#unlike the idiot right wingers

[ichverdurstehier]

I'm not kidding when I say 9/11 caused my fear of beards. My idiot speech teacher decided it was a good idea to show videos of 9/11 when I was six (they had just caught Osama bin ladle or however you spell it) and now my gut reaction when I see a middle eastern dude with a thick beard and turban (? Is that what it's called? Idk) is primal fear and terror. Thanks Mrs sham! Thanks for the wake-up-screaming nightmares, thanks for EVEN MORE anxiety, thanks for making me terrified of an entire continents worth of people! Great job teaching!

[glassofgretel]

My honest opinion on Evillious Chronicles...I believe the series is truly deep and beautifully written, but there are some personal issues I have with it.

I don't really care about the point and message of the Evillious Chronicle series nor the concept of "morally gray", I only believe in good, evil and the consequences of our own actions. MOTHY has made an amazing story that we all still enjoy ~16 years later, but I have to disagree with his philosophy and outlook on the world, ours differ greatly– Though he has some valid points, it's rather naïve IMO... and while it's compelling storywise and from an emotional perspective, it isn't as much realistically or from a political/social standpoint of right and wrong.

Morality never mattered in the first place, because evil always succeeds if it has enough power or deems its deeds necessary for a "greater benefit"... Good and evil are both necessary forces that exist to maintain the balance of this universe, just as our fate dictates.

Personally, I'm starting to see far more evil and corruption than light and hope in today's politics and throughout our society's history, so I only get pissed the fuck off whenever I see a political debate between self-righteous snowflakes on Twitter or Reddit (Especially the Character rant mfs), with each side claiming that they're right and the other is evil.

Even though morality is literally IRRELEVANT in politics, it has always been about interests and agendas in the end. If anything, there are only two lesser and greater evils. 💀

I'm no Altright-winger either, as some idiots on Discord might say... I'm more of a Pan-Arab nationalist but I just hate politics in general. Because if anything, we humans deserve all the shit that's coming to us. And trust me, I HATE Hitler with every fiber of my being... but if I were in his shoes, I would've done far worse with all the scum and idiocy in this world.

As for Riliane Lucifen, despite her awful deeds, she was still somewhat good at heart. Unlike the two-faced hypocrites over at the USA, Russia, China and Israeli governments, and especially those scumbags Adolf/Stalin... But it still doesn't excuse her actions despite her lack of moral agency, neither does her being possessed and manipulated by the demons.

So let's stop painting her as some sort of saint, she was a broken kid who deserved her redemption and a second chance- but that's all there is...

Because we know damn well that would NEVER fly in our reality, even if she was truly genuine about making amends.And I don't want to be like her or Nemesis lol, I prefer the likes of Frieza, Judge Holden, King Piccolo etc. as role models, because at least they're purely evil and honest about their philosophy, they embrace it to reach their own goals. Unlike most of our world's society...

I would say I am Near Pure evil though, since I have clear moral standards and my own personal law, I can discern right from wrong- But I'm not really much better than Hitler myself, and I am wrong more often than I'm right. I just despise everything wrong with the world, but I don't intend to change it for the better either. I don't even care about ending the cycle of violence and hate, infact I want to keep it going for my own benefit. That is the path I've chosen for myself and I embrace it fully with no guilt or regrets, even if it might be the wrong one.

I'm not just being pretentious or edgy either, I am simply disappointed and frustrated with this reality- I've had enough of this world and want to watch it burn. I enjoy treating evil with even worse evil, fighting fire with fire- Because it turns me on, gives me a greater purpose and sense of fulfilment too.

I'm sorry I really don't know how to answer this, it's the most concerning message I've ever received in my entire life

[pumpumdemsugah]

The left needs to deradicalise white men so you can't be too harsh if they aren't perfect and say something that's right wingish but women that think the porn industry is bad are the enemy because apposing porn makes them right wingers

No this isn't misogyny or identity politics. It's only identity politics when it's not white men

All men are potential radicals and all women are feeble idiots waiting to be corrupted because they're mentally weak, unlike white boys that became white nationalists because of memes and feeling lonely.

[brianbotkiller]

If right-wingers and ultra-conservative Christians believe so much in the "Sanctity of life", and are so concerned with population numbers dropping, I have your solution, you utter bottom-feeding, garbage-human clowns: UNIVERSAL. BASIC. INCOME.

Literally EVERY SINGLE PROBLEM that people have goes back to Kaptialism in some way or another. Relationship issues? Money played a role, somehow. Don't wanna have children? Money is often a deciding factor. Generally unhappy or considering unaliving yourself? KAPITALISM.

Don't believe me? Think of the number of times in your life that you were unable to do the things that these people say are so important that they want to upend entire societal and governmental structures to "preserve" them, and trace back the why -- you'll usually land on, "I couldn't do that because of money".

Bootstrappers will tell you that you just need to "Work harder" or "Grind more", or that you're just not driven enough. The fact is, that simply isn't true. You've been told all your life that you don't get to where you deserve to be because you didn't want it enough. While intention, attraction, attitude and drive have an effect on these outcomes, they are NOT going to do enough for you when you live in a world that is governed by people who want to ensure that you stay just high enough, but close enough to the ground, that you remember your place.

If these people believe so whole-heartedly that human life is so sacred, GET BEHIND DOING THINGS THAT WOULD ACTUALLY HELP HUMANS. Insisting that people have babies whether by choice or by force because of your insane ideologies isn't gonna end well. Policing people for what they do with their bodies in order to survive the hellscape that you idiots want to so vehemently preserve isn't gonna end well.

