#showing lenin holding a cat

[blue-hi]

my professor—a titan in his field, which he helped found, and with one of the most if not THE most impressive cvs i've ever seen—and i are sharing cat pictures back and forth

[bruhlsbees]

Blurb idea! Okay so I wear alot of goth and punk clothing and I just love the idea of opposites attract pairings so like maybe a goth/punk/alternative reader with Alex? Like they meet at the bar on open mic night while she's preforming and he's like whoa she's so cool! But so out of my league💀 and he thinks he'll never get a chance and all of a sudden the reader comes up and is like hey you're cute wanna hang? And he is baffled lol

opposites attract || alex kerner x fem!alternative!reader

gif credit to @/lovecafes

summary: while singing at an open mic night in the bar, you catch the attention of someone least expected

pairing: alex kerner x fem!alternative!reader

word count: 2,313

warnings: drinking (alex and reader), alex being incredibly awkward, reader loving it and teasing him

a/n: hope you like this one!!! i thought this was an incredibly sweet idea - i imagine reader is singing something from the cranberries, like zombie or linger - this is also set a couple years after the events of goodbye, lenin! - i'd say in mid 90s

The last act had just left the stage when the host jumped on the stage, grinning out at the audience who continued to hoot and holler. It was open mic night down at the local bar, The Sour Apple, and for a last minute event, a lot of people turned out. The Sour Apple wasn’t your usual hangout. Typically you were in the basement smoking pot with the rest of your friends, or performing in backyards with your band - but you wanted a new change of scenery that night, and you thought - hell, an open mic might be fun.

You had invited a few of your friends and bandmates, hoping that maybe you’d be able to perform some of your new songs to test the crowd and see if they were feeling it or not. Only a couple of your friends showed, but the whole band came out and you were pleased. It took quite a bit of convincing, especially for your drummer, Reed, to tag along since apparently he had a bad history with The Sour Apple.

Not only that, but you all stook out like a sore thumb. Leather, studded belts, platform boots, multicolored teased hair, heavy makeup - you weren’t fazed by the stares you received when you walked in, all typical reactions when you went into a new place. Maybe that’s why you stuck to the typical spots, to avoid the judgement. It wasn’t like you cared, but it did get tiring after so long - feeling the stares on the back of your head while you just tried to enjoy life.

“Okay everyone, last call for anyone who wants to get up and participate in open mic!” The bar fell silent into hushed whispers, looking around to see if anyone else wanted to get up on stage. “Any takers? Come on now, don’t be shy!”

Turning towards the rest of your bandmates that were seated along the bar, you grinned their way before the bassist, Lee, shot up - beer spilling from the cup as you gained the host’s attention.

“Right here! We’ll come up!” He exclaimed, stepping off the barstool he was propped on and onto the main bar floor, turning and holding up his hand towards the bartender, “Five shots of jäger my good man!”

While the bartender poured out five shots, the rest of the band groaned, wishing that Lee hadn’t been the one to pick the shot. He was the only one to like the taste of the thick licorice. You only wished it was something more easy, like fireball or hell - Jack Daniel’s would suffice. But you braved the shot, clinking glasses with the rest of them before dumping your head back and letting the warm shot run down your throat.

You held in your gag as you sat the glass down, being pulled now by the guitarist, Winny, through the crowd and up onto the stage. As the singer, you took center stage, the spotlight blinding you as you held your hand up to block the light while you adjusted the mic stand, the rest of your band getting set up behind you.

“Hey everyone! We’re the Toxic Cats and we’ll be singing-” You stopped short, what were you going to sing? Turning around, you glanced towards Lee who shrugged before the other side at Winny who came up to the mic.

“You all know the Cranberries! How about their new song that just came out! You all liked that?” When the crowd erupted in cheers, you smiled weakly, looking at Winny who winked your way, “Looks like we got our song. Go kill 'em, Tiger.”

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

“You gonna sing tonight, Alex?” Denis teased from his spot at the bar, downing the rest of his pint while he glanced over at Alex who was facing the stage, shaking his head. “I heard you got a real pretty voice.”

“Well whoever told you that is lying. Don’t think anyone wants to hear me sing. Sound like a rat stuck in a trap.” He explained, lifting his own pint up to take a drink from. He sighed and leaned back against the bar, blinking slowly as he watched the last act get off the stage before the host jumped on. Shaking his head, Alex exhaled slowly, turning back to face the bar.

As he turned, he caught the laughs that came from the other end of the bar. The group of alternative folks catching his attention. He didn’t mean to stare, but they were just so...different. They weren’t the typical crowd that hung around The Sour Apple, and it surely didn’t go unnoticed.

“Weird folk they are,” Turning, Alex furrowed his eyebrows at Denis who was drinking a new pint now, glancing at Alex, “They’re in a band...not a big fan of their music, but they’re pretty popular I’d say. I’ve seen a couple of their shows. Always doing something with fire or chanting in another language. Gives me the heeby jeebies.”

“I think you’re drunk, Denis.” Alex noted, rolling his eyes as Denis waved him off, insisting that he wasn’t while sloppily sipping from his pint. His attention fell back towards the end of the bar, towards the band as they now took shots before heading up onto the stage.

Through the crowd, Alex only noticed the red hair on you. It reminded him of a Coca Cola can - maybe that wasn’t the best comparison, but it’s what he thought! His posture returned to his original spot, leaning against the bar while facing the stage where you now stood center stage at. While your teased dyed red hair stood out the most, he also noticed your outfit, which surprisingly impressed him.

Starting at your feet, he noticed the high platform boots - you were probably taller than him in them. Alex also noticed the ripped tights, wondering if they came that way or if you did that yourself, under the black skirt that was tattered. You were wearing a band tee of some sorts, not recognizing the band. He had seen alternative girls before, but never once did he look at them the way he looked at you. You were pretty and Alex was awed by your mystery.

When you finally began to sing though, the familiar tune of the Cranberries, Zombie, harmonizing through the bar, his lips turned into a smile, straightening up to really be intune with the song. He had heard it a thousand times, but your cover, hearing it from you - it was more haunting and beautiful than anytime he heard it on the radio.

Alex felt hypnotized to your voice, leaning forward with his mouth gaped open as he listened, gaze remained fixed on you as you swayed on the mic or leaned against one of the other band members. He hadn’t even realized it was over until Denis shoved him, his attention snapping towards him.

“Jesus man, you’re drooling!”

His cheeks went hot, face red as Alex reached his hand up to his mouth, wiping away the drool with the back of his hand before turning back towards the bar, doing his best to ignore Denis who was laughing and in a drunk fit.

“Oh man, you got the hots for her don’t you? The singer! Man, I don’t think I would have ever taken you as the type,” Denis watched as the band made their way back towards their spot at the bar, high-fiving those in the crowd as they passed by them. When you were settled back in your seat, Denis stood up and grabbed the back of Alex’s jacket, pulling him up and with him towards the end of the bar, “Come on, go introduce yourself!”

Before Alex could protest, Denis shoved him towards you, stumbling forward and knocking into you. You turned around, ready to yell at whoever had knocked into you and made you spill your beer before your gaze softened, seeing Alex cowering.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to-”

“Hey, it’s fine...relax,” You let out a weak laugh and turned towards him, placing your now empty pint on the counter, “I’m a little disappointed though, someone just bought me that. I didn’t even get the chance to drink it.”

Alex smiled back at you, staring at you for a little too long before he knocked himself out of his trance, turning towards the bartender and holding up his hand.

“Two pints please!”

It didn’t take long for the bartender to fill up two new pints for the both of you. Scooting them forward while Alex picked up his, you picking up your own. You clinked your glass against his before taking a drink, setting your glass back down with a sigh.

“I don’t think I caught your name,” You introduced yourself and leaned forward, your right index finger swirling around the rim of the glass, “I’d like to thank the cutie who bought me my drink.” You sent a wink his way and grinned, seeing him look down briefly as his cheeks went pink.

“Alex, I’m Alex!” He introduced, sitting down finally on the barstool beside you. When you called him a cutie, his chest tightened, feeling flustered as he tried to think of what to say next.

“My favorite color is red!” He blurted, “How do you get your hair so big?”

Alex cringed at his question, closing his eyes and mentally slapping himself in the face. He was sure at that point he had lost all chance of impressing you, and he hadn’t even been talking with you for more than two minutes. But when you laughed and didn’t throw your drink in his face, he opened his eyes and smiled weakly.

“Lots of hairspray and teasing. Unfortunately I’m not the most eco-friendly with this hairstyle. Mother Earth is probably taking her revenge with all my split ends.” He let out a laugh at your joke, glancing at the guitarist of the band who turned in her stool, leaning forward.

“Or maybe it’s because you’ve just fried your hair. I’m telling you, you should just let it go natural.” You waved off Winny and nudged her back, your attention keeping fixed on Alex.

“So, Alex, did you just want to come over and ask me about my hair?” You took another drink from your pint, your gaze fixed on him as you watched him get flustered again, trying to think of the words to say. “You know, guys like you don’t usually go for girls like me. Did your buddy set you up for this?”

It had happened plenty of times. Pretty boys always got a kick out of embarrassing the alternative girl. You wouldn’t be hurt if this was what was going on, but you would be pissed to have your time be wasted. To your surprise though, Alex seemed to be different.

“No! I mean, well he pushed me over here, but not like that,” He rushed, leaning forward slightly in his stool, as if ready to catch you if you tried to turn away. “Your singing, I’ve never heard you guys before. You sound great! God, part of me was thinking that you sounded better than the Cranberries-”

“Better than the Cranberries? Now you’re just pulling my tail,” It was your turn to blush, cheeks red as you waved him off while he continued to praise you, his hand falling to your knee. You looked down briefly at his hand, smiling before back up at him, “Well, maybe you should come see one of our shows? I’ll get you a front row seat on the best couch in the basement.”

