be denied!"
"Seelenceo een the prezence of the Keeng, preesoner!"
King Obama spotted a chance to improve his ill mood.
"Bring him here. Good. Give me his file." The king looked over the prisoner's dossier. A long list of crimes against the state, and a repeat offender.
"You'll never get away with this! Never!"
"Hush now, Mr. Jack. We have ways of dealing with unruly sorts such as yourself."
"Praise be to Allah, seenyor."
"Peh! I spit at your torture! The Free Market gives me strength!"
"Oh, no, not anything as gauche as torture."
The King grabbed a syringe from the outstretched hand of one of his nearby breakdancing bodyguards, and plunged it into the man's helpless neck.
"Now you are immune to rubella."
Kyle's lingering, echoing screams of tormented horror brought a slight smile like a crack in Obama's stony brown face as he walked into his lavish velvet-lined office and shut the door behind him. He motioned for his bodyguards to leave the room, and he addressed the giant screens hanging over his desk.
"Screen one on. Connect to Emperor bin Laden of Eurabia. Screen two: Hugo Chavez of the U.S.S.A.R.. Screen three: The High Elder of Zion."
The three figures appeared live via satelite.
"Gentlemen," began Obama darkly, "it's time to have...a conversation."
http://fishmech.info/grovercraft.htm
Goethestein posted:As his trusted associates T-Von and Mook-Mook the Bushman pushed open the grand organic farm-grown cruelty-free redwood doors paid for by his 95% tax rate, he stepped into the antechamber of the gold-domed palace. Outside, ShariaVentalism reigned, but in here his word was law, and all his white teen sex slaves cowered before his glare more than even the hemp whips of their latte-drinking tweeded atheist masters.
this may be my favorite paragraph i have ever read
You know all those "feminists" you see at work and in your social circle? The ones who are independent, and don't need men, and are charting their own course in life?
Within 6 days of the collapse of society they would be begging to suck your cock in return for a fresh piece of chicken meat.
That's just the way it is.
Goethestein posted:ya. pyf old posts.
Aw no!! *shakes fist mightily* So I've been coming in a sock over the last few months, but like - the same sock every night. I know how that sounds but trust me, it's a big woolen sock so there's always more non-crusty material to wipe with. It cuts down on laundry - When I was a teenager I'd go through like two extra pairs of socks a day, and you could tell my mom was like, WTF - that's a HUGE amount of laundry. Now I barely even do laundry so this is a huge time saver, and money saver. (For the shitposters who are going to quote this to recommend paper towels or toilet paper, go do some research about the rainforest. Yeah.)
Okay, enough derail. I'm jerking it to the new Chelsea Charms photoset in my room, door closed (roommates are petty), things are going AWESOME, lift up the futon mattress to grab the sock out and get it there JUST in time to catch my sweet baby gravy (Gotta be careful, it's not my Netbook). I'm about to wrap things up and turn off private browsing when I feel something. Like a tickle just above the base of little Swampman Jr.
I look down in suprise. There, scampering out of my pubes, is a sugar ant.
Suddenly I realize my entire crotch region has sugar ants running up and down. Not hundreds, but easily thirty or forty. Gross! I start to brush them away with the sock when I realize what had happened. The sugar ants had been eating my dried love gunk for sustenance. Every time I shook the sock, a couple dozen more would get scattered across the bed. Apparently goof juice has a lot of sugars in it. Sure enough I did some investigating and they'd been trailing down my windowsill, under the edge of the futon, and just going to town on the sock. Which actually explains why it hasn't been getting harder with love batter over time. Still, kind of weirded me out, so anyone have good advice for keeping the ants where they belong - outside and NOT where I choke the chapstick?
PS. Again, shitposters and trolls: I rent this apartment. If it were MY property, there wouldn't be ants anywhere. So "bug off."
Well, that does it. Fire marshal came down and shouted, actually shouted at me because my awful, horrible desire to have outlets actually be conveniently placed, (that is, if I want to plug something in, I can do it no matter where in the house I'm standing, sitting, or working on a ladder) was "immediately endangering the lives" of my family - his words.