We are unlikely, as a species, to ever reach the Star-Trek future that forgoes capital as the barometer of value. It's a great dream, it probably won't happen. But the fact is that there simply is enough of the things that one can actually put their hands on -- food, houses, resources -- for everyone on this planet. Money is a fake and false concept of value assigned to material things in order to push us outside of our own personal existence and realizing that the ONLY things that matter is literally everything BUT money.

So, that's it, you fucking morons. Shut the absolute fuck up about how "Important" human life is, when you obviously have NO interest in doing anything to help preserve it. If you did, you'd push for programs that ensure that every single human being on this planet has what they need in order to live and be a part of society. You'd shut the fuck up about things that aren't your business, and you'd realize that your so-called lord and savior, Jesus Christ, WAS A SOCIALIST. The man, if he existed, literally gave people what they needed to live, and if his ass were to come back today, he'd tell you dipshits that you're all doing it wrong.

[alcestas-sloboda]

You know, when I was younger I considered myself a communist... but then I actually paid attention to the shit communist countries did and went hmm... that's actually really shitty, fuck them

Like I didn't do some massive slide to the right, I'm still very much in favor of things like social welfare programs

So what I'm basically saying is that as someone who used to call myself a commie, I just don't get how you can be pro ussr. Cause like... the shit they did (and plenty of others) is literally what changed my mind

(I mean I get it, these people don't really care and are more interested in seeming enlightened than actually making things better, but still)

Anyway... I mean I'm an American, but unlike these idiots I realize we actually owe a lot to Ukraine for fighting russia right now. Like leaving aside being a decent human being and not thinking people should be invaded, the Ukrainian army is giving us way more value with how they use any weapons we send them than they were getting us sitting in some stockpile

The Ukrainian Army are out there protecting not only Ukraine's freedom, but all of us. Like I have the sense to see that while Ukraine is fighting for survival, their fight still protects me

I mean most of Ukraine embodies the American ideals better than plenty of Americans (especially the right wingers who crow about freedom before deepthroating putin's boot)

I don't know... basically I've been paying attention to Ukraine ever since russia invaded back in February, been following more Ukrainians and Eastern Europeans and realizing how western media totally ignored the invasion in 2014, and how much of an ass westerners have been acting like during this invasion

Fucking appeasers everywhere. I mean, I'm a pacifist, but I have the sense to see you don't just tell people to lay down and die. If we want peace, we need to give Ukraine everything it takes to force russia out. Russia's the one making war, so they're the only ones who can make peace, and they'll only do that once they're thoroughly beaten otherwise it'll just be more agreeing to humanitarian corridors and then shelling them

So yeah... basically just saw you being sick of dealing with tankies and wanted to at least let you have a message from a westerner that wasn't just a bunch of apologist bullshit. Both the right and the left come together to be morons about russia. Right likes them cause they're fascists (I mean which parties is russia always funding in the west?) and the left... so busy being stupid jackasses about how great the ussr was that they excuse the imperialism they supposedly hate

Anyway... whole lot of probably stupid words here just to basically say I'm an American and I stand with Ukraine

I hope you stay safe, and I hope we send more anti air to shoot down those fucking missiles and drones. I hope the invaders are thrown out as soon as possible and then put on trial for their war crimes

Stay safe, sorry you have to deal with western morons on top of being invaded

I really do appreciate asks like this because they are quite rare from Western Europeans and Americans contrary to Eastern Europe. It’s also really interesting to actually listen to a person’s story, so to speak, with political ideologies.

What’s funny is that even though most Ukrainians will now tell you that they are nationalistic, they hold a lot of left views, especially the young generation, me included. Here we can raise a question of what is nationalism for Ukrainians. It’s love for their country and its culture, basic need of being left alone to create a developed country, but it’s never about other cultures being worse than ours or this belief that some territories must be returned and annexed from other states.

So what I was on about… We are so very grateful for the help, both humanitarian and military aid, and probably there are more good people than bad in this world, who believe that one country cannot just invade another country for no reason, but sometimes those left-wingers are just too much. Like jokes aside, I really do struggle to see what future they want for the world. Because there is a very simple truth: if Ukraine loses and russia wins, other dictatorial regimes will understand that you can just declare a war on your neighbour and no one will give a shit.

Yeah because that’s what happened in 2014 but at that time putin wasn’t prepared to launch a full-scale invasion, the revolution happened to quickly, it took him more that 3 month to amass the troops around Ukrainian borders in 2022. Or maybe he had some sort of genius plan, who knows, but the fact is: the world didn’t react to Crimea or Donetsk and Luhansk, and before that they didn’t react to Georgia and Moldova, or before that to Ichkeria.

Also the pacifism part, I think all intelligent people are and all Ukrainians (well of course not all but you know where I’m coming from) were pacifist. Everyone here has a family story from WW2, this country suffered so much, we never start conflicts but we also love what’s ours way too deeply. I think most of us would agree that the final moment of our pacifism was Bucha, that was a point of no return. Because this is where we understood that the main aim of this war is the destruction of Ukrainian nation - not a state as an independent entity but people. They were firing at civilians for no reason other than satisfaction and that is where pacifism ends because you cannot negotiate with people whose main negotiation tactic is a bullet.

So yeah, thanks again for this ask and kind words, If you have the urge to talk more about some topics, you can always message me)

[nottobeadickoranything]

Heres how to fix America:

All leftists flip to Republican, start calling themselves "Lincoln Republicans" and immediately primary all magas and right wingers, turning the party from right to left. This will cause the right wing idiots and libertarians to move to the now-right wing Democrats, as the Democrat party is the centrist party, so they will move from where they are currently at, middle-right wing, to more center-right.