The best couch in the basement. Why did he have a feeling that this wasn’t something he had experienced before. He watched as you pulled a napkin from the bar, digging into your coat pocket before pulling out a pen, scribbing your number down before handing it over to him.

“Here’s the house number. If you call just ask for me, I’m usually around.” You looked up at him and smiled, opening your mouth to say another thing before hearing your bandmates call you for you behind, insisting that it was time to go. Frowning, you grabbed your coat and stood up, towering over him in your platform boots.

Your gaze kept on Alex who stared at the napkin, his smile stained on his face as he ran his thumb across the number. He looked cute, innocent, pure. All things you weren’t used to. When you heard Reed calling for you name, you nodded and waved them off before resting your free hand on Alex’s shoulder, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek.

“I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

But before he could answer, you were already turned and heading out of the bar, catching up to the rest of your bandmates who were climbing into the taxi to head back home. Standing up, Alex held the napkin in his hand, staring at the dark doorway that led outside of the bar. Of course he was happy, but damn - did you have to leave so quick?

Turning, Alex tucked the napkin neatly into his own jacket, making sure it was secured before making his way back to Denis, sitting back in his original spot. When Alex settled back in, he turned and looked at Denis who was laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

Without saying a word, Denis motioned towards his own cheek, signaling for Alex to check his face. He reached his hand up and swiped at his cheek, noticing that your black lipstick had made it’s way onto his skin. He smiled to himself, feeling giddy inside before cleaning the rest off.

“So I take it went well?” Denis asked, leaning closer towards Alex. Smiling, Alex nodded and took a final sip from his pint.

“It went great, now come on, let’s get you home.”

[iderog]

some thoughts after another humiliation by European players

many Russian players when moving said that European servers are played by good and kind people who will not be toxic and all that. you know, I didn't really notice the difference between Russians and Europeans. not even that. during this month and a half, I got more shit than in 5 years of playing in Russia. I was called a whore, I was told that I bought a kaia (which I collected and sharpened myself with my own money and resources), that I was a mistake and should delete the game. of course, this does not compare to the death wish that I received from a Russian player this winter, but the sediment remains. what surprises me even more is what I usually hear from people who do almost no damage, stand in front of the boss, or often die from any punches and are still poorly dressed. I'm sorry that you don't try to dodge or stand up so that I don't have to run to the other side of the arena and drop the rest of the group. well, you can see that I'm concentrating on trying to heal my fellow players - stand in front of me or any other healer. you will get your healing in 75%, do not be offended and run away to kick (most often it prevents OTHERS that beat the boss). sometimes happens, that quite there is no time or mana (Yes such case), to heal instantly all, try to use banks on HP, ass you have not will fall off, and you facilitate us work.

"heal and buff, don't do damage!"so when you deal 3-4 million damage in 4-6 minutes, you force yourself to do it. why doesn't this cause such a strong rejection in good groups? because this is a good boost, a good party gets little damage and they know that the heal will still _not catch up_ with a good group, I can almost give out 7 million for 2 or 3 minutes, with a good group, but a little weaker, from 4 million to 5. and at the same time, I cut the boss's stamina, gave buffs and heal.but people that damag at the level of me, always get hurt. what's wrong with you? the funny thing is that sometimes I can not go to damag and heal the explosion of spheres (which have a GREAT additional heal) to have a dps of 2 to 4 million, but for people it's strange, it's not normal. for European people. I repeat, I have never heard this from Russian players.

what else. hmm. the heal can also lag or be pinged. unexpected, huh? everyone knows knows perfectly well what optimization is in tera. it's like Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. he's dead, but people still believe in him, ahaha. we can be distracted or the screen is blocked by cats (my kitty like it), sometimes a computer mouse or even a keyboard can fail. many different situations and yelling at a person for them is stupid.

I may not be the best healer in Tera, but I know my job - to make the dungeon go faster, more comfortable and safer for other members of the group. but you forget, that heal usually 1 on group, and you 4 still and boss adds work and need to to look out for yourself, because death heal much more terrible, than death the tank or damager. they can resurrect, and heal gets their funds (good tanks and dps too, but it's so rare now).

you show your beautiful "tolerant" side where you are the navel of the earth when you start being toxic to other players, not just to heal. you listened to a Britney Spears song, right? remember one simple truth - if you want to be treated well, then behave well, perform dungeon mechanics or deal a lot of damage/derdite the boss's rage on yourself. that's your problem if you are not standing there, standing far or not know the mechanics of the boss, not my problem that you don't hold aggression on themselves or make a little damage (if baff has a and stamina of the boss is cut).

I came to Tera to relax and play with friends, but it doesn't work very well because of such people. have a nice game, huh.

I have spoken. it will probably go into the milk, but I let my anger out.

[drpsyche]

The New War

It is the year 1998. The Cold War has finally heated up like an attractive ghost pepper (a damn good looking pepper too, a solid 8/10). The Soviets have stolen valuable brain digitizing technology from the Disney Corporation and now a battle rages in East Germany as American forces have invaded. Uncle Sam, the American Uberman leads the charge and has personally torn his way through commies like a hearty lawnmower through an American lawn. The invasion is largely a success, but the USSR is not finished…

Uncle Sam flexed his muscles, destroying the sleeves of his red white and blue tailcoat. He dodged a trio of Soviet Solders and shoulder-checked a tank, knocking it right through a garrison.

 “Four Score and Forward!” Sam shouted, charging through the ruins to grapple with the stunned soldiers inside.

 One ran at Sam with a bayonet, but Uncle Sam outmaneuvered and head-butted him. The headbutt is fatal and the soldier dies like a mouse hunted by an American Eagle. As Uncle Sam stared out at the defeated barracks, he heard a familiar voice:

 “Sam!”

 Uncle Sam turned to face the owner of that deep powerful tone. He is a large blond man in soviet flag colored boxing shorts and gloves.

 “Drago!” Sam spat.

 “One shall stand,” Ivan Drago boomed. “One shall fall.”

 “Why throw away your life so recklessly?” Sam asked, advancing on Drago.

 “That is a question you should ask yourself,” Drago replied.

 Uncle Sam scowled and charged at Drago, catching him in a flying tackle. They crashed onto the street, Drago forcing Sam off with a knee to the stomach. They righted themselves and Drago immediately laid into Sam with a one two, punching him in the face twice. He followed up with a successful jab and then a right hook but Sam blocked it and landed a powerful body blow as a counterattack. With Drago pushed back, Sam hit him with a shoulder check and then a roundhouse.

 “America has never lost!” he boasted. “And never will!”

 Drago spat out the blood in his mouth, “You said this to the Vietnamese as well?”

 That dig struck at the core of Uncle Sam’s American Pride like the Canadians striking on American soil during the war of 1812. His anger allowed him to land a powerful right hook… onto Drago’s block. Drago countered with an uppercut, knocking Uncle Sam to the ground. Though Sam’s glorious red, white, and blue top stayed on his head.

 “I derive my strength from the will of the people!” Drago boasted as Sam rolled on ground. “Their hearts and minds joined in glorious Community! Our unity courses through my muscles!”

 Sam staggered to his feet, “Unity, huh? Will of the people, united behind your fists, eh? The deliberate starvations and ethnic cleansings, are they an aspect of your ‘unity’?”

 Now it was Drago’s time to be outraged, “I will not be lectured about genocide from an American.”

 He charged at Sam then, murder in his eyes. Uncle Sam took a page from the great American movie, The Karate Kid, and swept the leg. A powerful, painful blow landed on Drago’s knee. However, Ivan Drago was not deterred, and grabbed hold of Uncle Sam. He lifted the American into the air and hurled him at a pile of rubble, smashing him through it.

 “Finish him off, Drago!” one Soviet Soldier called out.

 Ivan Drago nodded and limped toward a discarded Kalashnikov rifle, another point of pride for Glorious Russia. Uncle Sam had gotten to his knees and looked up to see Drago aiming the rifle at him. The specter of death flashed in front of his eyes for a moment, but then his gaze was drawn elsewhere. The pile of rubble he was thrown through showed him a boon: a discarded Desert Eagle pistol (the pride of Glorious America).

 “Wait!” Uncle Sam shouted, holding up a hand in surrender. “Grant me mercy, Ivan Drago, I beg you!”

 “You, who outsource your morality to the free market, demand mercy?” Drago asked, annoyed that Sam would crawl towards him. “I thought you were made of sterner stuff.”

 “Oh no you don’t Uncle Sam!” shouted the Soviet Soldier, who was able to spy the discarded pistol.

 The shout distracted Drago long enough for Sam to surge forward and grab the pistol, immediately firing it at Drago’s injured knee. Drago yelled out in pain as he was kneecapped and Sam fired another shot into the bicep of the arm holding the Kalashnikov. Drago was forced to drop his weapon and staggered back, Uncle Sam standing over him and aiming the Desert Eagle at him.

 “I could have waited an eternity for this,” Uncle Sam said. “It’s over, Ivan.”

 “Nefur!”

 Ivan Drago and Uncle Sam looked up at the voice. Descending from the sky was a lithe figure clad in a distinctly French outfit. She struck the ground; twin circles of smashed earth, beneath her feet. She looked up at Uncle Sam, the sun shone on her silver body. Uncle Sam stared at this new opponent; she was a robot woman, clad in a maid outfit with cat ears peeking out of her braided black hair.

 “The Soviet Union’s new Vanyanguard!” she shouted, striking a magical girl pose. “Against Impawsible odds, I have risen again! Mew’ll nefur take down the USSR, beclaws Lenin has returned to finish the fight.”

 “What in the name of apple pie and ball park hot dogs is that?” Uncle Sam asked, leveling his Desert Eagle at the robot catgirl.

