Forwarded from FiberSinthe 🏳️⚧️🏳️🌈
I do think it's quite funny that the French government's center has utterly failed to provide for anyone who isn't an entrenched elite to the point that every radical has an axe to grind.
Forwarded from FiberSinthe 🏳️⚧️🏳️🌈
The least Macron could do is be racist or leftist and cool down one side
Forwarded from FiberSinthe 🏳️⚧️🏳️🌈
but in his haste to be an enlightened centrist lib he has alienated everyone and then some
Forwarded from FiberSinthe 🏳️⚧️🏳️🌈
but yeah no that doesn't mean I'm a third positionist and I actively despise people who claim to be that
Forwarded from DD
"Easy come, easy go
Little high, little low"
Here we see the members of Queen displaying their fidelity to Adam Smith and his doctrine of "Natural Price" (the second line) and Free exchange and flows of commodities and capital.
We are aware that Smith himself got the inspiration for Free Market economics from Islamic economy during the time Arabs were a major player in world trade long back.
So this is confirmed
Little high, little low"
Here we see the members of Queen displaying their fidelity to Adam Smith and his doctrine of "Natural Price" (the second line) and Free exchange and flows of commodities and capital.
We are aware that Smith himself got the inspiration for Free Market economics from Islamic economy during the time Arabs were a major player in world trade long back.
So this is confirmed
Forwarded from cosmic prankster
there are no perfect people, and even if you did find them they would be like some creepy stepford wife ken doll shit
Forwarded from Syndiegram (FiberSinthe 🏳️🌈🌹)
“For an on-the-ground view of the populist right during the Bush years, here’s a first-person report from our own Matt Christman:
Sometime after the invasion of Iraq, I worked in the bursar’s office of a public university in the Midwest. I spent my days typing up labels for files and updating student information in an open bullpen. I was accompanied by a few sounds: the piped-in nursing-home music of the local smooth jazz station and, from the office behind me, the soft murmuring of local right-wing talk radio and the wrenching, wheezing cough of the man inside. His name was Neil, and he was a thin, balding man with glasses and a failing mustache. His job was to badger students who were delinquent on their loan payments; otherwise, he listened to local talk-radio shitheads and coughed.
One day I came into work and his office was empty. My boss told me that Neil was dead and that I should clean out his desk. There wasn’t much in there besides a travel-sized cologne bottle and some hard candy. The only other personal touch in the office was an editorial cartoon that Neil had cut out and pinned to his corkboard, depicting Uncle Sam standing on the deck of an aircraft carrier next to a row of fighter jets. He said, “Can Saddam come out and play?” This man had spent the last years of his life slowly suffocating and being yelled at by broke college students, his only source of pleasure and purpose coming from his imagined connection to the violent triumphs of the American military.
Ever since then, I think of Neil whenever I contemplate the relentless militarized nightmare of the War on Terror. At the grassroots level, support for obscene military spending and imperial bloodletting satisfies a deep psychic need among neutered and demoralized American men.
I ate the dead man’s candy and threw the rest of his shit out.”
Sometime after the invasion of Iraq, I worked in the bursar’s office of a public university in the Midwest. I spent my days typing up labels for files and updating student information in an open bullpen. I was accompanied by a few sounds: the piped-in nursing-home music of the local smooth jazz station and, from the office behind me, the soft murmuring of local right-wing talk radio and the wrenching, wheezing cough of the man inside. His name was Neil, and he was a thin, balding man with glasses and a failing mustache. His job was to badger students who were delinquent on their loan payments; otherwise, he listened to local talk-radio shitheads and coughed.
One day I came into work and his office was empty. My boss told me that Neil was dead and that I should clean out his desk. There wasn’t much in there besides a travel-sized cologne bottle and some hard candy. The only other personal touch in the office was an editorial cartoon that Neil had cut out and pinned to his corkboard, depicting Uncle Sam standing on the deck of an aircraft carrier next to a row of fighter jets. He said, “Can Saddam come out and play?” This man had spent the last years of his life slowly suffocating and being yelled at by broke college students, his only source of pleasure and purpose coming from his imagined connection to the violent triumphs of the American military.
Ever since then, I think of Neil whenever I contemplate the relentless militarized nightmare of the War on Terror. At the grassroots level, support for obscene military spending and imperial bloodletting satisfies a deep psychic need among neutered and demoralized American men.
I ate the dead man’s candy and threw the rest of his shit out.”
Forwarded from Deleted Account
show me a white nationalist I'll show you someone raised by a single mother