After a while, we will question what Democrat and Republican even has to do with running a country, then we rebrand both Party's into the Labor Party, where all power is given priority to workers, and the Progressive Party, who believe in moving the country and the world further, thus creating a loop of only-positive outcomes, unlike we have now, which is "which boomer is going to steal my taxes, a racist or non-racist?"

[thegreymoon]

hello, a lot of hate twt on 2ha, tgcf and svsss for pedophilia trope. And on a sidenote, hate on the parents of Tohru from the manga/anime Fruits Basket because of Age gap. Almost all the complaints are from Westerners. What's your stand on the matter, for research purposes only. *coughs

Hi, anon!

My stand is that antis of all forms, shapes and sizes should shut the fuck up, but since that is unlikely to happen, my policy is to block them on sight. Explaining/arguing/debating with these people is never going to work for the same reason it doesn't work on their close cousins: right-wingers, conservatives, puritans, fundamentalists, anti-vaxxers, conspiracy theorists and extremists of all kinds.

They are not interested in facts or logic, it is never about protecting the children or whatever other lofty goal they are preaching. It is about leeching off your emotional energy to fill that void inside that made them resort to bullying complete strangers online in the first place. It is all about exerting power and controlling others because they feel powerless in their real life and moral grandstanding on the internet gives them that sweet, sweet ego boost. Every time someone engages with their bullshit, they get the validation they crave. Every time they manage to exert any amount of influence over complete strangers, be it simply upsetting someone or actually managing to ruin someone's life, they get that high of feeling in control that they so desperately lack in their own lives.

My advice is that you should not expend any effort on these people, they are emotional vampires and they will drain you of your time, energy and simple enjoyment of things that are meant to be enjoyed. Do not give them a platform. Just block and move on to more worthwhile things.

While I do not always manage to follow my own counsel because I am only human and therefore impulsive and very fallible, I have, nevertheless, managed to drive my success rate up to 90% by always keeping in mind this wonderful quote:

Arguing with idiots is like playing chess with a pigeon... No matter how good you are, the bird is going to shit on the board and strut around like it won anyway.

With HYX coming very soon, which will bring with it a whole new influx of idiots, I warmly recommend this approach to everyone.

[rymurrsneckbeard]

💕 🧸 👀

OKAY I FINALLY GOT THIS WRITTEN.

So this was asking for: a moment of jealousy between exes with feelings with a side of forced proximity. And heeeere we go.

Because I've been wanting to write a little old school Yzerman/Shanahan for a WHILE now and this gave me the perfect opportunity. With a little side of boytoyKyleDubas.

I don't think this is enough to have a title or anything, just a little blurby thing

It's the first night of the draft in Montreal, and buzz on the floor is as loud as Steve has ever heard it; apparently everyone is excited to be back in person. It likely comes as no surprise to anyone who knows him, but Steve preferred the last two years; he's more than happy to do this process from the comfort of his home office. It's not that he hates people, he just hates the politics of it, the need for media-savvy soundbytes and putting up with reporters who ask the same idiotic questions year after year. It's dealing with other GMs offering him their ECHL caliber left wingers for his top line centers. It's putting up with hockey dads who want to be involved in every step of their sons' draft day the way they've forced their way into every part of their hockey development so far.

Okay, maybe it's a little bit that he hates people.

Steve imagines that this used to be a very different event. His own draft feels like it was ages ago - mostly because it was - and he doesn't remember much of what was happening on the floor. He was just waiting to hear his name being called. Back then he imagines GMs had the ability to slam a phone down when someone offered something insulting. Now he just has to angrily stab the End Call button on his iPhone touchscreen. It doesn't have the same effect.

In the minutes before the draft officially starts, the phone calls ease, at least to him. The Red Wings aren't one of the top three picks, those are the GMs fielding the most requests right now. He uses the break in the action to get up and stretch his legs; his knee hasn't been right since 2001, a quick stroll along the draft floor will help loosen the joint. Unfortunately, though, just a moment later he regrets the decision.

He keeps his head down as he passes the table with the Maple Leaf insignia and avoids any and all eye contact. It's not like he never sees Brendan around - they both have executive jobs with the NHL, they tend to be in the same place at the same time more often than he'd prefer- but the draft gives Steve a particular opportunity to be faced with him for days at a time. And it's never just Brendan, of course. Next to him, always directly next to him, is the nerdy boytoy he calls a general manager.

Supposedly the kid is in his late 30s, which would still be entirely too young for Brendan, but he looks far younger. He looks like he'd be the right age to date Isabella. Steve would want to punch him in the face for that too. 

He's met Kyle Dubas on a few occasions and it's been obvious each time that Brendan hasn't clued him into their messy history. Kyle has been friendly and clearly impressed by Steve's resume. Steve isn't so oblivious as to realize that he gives him the same hero-worship gaze as he gives Brendan. If he had the patience for it, it would serve Brendan right for Steve to seduce the kid out from under him. 

Unlike Brendan, Steve has managed to find some dignity as he's gotten older.

"Hey Stevie, what's going on?" 

The affection of the nickname from years gone by irks him as he turns to reply. "Just Steve, I've told you a few times now. And I'm fine, thanks."

Brendan laughs, an incredulous thing. "Amazing how you can be so formal about nicknames and show up here in a zip-up." 