 “This… this is our victory,” Drago said. “The Disney brain technology we stole allowed us to reconstruct the greatest minds of our country! They are uploaded into vessels that are the cutting edge of Soviet Technology.”

 “Robot girls with bad puns?” Uncle Sam asked.

 “Eh, it was Gorbechav’s idea,” Drago said with a shrug.

 “The defeat of catpitalist pigs is meowsic to my ears!” Vladimew Lenin said.

 Uncle Sam emptied his gun at the robot but the bullets were as useless as the British’s demand for taxation. Her metal skin, folded a thousand times in the roaring fires of state sponsored smithing, were impervious to the fragile fickle of the free-market. Vladimew activated the jet engines in her feet and flew at Sam, drawing a hammer and sickle from her sleeves.

 She swung the hammer and Sam caught it, crushing the weapon easily, but Vladimew struck at her true target with her sickle. The red, white, and blue top hat upon Sam’s head was sliced in twain. The symbol of freedom, capitalism, and statehood was broken. Sam could feel the fight draining from his limbs like the respect of the American people for the presidency when Watergate happened.

 Uncle Sam fell to his knees, defeated.

 “Hiss-tory will see this as a pawsitively vital moment,” Vladimew said. “Mew-Mew Marxism will reign over the world and Western Society will face Catastrophe!”

 “America will never surrender to the likes of you!” Uncle Sam said. “So long as there’s gas in our cars, burgers on our grills, and the love of Lady Liberty in our hearts!”

 “Your mrrroxie is commendable,” Vladimew said with a smug smirk.

 “Your conquest of America will fail. Just like your handling of Chernobyl,” Sam said.

 With those words Uncle Sam disappeared in a flash of patriotic light, returning to America. Drago and Vladimew departed to their base to treat Ivan’s injuries. America’s disastrous invasion of East Germany would be the start of a new era of warfare, one far stupider than any previous ones. Vladimew’s success allowed the creation of other robot maids: Nikittyta Khrushchev, CATherine the Great, and Meowseph Stalin. Their original attempt at invading America was repulsed by a mechanized Statue of Liberty and now the space station, Sputnik VI, is being converted into a transforming robot maid in order to counter her. The war wages on and the world becomes all the dumber for it.

[edthedeadandburied]

Comrades, in the report of the Central Committee of the party at the 20th Congress, in a number of

speeches by delegates to the Congress, as also formerly during the plenary CC/CPSU sessions,

quite a lot has been said about the cult of the individual and about its harmful consequences...

Allow me first of all to remind you how severely the classics of Marxism-Leninism denounced every

manifestation of the cult of the individual. In a letter to the German political worker, Wilhelm Bloss,

Marx stated: "From my antipathy to any cult of the individual, I never made public during the

existence of the International the numerous addresses from various countries which recognized my

merits and which annoyed me. I did not even reply to them, except sometimes to rebuke their

authors. Engels and I first joined the secret society of Communists on the condition that everything

making for superstitious worship of authority would be deleted from its statute...

The great modesty of the genius of the revolution, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, is known. Lenin had always

stressed the role of the people as the creator of history, the directing and organizational role of the

party as a living and creative organism, and also the role of the central committee.

Marxism does not negate the role of the leaders of the workers' class in directing the revolutionary

liberation movement.

While ascribing great importance to the role of the leaders and organizers of the masses, Lenin at

the same time mercilessly stigmatized every manifestation of the cult of the individual, inexorably

combated the foreign-to-Marxism views about a "hero" and a "crowd" and countered all efforts to

oppose a "hero" to the masses and to the people.

Lenin taught that the party's strength depends on its indissoluble unity with the masses, on the fact

that behind the party follow the people - workers, peasants and intelligentsia. "Only lie will win and

retain the power," said Lenin, "who believes in the people, who submerges himself in the fountain

of the living creativeness of the people.". . .

During Lenin's life the central committee of the party- was a real expression of collective leadership

of the party and of the Nation. Being a militant Marxist-revolutionist, always unyielding in matters of

principle, Lenin never imposed by force his views upon his coworkers. He tried to convince; he

patiently explained his opinions to others. Lenin always diligently observed that the norms of party

life were realized, that the party statute was enforced, that the party congresses and the plenary

sessions of the central committee took place at the proper intervals.

In addition to the great accomplishments of V. I. Lenin for the victory of the working class and of the

working peasants, for the victory of our party and for the application of the ideas of scientific

communism to life, his acute mind expressed itself also in this that lie detected in Stalin in time

those negative characteristics which resulted later in grave consequences. Fearing the future fate

of the party and of the Soviet nation, V.I. Lenin made a completely correct characterization of

Stalin, pointing out that it was necessary to consider the question of transferring Stalin from the

position of Secretary General because of the fact that Stalin is excessively rude, that he does not

have a proper attitude toward his comrades, that lie is capricious, and abuses his power...

Vladimir Ilyich said: "Stalin is excessively rude, and this defect, which can be freely tolerated in our

midst and in contacts among us Communists, becomes a defect which cannot be tolerated in one

holding the position of the Secretary General. Because of this, I propose that the comrades

consider the method by which Stalin would be removed from this position and by which another

man would be selected for it, a man, who above all, would differ from Stalin in only one quality,

namely, greater tolerance, greater loyalty, greater kindness, and more considerate attitude toward the comrades, a less capricious temper, etc.".

As later events have proven, Lenin's anxiety was justified; in the first period after Lenin's death

Stalin still paid attention to his (i.e., Lenin's) advice, but, later he began to disregard the serious

admonitions of Vladimir Ilyich.

When we analyze the practice of Stalin in regard to the direction of the party and of the country,

when we pause to consider everything which Stalin perpetrated, we must be convinced that Lenin's

fears were justified. The negative characteristics of Stalin, which, in Lenin's time, were on1v

incipient, transformed themselves during the last years into a grave abuse o f power by Stalin,

which caused untold harm to our party...

Stalin acted not through persuasion, explanation, and patient cooperation with people, but by

imposing his concepts and demanding absolute submission to his opinion. Whoever opposed this

concept or tried to prove his viewpoint, and the correctness of his position was doomed to removal

from the leading collective and to subsequent moral and physical annihilation. This was especially

true during the period following the 17th party congress, when many prominent party leaders and

rank-and-file party workers, honest and dedicated to the cause of communism, fell victim to Stalin's

despotism...

Stalin originated the concept enemy of the people. This term automatically rendered it unnecessary

that the ideological errors of a man or men engaged in a controversy be proven; this term made

possible the usage of the most cruel repression, violating all norms of revolutionary legality, against

anyone who in any way disagreed with Stalin, against those who were only suspected of hostile

intent, against those who had bad reputations. This concept, enemy of the people, actually

eliminated the possibility of any kind of ideological fight or the making of one's views known on this

or that issue, even those of a practical character. In the main, and in actuality, the only proof of guilt

used, against all norms of current legal science, was the confession of the accused himself, and,

as subsequent probing proved, confessions were acquired through physical pressures against the

accused...

Lenin used severe methods only in the most necessary cases, when the exploiting classes were

still in existence and were vigorously opposing the revolution, when the struggle for survival was

decidedly assuming the sharpest forms, even including a civil war.

Stalin, on the other hand, used extreme methods and mass repressions at a time when the

revolution was already victorious, when the Soviet state was strengthened, when the exploiting

classes were already liquidated, and Socialist relations were rooted solidly in all phases of national

economy, when our party was politically consolidated and had strengthened itself both numerically

and ideologically. It is clear that here Stalin showed in a whole series of cases his intolerance, his

brutality, and his abuse of power. Instead of proving his political correctness and mobilizing the

masses, he often chose the path of repression and physical annihilation, not only against actual

enemies, but also against individuals who had not committed any crimes against the party and the

Soviet Government. Here we see no wisdom but only a demonstration of the brutal force which had

once so alarmed V.I Lenin...

Considering the question of the cult of an individual we must first of all show everyone what harm

this caused to the interests of our party...

In practice Stalin ignored the norms of party life and trampled on the Leninist principle of collective

party leadership.

Stalin's willfulness vis-a-vis the party and its central committee became fully evident after the 17th

party congress, which took place in 1934...

It was determined that of the 139 members and candidates of the party's Central Committee who were elected at the 17th congress, 98 persons, that is, 70 percent, were arrested and shot (mostly

in 1937-38). [Indignation in the hall.] . . .

The same fate met not only the central committee members but also the majority of the delegates

to the 17th party congress. Of 1,966 delegates with either voting or advisory rights, 1,108 persons

were arrested on charges of anti-revolutionary crimes, i.e., decidedly more than a majority. This

very fact shows how absurd, wild, and contrary to commonsense were the charges of counter-

revolutionary crimes made out, as we now see, against a majority of participants at the 17th party

congress. [Indignation in the hall.] . . .

What is the reason that mass repressions against activists increased more and more after the 17th

party congress? It was because at that time Stalin had so elevated himself above the party and

above the nation that he ceased to consider either the central committee or the party. While he still

reckoned with the opinion of the collective before the 17th congress, after the complete political

liquidation of the Trotskyites, Zinovievites and Bukharinites, when as a result of that fight and

Socialist victories the party achieved unity, Stalin ceased to an ever greater degree to consider the

members of the party's central committee and even the members of the Political Bureau. Stalin

thought that now lie could decide all things alone and all he needed were statisticians; he treated

all others in such a way that they could only listen to and praise him.

After the criminal murder of S. M. Kirov, mass repressions and brutal acts of violation of Socialist

legality began. On the evening of December 1, 1934, on Stalin's initiative (without the approval of

the Political Bureau - which was passed 2 days later, casually) the Secretary of the Presidium of

the Central Executive Committee, Yenukidze, signed the following directive:

I. Investigative agencies are directed to speed up the cases of those accused of the preparation or

execution of acts of terror.