So, he ordered us to do some rewiring. I slipped 2000mg of Aminorex into Old Wifey's breakfast-for-dinner, so she's out in the secondary TV room maniacally delving into the insulation and tearing out big bundles of wiring. I'm just taking a beer break and updating the thread, which I guess I shouldn't be doing, since current's still flowing in the wiring she's not supposed to remove. In some rooms, though, we're just gonna stuff in another layer of insulation and put the 'correct' wiring in over the top
Failed ANOTHER inspection - Different fire marshal - SAME wiring. Call me paranoid but I can't imagine that two completely different fire marshals, from competely different government bodies (the city and the state police), would just randomly come to the same conclusion about such a clever wiring setup. I pointed out that Id already purchased and installed over 180 outlets over the course of the project, so I probably knew what I was doing by now. And anyway, I could have every outlet-capable thing I own plugged in, on, and running, and it wouldn't even take up a quarter of them. Meanwhile, the Ol Wifenheimer, fuzzed out of her mind on black bombers and kratom, skittered by like a trembling woodcutter ant with several dozen sheets of plywood hoisted above her quietly jabbering head. I told the Marshal how much I wanted them but he shook his head sadly and said, "Grover, you need to choose a few outlets, and you need to take the rest away. You can't have them all, it's dangerous, you could burn your house down and you don't want to die in a terrible fire? Do you? That's why we need you to take the wires out, Grover, so you don't hurt yourself and your family." I swore up and down that I'd do the work, and not just try to fool him with a new fake-wiring setup like I did the other guy, but now that he's walked out the door - I kind of feel like just leaving it, and then start dodging inspections until after I get licensed up myself v
v
Edited by swampman ()
Goethestein posted:this was also mine:
http://fishmech.info/grovercraft.htm
hahahaha
Alone With KKKapitalism
Various reactionary logics have a long history of ventriloquism via 'the mouths of babes,' and the expressions of bogus fright and equally bogus ingenuity via the fetching M. Krul in his only Hollywood hit fit tightly into this well-worn, highly lubricated mold.
The disarming frailty of Krul's character in the film as well as the pronounced erotic element in Krul's treatment by the camera are powerful distractants for most viewers; what can be glimpsed behind what is seemingly the simplest and most innocent of all liberal fairy-tales: the triumph of sweet innocent goodness via cleverness over bungling, irrational evil? Nothing can, so long as we implicitly subscribe to the liberal narrative and refuse to conduct truly rigorous analysis.
The central issue is of course Krul's position. He is a child but of a special type. He is habitually picked on (his pizza eaten, for example) and so low in the consideration of no less a figure than his own mother that she only notices his absence halfway through her trip to the family's vacation destination. But his position is still one of immense privilege. Just as the LLCO has helpfully outlined the Trotskyist nonsense of first-world feminists claiming false allegiance with truly oppressed women in the third world, responsible communists must deny that Krul's position here is fundamentally underprivileged or subaltern. Were he in Afghanistan he might enjoy peripheral access to similar opulence as a sex slave but nowhere else in the world save the monstrous nerve-centers of global capitalism would he, as a small child, have access to such riches as he is seen casually enjoying in the film. Everything, from his presumed innocence to his ingenuity is thus called into question by this naked, white, hairless fact.
What ingenuity is this, anyways? Here also Krul's seducing looks and charming naiveté must be roughly yanked back and subjected unwillingly to penetrating analysis. Is Krul whittling Clovis points from flint ripped out of a creek bed or fashioning a functional tractor by reverse-engineering decades-old war debris? Or is he merely serving as the ass-end of his family's consumption machine, hurling commodities wantonly to their destruction in the most bourgeois fashion imaginable, against the criminalized product of the same neoliberal order which most likely brought his father into such riches to begin with? Could anything be less creative or ingenious, or more predictable, than this course of action?
Keep in mind as well the broader material basis (and the historical irony descending from it) that enables this trap-laying in the first place: not only the presence of basically expendable resources in gross amounts (the earlier scenes in the film, when Krul eats candy and shoots a BB gun, simply foreshadow the hour-long explosive diarrhea which is to follow) but also the battlefield across which those commodities are violently hurled. In a hilarious Fukuyamian perversion of Kutuzov and Zukhov's grand strategy, Krul is able to trade elaborately trapped space for a seemingly interminable length of time, escaping to untrammeled corners of his parents criminally oversized mansion while his enemies nurse their wounds. The brilliant stroke of the vast plains of European Russia being reduced to a few hallways and rooms in a well-appointed suburban home in Chicago is as fitting a capstone to the capitalist historiographical project as can conceivably be imagined. And Krul, child of a capitalist, is very far from a helpless or ignorant 'babe.' He has been contorted by his inescapable material situation into a willing accomplice of and joyful reveler in the brutal violence which late capitalism increasingly inflicts on its real children- the refugee, the drug addict, the migrant worker and of course the increasingly common criminal.
EmanuelaOrlandi posted:I really want someone to find that. Any registerd poster who doesnt post the audio within 4 hours is gonna be sent to ifap
this wasn't easy to find
http://tindeck.com/listen/eatq
i request nothing for myself but maybe this forum could use some gang tags?
BadNewzKennels posted:this wasn't easy to find
http://tindeck.com/listen/eatq
some things....should stay forgotten