"I don't feel much need to dress up. The last couple years spoiled me. And anyway, it's not my draft, this is about the kids showing off. Like that one." He nods towards the Leafs' table, Dubas on the phone, hand covering his mouth as he works on some deal that may or may not work out. "Oh wait that's not a draft pick, that's your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend. And jealousy doesn't suit you, Stevie," Brendan says, but he looks like he's won something.

"Steve. And yeah, I guess you're right. I'm too old for jealousy. Just like you're too old to be fucking someone my daughter's age." His outburst has drawn a couple sets of eyes and Steve rolls his neck, takes a deep breath as he waits for them to lose interest. "In any case, I've got calls to make. Good luck today."

Brendan doesn't step out of his way. He's going to make this more difficult; it's something he was always good at. "Isabella's not even 30 and he's pushing 40, but I don't think you care that much about the semantics, do you?"

"It's been twenty years, Brendan. Old news. No one cares anymore."

A laugh, humorless, escapes his mouth. "You sure seem to have some unresolved anger about it."

Steve flexes his jaw and shakes his head, letting out a snort. "It's not anger to think your mid-life crisis boytoy is embarrassing. I thought you were better than that. Guess that's another thing I had wrong about you."

"You had a wife, you had kids, and I was the one in the wrong?" Brendan's voice has dropped in volume and timbre, stepping closer so Steve can still hear him. To an outside audience this could be any benign discussion about a potential trade. No one is paying much attention. 

"We had an agreement, you knew all about that." 

Brendan gusts out something that's not quite a laugh. "Of course, an agreement. It worked out great for you. No matter what happened you had a family back home waiting."

You could've been a part of that family. Steve doesn't say it out loud, never really has. He always just thought Brendan would've figured it out on his own. It's been twenty years now, and it's far too late for that discussion.

"We're too old to rehash this battle, Brendan."

"Shanny," he says automatically. When Steve cocks an eyebrow he repeats himself. "No one fuckin' calls me Brendan, and you sure as hell never did. Shanny."

Steve rubs a hand over his face and lets out a breath through his teeth. "You know this discussion is pointless. It's been too long, too much has changed. We've got a draft to manage, I should get back to that." 

Brendan nods slowly, lips pursed. "We never had this discussion back then either. Just how you always wanted it." He shakes his head, not even attempting to mask the roll of his eyes. "Good luck with the draft, Steve."

He's gone before Steve can reply, and that's probably for the best; Steve isn't entirely sure he kept the disappointment off his face when Brendan actually called him by the right name this time.

[thattimdrakeguy]

Hiya again, I'm the same person who asked you what qualities you like abt Tim Drake, what do you not like about him? Either from comics now or back then.

Sorry for having not answered this when you gave it to me a few days ago, I also have two other asks I need to answer. My energy has just dropped massively today for some reason, and I didn’t have a confident will to look at Tumblr often besides for dashboard and talking to a friend.

But it’s sort of a difficult question to say what I don’t like about Tim, at least in context to the whole 90s Tim I like and primarily based my blog around. Because when I liked him I accepted him for all his flaws really. He can be passive aggressive towards people he doesn’t like, and a touch condescending, but that’s normally when talking to people like Stephanie who have essentially no idea what they’re doing and bug him.

Like he’s a big social idiot which can cause problems, but I kind of like that about him. He’s sheltered a ton, so it makes sense for him to be socially oblivious and naive, it just adds to his character. Like when I see him be insensitive, I’m not so  much bothered that he was, because I can understand it from a character perspective, but it can get on my nerves I can easily see some petty loser fandom person use it to act like he’s a pure jerk or something.

Though using that perspective, it’s still not a lot about Tim.

Anything I’ve had problems with when it came to Tim is just writing problems, not really his character as established.

Like how poorly he got written after the Dixon era, and I do not like Dixon as a person, he sounds like a ripe stubborn right-winger, and a total ass because of that. But he’s also been the most consistent writer for Tim ever, with his main flaws in writing being shoving his freaking O.C. in places she didn’t belong, and never properly letting Tim and Jack advance their dynamic past punishments and Jack being a terrible dad.

After that it just went terrible wrong, like the first time I read the Jon Lewis run, I didn’t really think much of it, but that’s because I was primarily skimming the series more than reading it, and the artist being the same was enough for me not to think of anything. But Jon Lewis made Tim such a pretentious, judgmental jerk, and so self-absorbed in himself like he thought he was higher up. And he made him so unlikable. Tim could be pretty dang judgmental, and be too stuck on his perspective, but that’s more of a social problem more than Tim being something I’d call an actual jerk. When Tim used to be judgmental, it typically came from the right place, normally in the name of morals. But in the Jon Lewis run he’s just a total dick.

And then Bill Willingham, tried to make Tim more standard “cool”, hanging out more with jocks a few times, when Tim is established as preferring the nerd crowd, because despite being quite fit, that’s who he fit in with. And an assistant editor at the time actually described Tim as being someone who is generally meek.

So as ya can tell, they lost the point of who Tim is, and random changes don’t qualify as character development it’s just bad writing. A person doesn’t become a whole other person randomly. That’s bad writing.

The first writer of the OYL era of Robin was pretty good, but I can’t remember his name. Took him back to what made him work before, but in the knew Tim Wayne era.

After that it was a freaking mess, even Dixon couldn’t write Tim right anymore when he came back. Every writer just made him typical angsty teen with a touch of edge. Which makes sense given the context of the OYL era Tim, but then also why doesn’t he have any noticeable traits that are strong and represent himself?