II. Judicial organs are directed not to hold up the execution of death sentences pertaining to crimes

of this category in order to consider the possibility of pardon, because the Presidium of the Central

Executive Committee, U.S.S.R, does not consider as possible the receiving of petitions of this sort.

III. The organs of the Commissariat of Internal Affairs are directed to execute the death sentences

against criminals of the above-mentioned category immediately after the passage of sentences.

This directive became the basis for mass acts of abuse against Socialist legality. During many of

the fabricated court cases the accused were charged with "the preparation" of terroristic acts; this

deprived them of any, possibility that their cases might be reexamined, even when they stated

before the court that their confessions were secured by force, and when, in a convincing manner,

they disproved the accusations against them...

Mass repressions grew tremendously from the end of 1936 after a telegram from Stalin and

Zhdanov, dated from Sochi on September 25, 1936, was addressed to Kaganovich, Molotov, and

other members of the Political Bureau. The content of the telegram was as follows: "We deem it

absolutely necessary and urgent that Comrade Yezhov be nominated to the post of People's

Commissar for Internal Affairs. Yagoda has definitely proved himself to be incapable of unmasking

the Trotskyite-Zinovievite bloc. The OGPU is 4 years behind in this matter. This is noted by all party

workers and by the majority of the representatives of the NKVD." Strictly speaking we should stress

that Stalin did not meet with and therefore could not know the opinion of party workers...

The mass repressions at this time were made under the slogan of a fight against the Trotskyites.

Did the Trotskyites at this time actually constitute such a danger to our party and to the Soviet

state? We should recall that in 1927, on the eve of the 15th party congress, only some 4,000 votes

were cast for the Trotskyite-Zinovievite opposition, while there were 724,000 for the party line.

During the 10 years which passed between the 15th party congress and the February-March

central committee plenum, Trotskyism was completely disarmed; many former Trotskyites had changed their former views and worked in the various sectors building socialism. It is clear that in

the situation of Socialist victory there was no basis for mass terror in the country ...

The majority of the Central Committee members and candidates elected at the 17th congress and

arrested in 1937-38 were expelled from the party illegally through the brutal abuse of the party

statute, because the question of their expulsion was never studied at the Central Committee

plenum.

Now when the cases of some of these so-called spies and saboteurs were examined it was found

that all their cases were fabricated. Confessions of guilt of many- arrested and charged with enemy

activity were gained with the help of cruel and inhuman tortures...

An example of vile provocation of odious falsification and of criminal violation of revolutionary

legality is the case of the former candidate for the central committee political bureau, one of the

most eminent workers of the party and of the Soviet Government, Comrade Eikhe, who was a party

member since 1905. [Commotion in the hall.]

Comrade Eikhe was arrested on April 29, 1938, on the basis of slanderous materials, without the

sanction of the prosecutor of the USSR, which was finally received 15 months after the arrest.

Investigation of Eikhe's case was made in a manner which most brutally violated Soviet legality and

was accompanied by willfulness and falsification.

Eikhe was forced under torture to sign ahead of time a protocol of his confession prepared by the

investigative judges, in which he and several other eminent party workers were accused of anti-

Soviet activity.

On October 1, 1939, Eikhe sent his declaration to Stalin in which he categorically denied his guilt

and asked for an examination of his case. In the declaration he wrote:

"There is no more bitter misery than to sit In the jail of a government for which I have always

fought.". . .

On February 2, 1940, Eikhe was brought before the court. Here he did not confess any guilt and

said as follows:

"In all the so-called confessions of mine there is not one letter written by me with the exception of

my signatures under the protocols which were forced from me. I have made my confession under

pressure from the investigative judge who from the time of my arrest tormented me. After that I

began to write all this nonsense. The most important thing for me is to tell the court, the party and

Stalin that I am not guilty. I have never been guilty of any conspiracy. I will die believing in the truth

of party policy as I have believed in it during my whole life."

On February 4 Eikhe was shot. [Indignation in the hall.] It has been definitely established now that

Eikhe's case was fabricated; he has been posthumously rehabilitated...

The way in which the former NKVD workers manufactured various fictitious "anti- Soviet centers"

and "blocs" with the help of provocatory methods is seen from the confession of Comrade

Rozenblum, party member since 1906, who was arrested in 1937 by the Leningrad NKVD.

During the examination in 1955 of the Kornarov case Rozenblum revealed the following fact: when

Rozenblum was arrested in 1937 he was subjected to terrible torture during which he was ordered

to confess false information concerning himself and other persons. He was then brought to the

office of Zakovsky, who offered him freedom on condition that he make before the court a false

confession fabricated in 1937 by the NKVD concerning "sabotage, espionage and diversion in a

terroristic center in Leningrad." [Movement in the hall.] . . . "You, yourself," said Zakovskv, "will not need to invent anything. The NKVD will prepare for you a

ready outline for every branch of the center; you will have to study it carefully and to remember well

all questions and answers which the court might ask. Pus case will be ready in 4-5 months, or

perhaps a half year. During all this time you will be preparing yourself so that you will not

compromise the investigation and yourself. Your future will depend on how the trial goes and on its

results. If you begin to lie and to testify falsely, blame yourself. If you manage to endure it, you will

save your head and we will feed and clothe you at the government's cost until your death."

This is the kind of vile things which were then practiced. [Movement in the hall.] . .

When we look at many of our novels, films, and historical scientific studies, the role of Stalin in the

patriotic war appears to be entirely improbable. Stalin had foreseen everything. The Soviet Army,

on the basis of a strategic plan prepared by Stalin long before, used the tactics of so-called active

defense, i.e., tactics which, as we know, allowed the Germans to come up to Moscow and

Stalingrad. Using such tactics, the Soviet Army, supposedly, thanks only to Stalin's genius, turned

to the offensive and subdued the enemy. The epic victory gained through the armed might of the

land of the Soviets, through our heroic people, is ascribed in this type of novel, film, and scientific

study as being completely due to the strategic genius of Stalin.

We have to analyze this matter carefully because it has a tremendous significance, not only from

the historical but especially from the political, educational, and practical point of view...

During the war and after the war, Stalin put forward the thesis that the tragedy which our nation

experienced in the first part of the war was the result of the unexpected attack of the Germans

against the Soviet Union. But, comrades, this is completely untrue. As soon as Hitler came to

power in Germany he assigned to himself the task of liquidating communism. The Fascists were

saying this openly; they did not hide their plans. In order to attain this aggressive end, all sorts of

pacts and blocs were created, such as the famous Berlin-Rome-Tokyo Axis. Many facts from the

prewar period clearly showed that Hitler was going all out to begin a war against the Soviet state

and that lie had concentrated large armed units, together with armored units, near the Soviet

borders...

We must assert that information of this sort concerning the threat of German armed invasion of

Soviet territory was coming in also from our own military and diplomatic sources; however, because

the leadership was conditioned against such information, such data was dispatched with fear and

assessed with reservation...

Despite these particularly grave warnings, the necessary steps were not taken to prepare the

country properly for defense and to prevent it from being caught unaware.

Did we have time and the capabilities for such preparations? Yes; we had the time and capabilities.

Our industry was already so developed that it was capable of supplying fully the Soviet Army with

everything that it needed...

Had our industry been mobilized properly and in time to supply the army with the necessary

materiel, our wartime losses would have been decidedly smaller. Such mobilization had not been,

however, started in time. And already in the first days of the war it became evident that our Army

was badly armed, that we did not have enough artillery, tanks, and planes to throw the enemy

back...

Very grievous consequences, especially in reference to the beginning of the war, followed Stalin's

annihilation of many military commanders and political workers during 1937-41 because of his

suspiciousness and through slanderous accusations. During these years repressions were

instituted against certain parts of military cadres beginning literally at the company and battalion

commander level and extending to the higher military centers; during this time the cadre of leaders

who had gained military experience in Spain and In the Far East was almost completely liquidated...

After the conclusion of the patriotic war the Soviet nation stressed with pride the magnificent

victories gained through great sacrifices and tremendous efforts. The country experienced a period

of political enthusiasm. The party came out of the war even more united; in the fire of the war party

cadres were tempered and hardened. Under such conditions nobody could have even thought of

the possibility of some plot in the party.

And it was precisely at this time that the so-called Leningrad affair was born. As we have now

proven, this case was fabricated. Those who innocently lost their lives included Comrades

Voznesensky, Kuznetsov, Rodionov, Popkov, and others...

Facts prove that the Leningrad affair is also the result of willfulness which Stalin exercised against

party cadres...

We must state that after the war the situation became even more complicated. Stalin became even

more capricious, irritable, and brutal; in particular his suspicion grew. His persecution mania

reached unbelievable dimensions. Many workers were becoming enemies before his very eyes.

After the war Stalin separated himself from the collective even more. Everything was decided by

him alone without any consideration for anyone or anything.

This unbelievable suspicion was cleverly taken advantage of by the abject provocateur and vile

enemy, Beriya, who had murdered thousands of Communists and loyal Soviet people. The

elevation of Voznesensky and Kuznetsov alarmed Beriya. As we have now proven, it had been

precisely Beriya who had suggested to Stalin the fabrication by him and by his confidants of

materials in the form of declarations and anonymous letters, and in the form of various rumors and

talks... The question arises: Why is it that we see the truth of this affair only now, and why did we

not do something earlier, during Stalin's life, in order to prevent the loss of innocent lives? It was

because Stalin personally supervised the Leningrad affair, and the majority of the Political Bureau

members did not, at that time, know all of the circumstances in these matters, and could not

therefore intervene...

The willfulness of Stalin showed itself not only in decisions concerning the internal life of the

country but also in the international relations of the Soviet Union.

The July plenum of the Central Committee studied in detail the reasons for the development of

[awkwardlyamusing-blog]

The Levy Family's Irving Powerhouse

New Post has been published on http://doggietrainingclasses.com/the-levy-familys-irving-powerhouse/

The Levy Family's Irving Powerhouse

Nine years ago, Taiwanese pig farmers caused a stir that reverberated 7,700 miles away in an Irving office block. An odor-eating cleanup chemical made by NCH Corp. had mistakenly been poured into a water tank used by 25,000 piglets. When told to flush the biological product—unlicensed as a feed supplement—the Taiwanese flatly refused.

Their defiance stemmed from seeing the pigs gain 3 percent more weight on the same diet over a month, while mortality halved, from 4.5 percent to 2 percent, saving the farm a bundle. The Taiwanese attributed the improvements to NCH’s product and, with the pigs so healthy, regulators gave special permission for the farm to continue using it.

NCH now markets a probiotic feed supplement made from more effective, FDA-approved ingredients, to farms in Thailand, Taiwan, India, and Mexico. A study by a university in Taiwan found chickens gained 4.4 percent more weight than a control group, with an added bonus of statistically “significant” less E. coli and salmonella, a major problem in the poultry industry.

“If we can do this for animals, why can’t we do it for humans?” asks Lester Levy Jr., one of four co-CEOs (that’s not a misprint) of family-run NCH. 

Going beyond their core fields—lubricants, water treatment chemicals, plumbing parts, and cleaning products—is nothing new for the company. Over time, it has sold church sheet music, fish tanks, graffiti removers, first aid kits, a hairball remedy for cats, and diapers for dog.

The Levys now running the company trace that entrepreneurialism to their grandfather, Milton P. Levy Sr., who launched the National Disinfectant Co. in 1919 near Old City Park in Dallas. It was a good time to go into hygiene products, as the world was in the middle of a Spanish influenza epidemic. Milton had other motivations, too; he wanted to impress a reluctant girlfriend so she’d return from New York and marry him. He ultimately prevailed, and the match endured—as did his company, becoming National Chemsearch and later renamed NCH Corp.

Over the next 100 years, the family-led venture survived a near collapse after World War II, went public on the New York Stock Exchange in 1969 (with the Levys holding a majority of shares), went private again three decades later, and weathered a major downturn during the 2008 recession. It is now generating a comfortable $1 billion in sales in 58 countries, employing 7,500 around the globe. 

Still, NCH and the third-generation of Levys remain far less well known than other homegrown North Texas enterprises and their respective founding families. “When I tell people in Dallas that I do work for NCH, they say, ‘Who?’” says Jim Davidson, an executive trainer who has done work for the company and known the family for about 15 years. “The Levys have been very successful and support community efforts, but they don’t go, ‘Look at us! Look at us!’ They keep a low profile in the community—I would assume deliberately.”

AGREEING TO DISAGREE

The four NCH CEOs also serve as co-presidents of the company. They’re two sets of Levy brothers—John and Robert, and their cousins, Walter and Lester Jr., whose sister, Ann, is the other Levy on the company’s board.

John handles global corporate services and the Partsmaster division of industrial supplies. He’s tall, quiet, and health-minded, Davidson says. “He’ll walk up six flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator. He is the financial person, very factual.” 

Walter, who supervises Asian chemical sales, is the most sociable, Davidson says, and likes to look at new ideas operationally. Robert, who handles the Danco-brand and the rest of the plumbing division, as well as retail pet products, is quiet, but can be the catalyst for action at the end of a discussion. 

Lester Jr., who oversees biological product lines and Latin American chemical sales, “is an idea person, always bouncing ideas, looking for more,” Davidson says. A former college athlete, Lester studied the African meerkat during prolonged stays on the continent and maintains a website about the mongoose cousin, meerkats.net.

The four CEOs have figured out a way to work well together as a family unit, Davidson says: “They have different personalities, but they respect the different aspects of those personalities. Each brings a unique perspective to the business.”

All four of the Levys have MBAs. Lester and Walter earned theirs despite having dyslexia—Walter severely. He dealt with the challenge by getting his textbooks recorded. Both brothers now routinely use text-to-sound software. Walter recently expressed disbelief when Lester told him that he had read an entire book cover to cover. “What book?” Walter challenged. “Tuesdays with Morrie,” his younger brother replied. 

The four frequently argue, but it never becomes a fight, Robert says. “Twenty minutes later, we’ll all be at dinner together.”

By 2013, Walter had concluded that NCH needed to quit the fracking business. Sales for its “green” fracking chemical were booming like the drilling technique itself. But costs also mounted. Only Robert joined Walter in his skepticism. “I drank the Kool Aid,” admits Lester Jr., as did John. Revenue poured in, but NCH had to keep investing ever more to keep up. 

“I kept saying, ‘No!’” Walter recalls. “Every month the list of customers changed and I asked, ‘Why can’t we keep customers?’ At any time, Schlumberger or Halliburton could spend more on R&D and create a better product. I thought there would be no way to compete.” 

Walter finally won over the two holdouts, and today there’s only relief. Explains Lester: “We don’t want to put a lot of assets in a highly cyclical business. 

In 2016, NCH sold the Terra Services unit for a few million and wrote off the losses. “The major lesson for us,” John says, “is that we are more comfortable innovating products that are closer to the traditional  markets we have pursued in the core chemical business.”

The coming-of-age moment for the third generation of Levys was the foray into East Europe, as the Soviet Empire collapsed. Lester was visiting West Germany when the Berlin Wall fell. He joined hordes of mauerspechte or “wall woodpeckers,” who handed him a rail spike and a hammer to chip off concrete pieces of history. 

A small chunk of the wall is mounted in a shadow box at NCH headquarters, enclosed with a snapshot of the hammer-wielding Levy.  “There were 200 Russian tanks waiting there and I told myself, ‘I’m going to get killed,’” Lester recalls. But the armored vehicles didn’t shift or fire and he had an epiphany. “I realized the East was opening up.” 

REBOUNDING FROM TRAGEDY

The previous generation of NCH leaders—three sons of the company’s founder—had come of age in a very different way: by saving the business. Milton Jr. (Bubba), Lester Sr., and Irvin shelved their own ambitions in 1946 when their father dropped dead of a heart attack at the age of 55. That left their 52-year-old mother, Ruth, in charge, but owing the government a crippling wartime “excess profits” tax bill of $100,000 (equivalent to $1.34 million in 2019) and a third of its gross revenue. 

Lester Sr. had passed the bar exam before serving in the Army Air Corps and wanted to practice law. But his mother implored him: “Lester, you run the company and make it right.”

An emergency infusion of capital was needed. Luckily, Jack Mann a longtime and loyal employee, stayed with the company. He took the three Levy sons to Mercantile National, where he told its chief, Milton F. Brown, that extending a life-saving loan was better than the bank finding itself in the disinfectant business. Brown needed little convincing. “I never lost any money on your dad,” the banker told them. “He borrowed from me for years, and I don’t believe fruit falls far from the tree. So, I’m going to go along with you boys.”

Crisis averted, the second generation leaders transformed the distribution company by hiring chemists, microbiologists, and other technical specialists to expand manufacturing of their own industrial and maintenance products at a new plant in Irving. Sales offices, then production units, were opened around the country and overseas.

 National Disinfectant Co. was rechristened as National Chemsearch in 1960 to reflect new product lines. Sales reached $47 million by 1969, when NCH floated publicly traded shares. Instead of hiring outside consultants to suggest how to enter new markets, the brothers tested the waters with face-to-face sales calls, relying on an internal sales bible called The Gears of Selling. Irvin and Bubba conceived the manual while on a business trip to Oklahoma in a stick-shift vehicle. The selling process was broken down into three steps, or “gears.”

A generation later, the sales handbook was used to get through locked gates at a Russian factory, to demonstrate a self-polishing floor cleaner in a Budapest hotel, and to show amazed Chinese trade fair-goers that an electric motor could be cleaned without highly flammable gasoline. The sales manual explains the importance of initial small talk, handing out promotional novelties, giving live demonstrations, and closing a sale, and includes tips on overcoming excuses not to buy.

TAKING ON EASTERN EUROPE

NCH’s West European managers had taken a pass on the East, where free market economics was still a vague notion. They didn’t want to risk their budgets, or their reputations, on what seemed like a futile effort. But the third-generation leaders relished the challenge. “It was really fun,” says Lester Jr. “It didn’t seem hard to us.” 

Walter cold-called on a power plant over the objection of his Russian interpreter. He got in to see the manager by chatting up a guard and handing him a rare, Western-made pocket knife, engraved with the NCH logo.

But not everyone was friendly toward Americans. Portraits of Lenin still adorned some factory managers’ offices. And there were other challenges. Phones didn’t work. A Czech Ph.D. took a 13-hour bus journey for a job interview after being reached by messenger. “The hardest part was finding people to trust,” says Jerry Mansfield, a British employee who was recruited for the East Europe expansion. A Russian chemist ran off with NCH’s product formulations. A St. Petersburg factory had 40,000 people on the books, but only 100 actually came to work. Russian authorities twice drained NCH’s bank accounts; in one case, half was seized as “taxes” and the remainder taken as a “loan” to the government. 

NCH gave up on Russia and Bulgaria, and Ukraine, Moldova, and Kazakhstan were a no-go, Walter says. But other former Soviet bloc countries proved welcoming. It helped that maintenance supplies from Russia were no longer imported. But the poor conditions cut both ways.

“Prague was crumbling, and dirty. Things didn’t work,” recalls Edward Jansen, a multilingual Dutchman who would end up running sales in East Europe. “Some factory floors hadn’t been cleaned in years—a half inch of oil covered the floor. It was like walking on gum. But it was great for us,” says Jansen, explaining that NCH’s cleaning products fulfilled an obvious need.