Red Robin sucked. I don’t even begin to like it anymore. The whole “Damian is now Robin” scene was just freaking dreadful from every character perspective, and that was supposed to be the launching pad for a series, that main goal was to write Tim really differently. Chris Yost did okay, like even though Tim was still clearly very different, there was enough of Tim that seemed like he probably wrote him before. But FabNic was just genuinely awful, besides some narration, I can’t see Tim in his writing. He’s just been replaced as far as I feel reading it.

And that’s not even counting Geoff Johns’ Teen Titans run, where his bio describes the general opposite of what he is. I assume also in the name of making him cooler and edgier, but changes like that-- don’t equal good Tim or even basic good character writing.

Or the New 52, which is notoriously bad.

So Tim’s worst quality in a meta sense, is just being shackled to constant bad writers that I feel like never cared about him that much to begin with but was given the job. So most of them just turned out awful on him.

Original Tim I accept for all his personality flaws, because enough work with his character.

Current Tim as he’s written in most issues of the current Y.J. is just a bare bones leader character, who’s treated as being a packaged deal with a toxic girlfriend that doesn’t even make sense in a story context for them to be together or that in-love. They changed how he looks, what he wears, what his alias is. It’s not really Tim.

And the Detective Comics Rebirth era of Tim was a show off-y genius, that was extraordinarily handsome and talented, as well as being on the path to being an actual fascist because he has control issues. But supposedly Tynion, the writer of it, was just writing Geoff Johns’ Tim. Which is not the Tim to immediately go for.

Like literally to me what I don’t like about Tim is how often artists and writers just don’t even seem to pay attention to him when they write him, and if they do it’s not exactly the right guy.

It’s honestly really saddening reading a lot of his comics because of that. I’m just happy I at least have over 100 comics of well-written Tim, that I can read from, that allowed him to be my favorite character.

[arcticdementor]

Nothing makes me tune out as fast as some leftie journalist complaining about "harassment," and I'll tell you way. The sad fact is that everybody who posts something controversial on the Internet which goes viral gets harassed by assholes on the other side. This is terrible and anyone who has a solution to propose is more than welcome to do so, but it is also a constant whether you are on the left or right or out in space politics-wise. However, it is only cared about when it's a left-winger getting harassed; then suddenly democracy is in danger and we're one book of matchsticks from the Reichstag Fire. When it's a right-winger, well, she should have expected it for wearing such a short skirt expressing broadly held opinions in public. Left-wing journalists' complaints about harassment, unlike right-wingers', are also joined at the hip with powerful, illiberal forces demanding mass censorship of their targets and anyone who was unlucky enough to be standing within ten miles of them. And often, they get what they want -- Carlos Maza snaps his fingers and a half-trillion dollar corporation's knees can't hit the ground fast enough, as within days they rush to set fire to an entire business division in the hopes of putting a damper on "harassment" of a person who has given as good as he got for years. Fundamentally I care little about adjudicating who was right in some dumb internet slapfight between a left-wing jackass and a right-wing jackass (the answer is they're both wrong) but when that internet slapfight is used as an excuse to shut down free expression, well, I go from irritated apathy to opposition that couldn't be stronger. If the options are one of a) some proudly antifa-allied journalist gets called mean names by some idiot who will never do anything about it or b) Google's Trust and Safety division decides what we all are allowed to say, welp... a) it is.

qualia of mercy

[berniesrevolution]

JACOBIN MAGAZINE

Last Friday, Yanis Varoufakis was in Italy to promote European Spring, a list of candidates standing across the continent in next May’s European election. The former Greek finance minister visited Rome just days after the European Commission had struck down the Italian government’s budget, sparking further rows over Brussels’ authority to curb member states’ spending.

At his press conference, Varoufakis called for a “radical Europeanism,” as an alternative to both the populist right and the neoliberal center. Built around the DiEM 25 movement which he launched in 2015, his European Spring initiative brings together forces from Benoît Hamon’s Génération.s in France to Alternativet in Denmark.

Jacobin’s David Broder caught up with Varoufakis to talk about the European institutions’ handling of the Italian budget, the prospects for building a progressive alternative within EU structures, and what future lies ahead for post-Brexit Britain.

David Broder:

We’re in Rome, where the key political battle of the moment has set the Five Star/Lega government on a collision course with Europe over its budget. Deputy prime minister and Lega leader Matteo Salvini has a tax cutting agenda yet has picked a fight with Brussels over plans to run a 2.4 percent deficit, thus allowing him also to posture as a defender of Italian public spending. European Commission chief Pierre Moscovici has seemingly played into Salvini’s hands by condemning the Italian government’s irresponsibility.

Yanis Varoufakis:

Absolutely, Moscovici plunged headlong into the trap!

David Broder:

But in your preferred vision of Europe, would the European Commission have a role in setting limits on national budgets at all, or maintain control mechanisms like the Semester?

Yanis Varoufakis:

Let’s look at the example of the United States. You can only have balanced budgets for the state governments, because you have the federal government looking after the shop. In Europe, balanced budgets — which is effectively what the Semester process is, with the Fiscal Compact — are an abomination, an assault against rationality. Because you’ve got governments that have to look after banking systems and have to bail them out and have to look after public investment. It is impossible to do this with a balanced budget. So, the rules are created as if they are there to be violated — by the deficit countries at least.

Imagine if in the United States you didn’t have the Federal Reserve bailing out banks, if you did not have public infrastructure spending, spending on Medicare and so on being funded from federal budgets. It would be impossible for Missouri, Mississippi, even California for that matter, to remain within the union. So, we have a serious problem.