The company opened small warehouses throughout the region, hiring and training core management. Ph.D. holders were willing to peddle the company’s goods—something unheard of today. “We went from zero to 250 salesmen in five years; total sales quickly hit $60 million” says Jansen, in a call from Switzerland, where he now runs his own business after 15 years with NCH. “Competition became tougher with more foreign companies coming in, but they didn’t build a good foundation with qualified people like we had. That’s why NCH is still here.”

A FAMILY BUY-BACK

Another turning point was the decision by the third generation to take NCH private. Their fathers were not keen on the idea. The sons argued that the company was undervalued. Diversified conglomerates were out of favor and NCH was no longer followed by Wall Street analysts. “We had been among the ‘Nifty 50’ [for high earnings per share] because of our high growth in the 1950s and 60s,” says John. “But growth had slowed to single digits,” Walter adds. “We stopped being sexy.” 

“We saw our parents were getting older and tax laws were friendlier to private companies,” says Lester Jr. “By keeping it in the family, we protected employees from upheavals,” says John, adding that “it took us two years to persuade our parents to take on debt.” Having grown up during the Depression, they were wary of borrowing heavily. “Really it was John who pulled it off,” Walter recalls. “He convinced everyone.” 

In 2002, the family bought back the 43 percent of stock it didn’t already own, by borrowing $108 million. “We paid that off,” Lester Jr. says. “In 18 months,” adds Walter. “No, two years, two months—paid in full,” says John. Revenue grew from $679 million in 2001 to $1 billion today.

That’s not to say there haven’t been challenges. Three years ago, the Department of Justice fined NCH about $335,342 for plying Chinese government officials with gifts, meals, and other hospitality to influence purchases. Compared to other U.S. companies that have been fined millions for bribery, NCH’s penalty was relatively small. The DOJ explained the leniency by noting that the Texas company had blown the whistle on itself, carried out a comprehensive internal investigation of the bribes, and took disciplinary action against those who were responsible. 

John Levy says it should come as no surprise that NCH voluntarily informed federal authorities. “Our family has always had a very strong philosophy about doing business ethically, with no exceptions or tolerance for marginally questionable activities,” he says. “We repeat advice that has been handed down to us: ‘You should not do anything that you would not want to read about on the front page of your local newspaper.’”

LOOKING AHEAD

The company is gearing up for ongoing expansion. It has outgrown its Irving plant and is shifting production of water treatment chemicals to a new 200,000-square-foot facility in Greenville, freeing up more room for lubricant manufacturing in DFW. Then there’s the biotech breakthrough that evolved from the Taiwanese pig incident. After the 2010 episode, a small team in Irving reworked the probiotic, using microbials deemed safe by the American Association of Feed Control Officials and the FDA. “It took us eight months to develop the first product safe to feed pigs and chickens,” says Charles Greenwald, an A&M geneticist who heads the group. 

Using a proprietary system called ECOcharger, even more probiotics are absorbed in an animal’s gut. The additive did cause one problem; at one Asian poultry farm, eggs came out 25 percent bigger, so packing machinery had to be shut down until readjusted to handle the extra jumbo eggs. The ECOcharger radically ramps up absorption of beneficial bacteria to 90 percent, compared to about 3 percent absorption of probiotic products now on the market. 

Would there be a way to deliver a super beneficial probiotic in, say, an Earl Grey teabag? Human testing is planned for this year at a Texas university, and preliminary talks are under way with U.S. pharmaceutical companies and food processors.

 “There was a lot of disbelief internally, at the board level,” Greenwald says. “They didn’t know we had the skill set to enter this market. Lester supported us.” And the others were won over. “The Levys are dreamers,” Greenwald says. “They also get things done.”

Meanwhile, four adult cousins from the fourth generation of the Levy family have joined NCH. Will they someday lead the company? “That’s left to be determined,” says John Levy, noting that there had been no formal succession plan for him and his co-CEOs. “It just evolved,” he says. “We’ll see how they progress in their careers.”  

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5 Old Photos From History That’ll Blow Your Minds

We have this idea that history was all pomp and circumstance, and despite this site’s best efforts to ruin/improve your understanding, it’s a myth that persists. Case in point: There are certain places that you immediately think of as being boring forever. But once you dig into the richness of history, you kinda find the badass, surprising, and occasionally stupid secrets that have been kept buried. Like how …

5

Tutankhamun’s Tomb Looked Like A Hoarder’s Cave Of Crap

Although we’re fairly certain that nobody reading this was there at the time, you probably have an idea in your head of what the tomb of King Tut must have looked like when they opened it up in 1922. Surely, the archaeologists were greeted by cascading piles of gold treasure, well-preserved scrolls describing lost-long wisdom of the ages, and at least one ancient booby trap containing a skeleton with an explorer hat, right? Nope! It mostly looked like piles of millennia-old crap, like a dud episode of Storage Wars.

Harry Burton

Harry Burton

Harry BurtonIs that a portable bidet on the lower-right? Was … was King Tut a gamer?

You see, packing for a long vacation is always stressful, and it was the same for the Ancient Egyptians, except a little more death-y. It was a popular belief that the afterlife was basically another life (nowlife?), and that whatever possessions you packed in your tomb, well … that was it. You were stuck with them forever, because the next realm had little in the way of IKEA and Walmart. And Tut, being a one-percenter, had more death baggage to pack than most.

Read Next

Uranus Is Secretly Amazing (So Knock Off The Fart Jokes)

The tomb, known by the droid-esque name of KV62, was so tightly packed with miscellenea that it took nearly ten years to catalog and empty the place. This might sound like the archaeologists were milking their overtime pay, but KV62 contained, give or take, 5,000 antique, fragile-as-hell objects, including six chariots, chests of jewelry, enough weapons to outfit an army, 30 jars of wine, more board games than an old folks’ home, countless statues and ornaments, and over a hundred walking sticks. That’s not even including, you know, the gold-plated body. The real curse, it turns out, was compulsive hoarding.

Harry Burton

Harry Burton“Where does he want the giant bull’s head?” “No idea, just stick it in the corner.”

4

The Sphinx Was Once Surrounded By Vacationing Samurai

The samurai are considered to be one of history’s greatest fighting forces, whose very name invokes images of honor, badassery, and people getting sworded through their chests, Alien-style. The Sphinx is one of history’s greatest icons, reminiscent of empire and lore and mystery and big-ass cat people. Combine the two, and you’ve got yourself a surefire blockbuster summer hit, possibly about time travel and definitely starring Mark Wahlberg.

Or this photo, whatever.

Antonio BeatoSamurai Spring Break was one of Kurosawa’s lesser-known films.

This photograph from 1864 shows a group of fully decked-out samurai, complete with the costumes, hats, and swords that you’re already picturing in your mind’s eye, relaxing in front of the Sphinx like they’re on a brocation. And to be fair, they kinda were. The guys were travelling to France as part of the Ikeda Mission, a diplomatic mission so important that they simply couldn’t resist the urge to have a pit stop and make every holiday photo you’ve ever and will ever take look like a crusty dog turd by comparison.

3

The Lincoln Memorial Once Looked Like A Rejected Fallout Landscape

Washington, D.C. is fetid swampland, both metaphorically and literally. In its early days, before America was even a thing, it was a low-lying marsh known as Tiber Creek, and it was this way until the late 1800s, when the creek was dredged and dried out to create this magnificen- oh.

Library of Congress“D.C.” originally stood for “Danger: Crocodiles.”

This photo of the Lincoln Memorial was taken in 1917, which is both shockingly modern and, in terms of demonstrating how well we’re doing at hashtag draining the swamp, a very effective visual metaphor. The greenery isn’t the result of having sent all the gardeners and horticulturalists to get machine-gunned in equally damp conditions (although construction of the memorial’s interior had stalled by this time for this reason); it’s the swamp trying to reclaim the land. By 1922, we’d won that war and locked the nature beneath a solid foundation of concrete, tarmac, cherry blossoms, and intern skeletons, where it sits bubbling away, waiting.

2

St. Petersburg Once Hosted A Massive Game Of Human Chess

It’s fair to say that even the most anti-sports among us like it when sporting events go big — the Superbowl, the FA Cup, the World Polo Championship, etc. There’s just something about spectacle and frenzied crowds that makes the hateful, cynical part of our brains switch off, although that’s also a common side effect of drinking so much beer that your bar tab can be measured in kegs.

It was the same in the old-timey days, although the events were … a little different.

Russian Federation37 people died when one player got upset and flipped the board.

Take this gigantic chess match played in St. Petersburg’s Palace Square between the mightiest nerds of 1924, Peter Romanovsky and Ilya Rabinovich, who called their moves in via telephone. This wasn’t just some geek shit, either. It was part of a huge government push to get more young people interested in chess than Russia’s other popular youth activity of the day, shooting aristocrats in basements. As a result, the pieces were cosplayed by the military, with the Red Army representing the black pieces and the Soviet Navy representing the white ones. There’s no word on who won the match, but we can bet that both players duked it out relentlessly for the grand prize of coming in second place and not having their lunch money stolen by Lenin.

1

Here Are The Photos That The Supreme Court Doesn’t Want You To See (For Some Reason)

The Supreme Court is possibly the most important court in the land, after those of the “food,” “basketball,” and “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s“ variety. It’s where gavels are banged, arguments are settled, and bitterly sarcastic judgments are made. In other words, it’s as boring as any other non-TV courtroom … except for the bizarre rule that photography is completely banned, to the extent that all electronic devices are confiscated, no less in an age where even our shoes are hardwired.