To answer your question, yes, you can have limits for the [EU member] states, as long as at the eurozone level you have the Europeanization of the banking system, of the bailout system, of overall public investment — hopefully, green investment — and of anti-poverty schemes, like food stamps for instance in the United States.

David Broder:

You have in the past, including in your Modest Proposal, spoken about such mechanisms as Eurobonds as part of a Europe-wide response to the crisis. At the same time, you have said such a response doesn’t demand the creation of a transfer union or, as it is often described, German taxpayers having to pay out for Southern European countries. You also talk in terms of acting within the existing European treaties rather than proposing a general reorganization of those treaties.

So what mechanisms actually exist to change course in the eurozone? And, at a more strictly political level, how can they be “sold” to the public across the continent?

Yanis Varoufakis:

Well, the treaties do have to change, and the rules must be changed. They are idiotic; they cannot work. But! Politically speaking, if you go out there and say to people, “Vote for us, because we believe that we need to change the rules so as to ameliorate the crisis that is destroying you,” people will look at you and say “Well, changing the rules will take twenty years: do you want us to die in the meantime?”

So, this is why I have been working on the Modest Proposal. The question is, what can be done tomorrow morning to stabilize the crisis effectively, to stabilize the lives of citizens — to stop this punitive austerity, within the rules. That’s not because I don’t want to change the rules, but because the only way of changing the rules is by creating a kind of green-investment-led growth [to boost] the incomes of the victims of the crisis so that we can have the political space in which we can then start having a genuine discussion about what kind of rules we want, once we have changed them.

To give you an example, take green investment: it’s not that we need something like FDR’s New Deal. 5 percent of GDP can be spent on infrastructure. In the present era, unlike in the 1930s, we need green infrastructure. Green energy, a green transport system: Europe is really very much behind in all these areas. So, we need something like five to six hundred billion [euros] a year. Where does the money come from? The [EU’s member] states can’t afford it, and there’s all sorts of rules. Is there anything we can do, legally, tomorrow morning, to get that five hundred billion? We think, yes.

We are making a very clear proposal. You have the European Investment Bank, which belongs to all of us. It’s been issuing junk bonds now for twenty-five, thirty years, they are AAA rated even by these terrible credit agencies. Say it issues five hundred billion every year. But some say, “No you can’t do that, the price [of the bonds] will fall, the yields will go up” and so on.

But it just takes one press conference. The European Central Bank could announce just for those bonds, and for no others, that if the yields start going up, it will buy them. But they will not be divided. Because in Europe today we have around two and a half trillion euros in the banking and financial system doing nothing, sloshing around, just bidding up house prices and doing damage but not being invested. So, we just need one press conference.

Of course, you need the political will, for the leaders to give the orders for that to happen. But here is an example of what you can say to people out there who ask, “So what’s the solution?” I’m not saying that it will be implemented. But to get people angry with the establishment, not with the foreigners, the other, the Muslims, the Jews, the Greeks, the Germans, and so on, what you have to do is to channel the anger properly, into a rational anger.

This crisis is unnecessary: we could change it tomorrow morning. It’s not that we’ll have socialism, it’s not that we’ll have the best of all possible worlds. But it’s something far, far better than what we have today. That is how you build up your political capital as a progressive.

David Broder:

In terms of political will, though: obviously the experience of Greece’s Syriza government showed the difficulties of a single EU country taking on the others or seeking to remodel Europe without allies. You are now proposing a pan-European political movement and in this sense differ from the likes of Jean-Luc Mélenchon, whose basic idea holds that either France alone or France and other states could impose some sort of rupture, also by threatening to leave. You, however, are planning to build up a movement across Europe at the same time, including by standing candidates for the European Parliament across the continent. But if not through wielding power in one particular nation-state, how do you foresee a process of continent-wide political change actually playing out, even in an ideal scenario?

Yanis Varoufakis:

The establishment’s great success over the last ten years of crisis is that they took a banking crisis — a crisis of an international group of people, of internationalists, the bankers — and in order to bail out those guys they turned the Greeks against the Germans, the Italians against the French. They took the victims and turned them against each other.

The only thing we can do as progressives is to run across Europe saying that there is no conflict between Greeks and Germans, there is no conflict between North and South. There are however innocent victims in both North and South. That is why we have opted for a transnational movement.

The problem with Jean-Luc Mélenchon and the reason for our disagreement has to be the fact that when you start talking about going back to the nation-state, you are blowing fresh wind into the sails of Le Pen. The only ones who are going to benefit from the disintegration of the European Union today are the forces of the Right. Even if you are a well-meaning left-winger who thinks in terms of socialism in one country [laughs], in the end you are not going to be the one who gains power in this revived nation-state. It will be Le Pen, it will be Salvini. We are absolutely convinced of this.

This is why, even though our Lexit friends have a very good point in criticizing the European Union — the European Union sucks, there’s no doubt about it, it is a regressive set of vile institutions — its disintegration is not going to propel progressives.