Of course, if you tell a mouse that cookies aren’t allowed, that mouse is going to chew through your walls and eat cookies right in front of your stupid face. Behold, the forbidden sight:

Erich SalmonHoly crap! It’s a court!

The only two photos in existence of the Supreme Court come courtesy of 1932 and 1937, back when Judge Scalia hadn’t yet watched his parents be gunned down in an alleyway by progressivism. The first photo, daringly reprinted above, was taken by Erich Salmon, who faked a broken arm and hid a camera inside the sling, showing a degree of inventiveness only matched by horny teenagers in ’80s sex comedies.

The second was taken by an anonymous woman who cut out a hole in her purse, slipped a camera inside, and mastered shooting from the hip so as to avoid suspicion.

As far as video goes, there’s also this tantalizing piece shot by Citizens United protesters in 2014, after they interrupted deliberations to rally against big money in politics, but got served a hearty dose of security boot heels inside their bungholes.

But don’t worry, no one’s gonna come arrest you just for watch- hold up, someone’s at the door.

Adam Wears is on Twitter and Facebook, and has a newsletter about depressing history that you should definitely subscribe to.

Did you know they’re still making Polaroid-style cameras? The printed photo, making a comeback!

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[justfines]

October 1st-2nd

Coffee at 4am tastes better than cigarettes after sex. Black, of course, and more bitter than sweet. This is the last time I will ride my bike to work; the last time I have to wake up at 3:30 to pedal as fast as I can in a narrow bike lane while holding the flashlight I stole five years ago. It's terrifying, I'm not even half awake and traffic cares little for the poor bitch on her blue bike. They zoom past, not caring to slow down or move over on their way to their own miserable jobs.

I leave my bike unlocked behind the coffee shop where I will spend another eight hours of my life. Then I sit.

--and smoke, and wait on an uncomfortable metal chair, and wait, and wait because Lewis cannot be bothered to show up in time. I have no sympathy. He has a vehicle, he should be here 20 minutes ago.

It's 5:00 now and still no sun has crested over the bleak horizon of Destin fucking Florida. It is dark. It is humid and wet and the air coats the inside of my lungs more than my three Malboro 27's I've smoked already. Lewis arrives at 5:01, I say nothing, even when he trips over himself and drops his vape. I don't care. I just hold the door open while he collects his scattered self.

The eight hours trudge by like a sluggish train trying to move along rusted rails on a 1/4 tank of fuel. I make drinks. Dance around the fragile friendships I formed with my coworkers in order to satisfy my dwindling sanity. Asia, a pretty little fat girl with Sephora on her face, laughs so I do too. She finds my stoicism hilarious. I find her endlessly trying.

But she is the most real person I've seen in months. Her edges aren't slowly fading into the background of monotonous conformity but are solid and decorated like her face. Her soul is damaged from what she's told me. I've told her little. Her father molested her for years. Her ex-boyfriend raped her regularly. 

She's lonely. So am I. But not enough to kiss her which is what she wants. I recognize lonely lust for what it is; a pair of warm legs tangling with yours beneath crisp sheets, a scattering of kisses on heated flesh while you pretend, pretend, pretend that the body you're over is the person you really want, and it's lying awake after fucking to stare at the wall while they cuddle you from behind.

She knows tragedy but not like me.

I wish she would shut up sometimes. But, oh, she is laughing again and reaching out to me like a lifeline trying to get me to connect with her. Connection. The thought makes me sick, I take her hand anyway and laugh and laugh and laugh because that's what she needs more than a n y t h i n g. I let her hug me when she gets frustrated cuz today is trying. The customers are being unusually rude to her (and to me but what do i care about these bloated, anonymous faces sneering at me over poorly made lattes?) and I am comfort.

I don't say goodbye to her or to anyone when I leave. I just slip out the back and hold the metal door shut while I breathe for a few minutes. It is easy to see the path before me if I do not go on this trip with the ghost boy. I see myself endlessly smiling at fake finery, settling in an apartment and forgetting that music and life exists. So I run, like I usually do, and use my blue bike to go back to our room. I pack heavy while he is at work and a little voice in my brain is telling me that we aren't coming back. 

I float in between packing, sleeping and existing in four blue walls. No memory lives of what I did exactly; vague impressions of drinking tea, finishing homework and trying not to get my hopes up are all I have left.

My eyes flicker to the little red suitcase resting next to my side of the bed. Inside are memories of precious moments. A stuffed cat that I got when I was three and her handmade dress that gran sewed back when her hands didn’t shake. Foreign coins and paper taken from my mother’s personal stash. A graduation ring of a dead woman I found on the street. John Lenin glasses, my baby teeth in a plastic blue chest, my graduation tassel, golden bangles, photographs, my first make up bottle, a necklace with love written in Japanese, a locket my gran gave me but doesn’t remember that she did, the rocks I collected in Arizona on that spontaneous road trip.

I pack that too.

Sleep is easy yet restless. He and I cling to each other then switch to being on opposite edges when the room heats up at 3am. We are always touching in some way; a foot pressed against a warm calf, a hand between his thighs, our fingers intertwined together, or just mine twisted in his messy curls. Tonight, he is breathing deep and slow, lips parted just enough to see his two slightly crooked front teeth. His breath stinks. But I cuddle him anyway. It’s good to touch him.

 My alarm plays its melody in the pitch dark, lighting up the room with a cheerful "let's go". I’m awake instantly (or was I ever asleep?) and I go the extra mile and smeared tinted cream onto my face. Eyelashes are darkened, lengthened and I feel a little bit prettier.I leave my hair a mess.

I had hoped that we would be the only ones up and we could disappear onto the road without interruption. The house isn’t quiet when I exit the bathroom at 5:35. It never is when his mother’s awake. She’s lying in bed, watching the news of another CNN tragedy, yelling and shrieking about us being careful and for me not to drive the car. I grit my teeth and load the car. He convinced me to say goodbye. I did reluctantly.

She is not a gentle person, his mother. The edges of her personality are unusually jagged for a single, beaten down mother. There is no softness in her tone, her eyes do not invite hugs and her arms aren’t meant for scaring away monsters in the dark. She is, however, efficient and helpful and her callousness is a shield long practiced. I often equivocate her to the Queen in Sleeping Beauty who can transform into a dragon and puts other, less aware subjects under her spell. She weaves lies into truths and wraps that around your shoulders like a comforting blanket. Once, her talons almost sunk into my skin, I nearly believed her about my ghost boy. She was spewing awful filth while spitting over her dark table. It was a tale of his exes, as she loves to dangle in my face, and the subtle illusion that I was next on the list.

I remembered that my heart sunk inch by tragic inch and I shrank in on myself as she told me a lovely, terrible story. I felt small. Then I felt rage and like that fucking Prince, I cut through the brambles and lies and left the table, left her spitting, poisonous mouth and crawled into bed with a man bestowed with more internal and external beauty than she held in her pinky toe.

Thus the expedition began at 6 in the morning. The sky was still dark but just barely. Unfortunately, the two of us were trapped in assumptions. The assumption of one of us must have money for the toll bridge. We didn’t. The assumption that we could get said money by buying Tic-Tacs and getting cash back at the gas station. We couldn’t. The ATM charged him three dollars to pull money. Service charges are a scam.

He did get the Tic-Tacs though. Orange. We both eat them in threes; one is too little, two is an even number, so three is perfect. I press the tiny things against his lips, they part, and I feel the tip of his tongue brush my finger tips. I swallow and try not to let that innocent action get to me. I’m left with flushed cheeks and a tingling sensation on my fingers.

The first driving shift launches at 6:32. We talk about pills and addiction, songs and poetry, then it evolves into deeper conversation about his darker thoughts and I listen. I hold his hand tightly, squeezing it three times every now and then. It is easy to forget that in his heart there are scars that haven’t smoothed over and wounds that need stitching. I only forget until I look into his color changing eyes or simply touch him. I can feel his sadness radiating from his skin and, sometimes, I cry too.

nothing changed. except the scenery and the loss.

[patriotnewsblogger-blog]

Noam Chomsky's Venezuela Lesson

New Post has been published on http://www.therightnewsnetwork.com/noam-chomskys-venezuela-lesson/

Noam Chomsky's Venezuela Lesson

Venezuela descends into chaos. Its people, once the wealthiest in Latin America, starve. Even The New York Times runs headlines like “Dying Infants and No Medicine.”

My Venezuelan-born friend Kenny says his relatives are speaking differently. Cousins who once answered “Fine” or “Good” when asked, “How are you?” now say, “We’re eating.”

Eating is a big deal in the country that’s given birth to jokes about a “Venezuelan diet.” A survey by three universities found 75 percent of Venezuelans lost an average 19 pounds this year.

So are American celebrities who championed Venezuela’s “people’s revolution” embarrassed? Will they admit they were wrong?

“No,” says linguist and political writer Noam Chomsky. “I was right.”

Sigh.

Actor Sean Penn met with Hugo Chavez several times and claimed Chavez did “incredible things for the 80 percent of the people that are very poor.”

Oliver Stone made a film that fawned over Chavez and Latin American socialism. Chavez joined Stone in Venice for the film’s premiere.

Michael Moore praised Chavez for eliminating “75 percent of extreme poverty.”

Hello?! In Venezuela, Chavez and his successor, Nicolas Maduro, created extreme poverty.

Chomsky, whose anti-capitalist teachings have inspired millions of American college students, praised Chavez’s “sharp poverty reduction, probably the greatest in the Americas.” Chavez returned the compliment by holding up Chomsky’s book during a speech at the U.N., making it a best-seller.

Is Chomsky embarrassed by that today? “No,” he wrote me. He praised Chavez “in 2006. Here’s the situation as of two years later.” He linked to a 2008 article by a writer of Oliver Stone’s movie who said, “Venezuela has seen a remarkable reduction in poverty.”