(Continue Reading)

[maxmundan]

I don’t know how to keep my mouth shut. I am a smart ass through and through, and many times this inability to know when to speak and when to keep quiet and who should or shouldn’t be told to their face that they are an idiot has gotten me into big trouble. In junior high school I had been regularly beat up and shoved into trash cans due to my habit of making sure every meathead there knew exactly what I thought of them and their intelligence level at all times. Later, I would decide that it was better to be feared than crushed, and I would start telling everyone that I was Hitler’s grandson. They tended to stay away from me after that. Hitler never had any children, of course, and thus was unlikely to have any grandchildren, but most of the guys at my school were in no danger of making the debate team or winning the spelling bee any time soon, if you know what I mean. Junior high school had been very hard on me, and I feel like I just ever so barely made it out with my life. I’ve learned a lot since then, and I’ve made a concerted effort to not mouth off to people I don’t know very well, or whose ability to control their temper I have been unable to gauge. Here’s the problem though. I drink. I drink a lot. I drink to excess, among other vices that I’ve cultivated, and when I drink, my control over the time delay between some insulting thought entering my brain and that same ugly thought popping out of my mouth becomes pretty nonexistent. I can say some pretty nasty things. One time I was on a blind date with this young lady named Elaine. She was the friend of a friend’s wife, who had set us up together, thinking that we were both fiercely proud of our intelligence and that, because of this, we would be perfect for each other. It was a stupid thought. I took her out to dinner at this nice Italian restaurant and we fought the whole damn time. About everything. We fought about art and science and music and movies. We couldn’t agree on a single thing. And the more I drank, the more insulting I got. I went from disagreeing with her to telling her how unbelievably moronic I thought her opinions were. I ended the date by telling her that I would rather fuck a man than her. She burst up from the table, throwing her full glass of red wine directly in my face and stormed out of the restaurant. What had gotten into me? What a terrible thing to say. Here’s the weird part, though. It wasn’t even true. I had thought she was pretty hot and, until that moment, I had been hoping we could get past our differences and I was going to get into her pants. That shit about fucking a man had just popped into my brain and out of my mouth without even a moment’s thought. The more wasted I get the greater the chance that I am going to say something that will just burn it all to the ground. This brings me to a night I spent doing way too many drugs and drinking far, far too much alcohol; a night I got lost and beaten and bloody and wet and ended up sleeping it off in the local holding cell; the night I met the inbred hick fucks. I like to party. That much has been established. I like to drink, and I like to drink to fucking excess, and if you invite me over to your house and pour me a glass of wine, or a beer, or a shot of whiskey or tequila, you are not getting me out of your house until every drop of alcohol you have has been consumed. That’s just the way it is. Don’t invite me over if you are saving your alcohol for a different, special occasion. It doesn’t even matter if you hide the alcohol from me. When you are out of the room, say going to the bathroom, or paying the pizza delivery man, I will go through all your cupboards and look under your bed and behind the old photographs in your closet to find it. I am going to have your alcohol, that’s just all there is to it. If you don’t have a lot, chances are that we are going to be taking a little trip to the store to get more. You’re going to have to pay, of course. I’ve been out of work for a while now and I can barely afford to take care of myself. You wouldn’t expect me to go without food or shelter, would you? I’m sure you don’t want me to stop feeding myself, am I right? So, you’re going to have to pay. We might very well get bored of the alcohol at some point and decide to move on to something a little more challenging and exciting, like cocaine or crystal meth. That would be fun. Don’t you think that would be fun? What about a little heroin? We could do speedballs for the rest of the night and really get fucking crazy. That would be something, wouldn’t it? Angel dust? Did someone mention angel dust? Damn, I’d sure love to do a little of that. It’s been so long. Do they still even have angel dust? Of course, it goes without saying that you’re paying for this too. I can’t afford that kind of shit. It’s expensive. We talked about this. I thought you understood. If I pay for this little bit of fun for the two of us, then I have to go without one of life’s essentials. Do you want me to be homeless or starve to death? Of course you don’t. So just pay for the coke and smack already and we can get this party started. The particular night in question, I was going to a cast party. You may have guessed already that I am an actor, due to my savoir faire and barely controlled narcissism. Yes, I’m a struggling actor. You say that like it’s a bad thing. Of course, I’m a struggling actor. I think I’ve made $10 doing it my entire life and that was when I played Twinkie the Kid at a grocery store opening for a half hour when I was 17. That’s a story for another time, though. The night of the inbred hick fucks was a cast party. I was doing a show called “The Feeling Child.” It was an amazing piece of shit, I’ll tell you that. You know “The Handmaid’s Tale” by Margaret Atwood? Well, this was sort of the opposite of that. It was a science fiction play about a future world where abortion was mandatory. The evil commie lefties had taken over and placed a strict limit on the number of babies people could have. They had convinced everyone that the lie of climate change was in fact true, and this new law was necessary to cut down on the out of control overpopulation that was depleting the planet’s resources. So, this evil, leftie government was forcing good, god-fearing, Christian parents to kill their fetuses. I played the leader of the anti-abortion rebellion who had been arrested protesting at one of the abortion mills and was now being tortured by the authorities for the crime of just wanting babies to live, damnit. It was written by a born-again right-winger. I guess that goes without saying. Only a born-again right-winger would write something so fucking stupid. The play was a disaster from the get go. I have no idea why I even agreed to do it in the first place. I must be a glutton for punishment. Either that or I have absolutely nothing going on in my life, and I will sign on to any piece of shit that will get me in front of an audience, where I can feel the adulation and hear the applause. Nothing else, not even the drugs, can quiet the voices in my head of crippling self-doubt and self-loathing like adulation and applause. It got even worse. The director was under no illusion that this piece of shit was going to Broadway and was afraid, I think, that the audience was going to laugh instead of