I asked him, “Should you now say to the students who’ve learned from you, ‘Socialism, in practice, often wrecks people’s lives’?”

Chomsky replied, “I never described Chavez’s state capitalist government as ‘socialist’ or even hinted at such an absurdity. It was quite remote from socialism. Private capitalism remained … Capitalists were free to undermine the economy in all sorts of ways, like massive export of capital.”

What? Capitalists “undermine the economy” by fleeing?

I showed Chomsky’s email to Marian Tupy, editor of HumanProgress.org. I like his response: “If lack of private capitalism—I assume he means total abolition of private enterprise and most private property—is his definition of socialism, then only North Korea and Kampuchea qualify.”

Tupy also asks how Chomsky thinks “capitalists sabotaged the economy by taking money out if capitalists are superfluous to a functioning economy.”

Good questions. Chomsky’s arguments are absurd.

As Tupy wrote elsewhere about another socialist fool, “As much as I would like to enjoy rubbing [his] nose in his own mind-bending stupidity, I cannot rejoice, for I know that Venezuela’s descent into chaos—hyperinflation, empty shops, out-of-control violence and the collapse of basic public services—will not be the last time we hear of a collapsing socialist economy. More countries will refuse to learn from history and give socialism ‘a go.’ ‘Useful idiots,’ to use Lenin’s words … will sing socialism’s praises until the last light goes out.”

I fear he’s right. This love for state planning is especially outrageous today because anyone who pays attention knows what does work: market capitalism.

Socialism failed in Angola, Benin, Cambodia, China, Congo, Cuba, Ethiopia, Laos, Mongolia, Mozambique, North Korea, Poland, Somalia, the Soviet Union, Vietnam and now Venezuela. We are yet to experience the blessed event of seeing one socialist country succeed.

Yet during the same years, capitalism brought prosperity to Hong Kong, Singapore, New Zealand, most of Western Europe, and years ago, to a mostly poor and undeveloped country we now call America.

In 1973, when Chile abandoned its short-lived experiment with socialism and embraced capitalism, Chilean income was 36 percent that of Venezuela. Today, Chileans are 51 percent richer than Venezuelans. Chilean incomes rose by 228 percent. Venezuelans became 21 percent poorer.

Venezuela has greater oil reserves than Saudi Arabia. But because some people believe socialism is the answer to inequality, Venezuelans starve.

What should Venezuela do once the tyrant falls?

It should do what Dubai and Hong Kong did, and what America should do next with Guantanamo Bay and Puerto Rico: create “prosperity zones.” I’ll explain in my next column.

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5 Old Photos From History That’ll Blow Your Minds

We have this idea that history was all pomp and circumstance, and despite this site’s best efforts to ruin/improve your understanding, it’s a myth that persists. Case in point: There are certain places that you immediately think of as being boring forever. But once you dig into the richness of history, you kinda find the badass, surprising, and occasionally stupid secrets that have been kept buried. Like how …

5

Tutankhamun’s Tomb Looked Like A Hoarder’s Cave Of Crap

Although we’re fairly certain that nobody reading this was there at the time, you probably have an idea in your head of what the tomb of King Tut must have looked like when they opened it up in 1922. Surely, the archaeologists were greeted by cascading piles of gold treasure, well-preserved scrolls describing lost-long wisdom of the ages, and at least one ancient booby trap containing a skeleton with an explorer hat, right? Nope! It mostly looked like piles of millennia-old crap, like a dud episode of Storage Wars.

Harry Burton

Harry Burton

Harry BurtonIs that a portable bidet on the lower-right? Was … was King Tut a gamer?

You see, packing for a long vacation is always stressful, and it was the same for the Ancient Egyptians, except a little more death-y. It was a popular belief that the afterlife was basically another life (nowlife?), and that whatever possessions you packed in your tomb, well … that was it. You were stuck with them forever, because the next realm had little in the way of IKEA and Walmart. And Tut, being a one-percenter, had more death baggage to pack than most.

Read Next

Uranus Is Secretly Amazing (So Knock Off The Fart Jokes)

The tomb, known by the droid-esque name of KV62, was so tightly packed with miscellenea that it took nearly ten years to catalog and empty the place. This might sound like the archaeologists were milking their overtime pay, but KV62 contained, give or take, 5,000 antique, fragile-as-hell objects, including six chariots, chests of jewelry, enough weapons to outfit an army, 30 jars of wine, more board games than an old folks’ home, countless statues and ornaments, and over a hundred walking sticks. That’s not even including, you know, the gold-plated body. The real curse, it turns out, was compulsive hoarding.

Harry Burton

Harry Burton“Where does he want the giant bull’s head?” “No idea, just stick it in the corner.”

4

The Sphinx Was Once Surrounded By Vacationing Samurai

The samurai are considered to be one of history’s greatest fighting forces, whose very name invokes images of honor, badassery, and people getting sworded through their chests, Alien-style. The Sphinx is one of history’s greatest icons, reminiscent of empire and lore and mystery and big-ass cat people. Combine the two, and you’ve got yourself a surefire blockbuster summer hit, possibly about time travel and definitely starring Mark Wahlberg.

Or this photo, whatever.

Antonio BeatoSamurai Spring Break was one of Kurosawa’s lesser-known films.

This photograph from 1864 shows a group of fully decked-out samurai, complete with the costumes, hats, and swords that you’re already picturing in your mind’s eye, relaxing in front of the Sphinx like they’re on a brocation. And to be fair, they kinda were. The guys were travelling to France as part of the Ikeda Mission, a diplomatic mission so important that they simply couldn’t resist the urge to have a pit stop and make every holiday photo you’ve ever and will ever take look like a crusty dog turd by comparison.

3

The Lincoln Memorial Once Looked Like A Rejected Fallout Landscape

Washington, D.C. is fetid swampland, both metaphorically and literally. In its early days, before America was even a thing, it was a low-lying marsh known as Tiber Creek, and it was this way until the late 1800s, when the creek was dredged and dried out to create this magnificen- oh.

Library of Congress“D.C.” originally stood for “Danger: Crocodiles.”

This photo of the Lincoln Memorial was taken in 1917, which is both shockingly modern and, in terms of demonstrating how well we’re doing at hashtag draining the swamp, a very effective visual metaphor. The greenery isn’t the result of having sent all the gardeners and horticulturalists to get machine-gunned in equally damp conditions (although construction of the memorial’s interior had stalled by this time for this reason); it’s the swamp trying to reclaim the land. By 1922, we’d won that war and locked the nature beneath a solid foundation of concrete, tarmac, cherry blossoms, and intern skeletons, where it sits bubbling away, waiting.

2

St. Petersburg Once Hosted A Massive Game Of Human Chess

It’s fair to say that even the most anti-sports among us like it when sporting events go big — the Superbowl, the FA Cup, the World Polo Championship, etc. There’s just something about spectacle and frenzied crowds that makes the hateful, cynical part of our brains switch off, although that’s also a common side effect of drinking so much beer that your bar tab can be measured in kegs.

It was the same in the old-timey days, although the events were … a little different.

Russian Federation37 people died when one player got upset and flipped the board.

Take this gigantic chess match played in St. Petersburg’s Palace Square between the mightiest nerds of 1924, Peter Romanovsky and Ilya Rabinovich, who called their moves in via telephone. This wasn’t just some geek shit, either. It was part of a huge government push to get more young people interested in chess than Russia’s other popular youth activity of the day, shooting aristocrats in basements. As a result, the pieces were cosplayed by the military, with the Red Army representing the black pieces and the Soviet Navy representing the white ones. There’s no word on who won the match, but we can bet that both players duked it out relentlessly for the grand prize of coming in second place and not having their lunch money stolen by Lenin.

1

Here Are The Photos That The Supreme Court Doesn’t Want You To See (For Some Reason)

The Supreme Court is possibly the most important court in the land, after those of the “food,” “basketball,” and “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s“ variety. It’s where gavels are banged, arguments are settled, and bitterly sarcastic judgments are made. In other words, it’s as boring as any other non-TV courtroom … except for the bizarre rule that photography is completely banned, to the extent that all electronic devices are confiscated, no less in an age where even our shoes are hardwired.

Of course, if you tell a mouse that cookies aren’t allowed, that mouse is going to chew through your walls and eat cookies right in front of your stupid face. Behold, the forbidden sight:

Erich SalmonHoly crap! It’s a court!

The only two photos in existence of the Supreme Court come courtesy of 1932 and 1937, back when Judge Scalia hadn’t yet watched his parents be gunned down in an alleyway by progressivism. The first photo, daringly reprinted above, was taken by Erich Salmon, who faked a broken arm and hid a camera inside the sling, showing a degree of inventiveness only matched by horny teenagers in ’80s sex comedies.

The second was taken by an anonymous woman who cut out a hole in her purse, slipped a camera inside, and mastered shooting from the hip so as to avoid suspicion.

As far as video goes, there’s also this tantalizing piece shot by Citizens United protesters in 2014, after they interrupted deliberations to rally against big money in politics, but got served a hearty dose of security boot heels inside their bungholes.

But don’t worry, no one’s gonna come arrest you just for watch- hold up, someone’s at the door.

Adam Wears is on Twitter and Facebook, and has a newsletter about depressing history that you should definitely subscribe to.

Did you know they’re still making Polaroid-style cameras? The printed photo, making a comeback!

Support Cracked’s journalism with a visit to our Contribution Page. Please and thank you.

For more, check out 5 Modern Things In Historical Images That Shouldn’t Exist and 29 Images That Will Change How You Picture History.

Follow us on Facebook, if you like jokes and stuff.

Read more: http://www.cracked.com/article_25552_5-old-photos-from-history-thatll-blow-your-minds.html

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