cry or become outraged when they saw it, so he decided to do this thing Kabuki style. That is right, Kabuki style, which is an ancient form of Japanese theater. So, me and the rest of the cast had to perform in a very stylized physical way. We also had to hold paper cut-out masks in front of our faces the whole time. There is a scene where my tongue gets cut out because I just can’t stop talking about how fetuses were meant to live, and god would hate us for what we were doing. The director decided to symbolize this by having a red ribbon attached to my mask. When the big tongue cutting scene happened, which was the climax of the whole atrocious play, I just pulled the ribbon through the mouth of my mask and let it drop all the way to the floor. Needless to say, it was a hoot. The opening night of the play, about four or five minutes in, the audience started laughing. They started to laugh really loud. They didn’t let up. They thought the play was amazing. They thought it was a comedy. Hell, they thought it was a really terrific comedy. Now, I’m no idiot, so when the audience started to bust up laughing, I decided to go for it. I played it for laughs. I started exaggerating my movements and holding for laughter and using my comedy training for things like double takes and physical theater bits. I even did a spit take at one point, shooting water through the mouth hole of my mask. The audience loved it. They ate it the fuck up. When it came time for the curtain call, every last one of them got up on their goddamn feet and gave me a standing ovation. I shit you not. A standing ovation. It was one of the crowning achievements of my acting career to this point. I mean it was fucking amazing. It felt great. I felt like a star. Of course, the writer and director were a little pissed about the whole thing. More than a little pissed, actually. they were furious. They refused to talk to me, or even look at me, after the show. To this day, they still haven’t ever talked to me. As far as they are concerned, both of them, I am persona non grata. This was the party after the performance, though, and I was riding a pretty great high, so I was bound and determined to get wasted. I started off slow, just getting my game on, with a couple of Mango Wheat Brown Ales or some such shit, I don’t really remember. Then, a bit later, someone produced a bottle of Stolichnaya from the freezer and man, was it on. I can drink straight vodka all night. I just started pounding shots. I couple of cute girls came into the kitchen where I was and started egging me on, so I upped the pace a little and began chugging straight from the bottle. By the time I reached the bottom of it, though, the chicks were nowhere to be seen. What the hell happened to those girls? They must have disappeared when I wasn’t looking. I didn’t have long to wonder about the whereabouts of the girls before my friend Sycamore Taylor walked in holding a big blunt in his fingers and asked if I wanted to take a little toke. Well, of fucking course I wanted to take a goddamn toke. Who the hell did he think he was talking to? Sycamore was as big a stoner as me, if not worse, and he was always rolling these big, fucking bomber joints that were half weed and half tobacco. It took like ten rolling papers to make one, and goddamn they wiped you out. The one this night was a particular monster and just the first hit off it gave me cotton mouth so bad I had to get something else to drink to go with it. There was a bottle of Somrethingorother Cabernet Sauvignon sitting unopened on the counter, so I grabbed that and started rifling through the kitchen drawers to find a corkscrew. I couldn’t find anything, so I handed the bottle to Sycamore, thinking, “What the fuck is wrong with these people that they don’t have a corkscrew? Isn’t that the bare minimum if you’re going to throw a party at your house?” I was throwing open all the cabinets and even looking through the trash. There had to be some way to open this fucking bottle of wine. Sycamore was just standing there, looking at the label on the bottle, not helping me in any way, when he said, “Shit, man. Check it out. This bottle is a 1996. I don’t think we should drink this. It’s probably pretty valuable.” “Are you some kind of fucking idiot?” I asked him, snatching the bottle from his hands, “If they didn’t intend for people to drink it, they would have never brought it to a goddamn party, right?” Sycamore acquiesced and agreed that this was pretty logical thinking on my part, but we still couldn’t open the damn bottle for the life of us. I ended up just taking a big steak knife and carving my way through the cork till I could finally get my lips at the delicious wine. Fuck, that tasted good. By this time the blunt had gone out and we needed to relight that sucker and give it a good smoking. By the time I had crushed the tiny butt out on the kitchen floor with my boot, Sycamore had disappeared too, and the bottle of wine was empty. I was completely alone in the kitchen, leaning up against the refrigerator. I decide to go in search of more alcohol and lurched forward with that intent. I was a lot drunker than I had given myself credit for, though, and my legs didn’t operate in anywhere near the fashion I wanted or intended them to, and I fell flat on my face instead. I banged my chin pretty goddamn viciously on the kitchen floor so that I bit down hard on my tongue. I could taste blood in my mouth. I decided the best thing for me to was to stay down on the floor like that. I might really fuck myself up if I tried to get back on my feet. I don’t know how long I was there, but eventually someone, I don’t know who, came in and lifted me back up. I must have blacked out around this time because the next thing that I remember was sitting on the couch in another room with a glass full of whiskey in my hand, watching John Waters “Pink Flamingos” on the TV. It was the part of the movie where Divine buys the piece of meat at the butcher and shoves it up her dress between her legs as she walks. I was having black out experiences a lot these days. I would be missing hours, sometimes entire nights. The worst was when I would wake up in the back seat of my car and realize that I must have driven from some party or other to wherever it was I found myself in the morning but had no recollection of getting there. I could easily kill myself or someone else in one of these blackout experiences. At a certain point, I realized I needed to give up drinking and driving before something terrible happened. I decided to sell my car. I polished off my glass of whiskey and looked around the room. I was the only person there. Well, not the only person. There was a shirtless guy passed out on the couch next to me. Someone had drawn cartoon penises all over his chest. “That’s totally fucked up,” I remember thinking. “Where had everybody gone?” I wondered. I pushed myself gingerly off the couch and went in search of more alcohol. “There must be something here,” I thought. I wandered back through the kitchen where a whole bunch of people I didn’t recognize were laughing at some story I couldn’t quite figure out. I asked them if there was any more beer, but they just ignored me. I had no idea where all my friends had gone and by this point I couldn’t even remember whose house it was that I had been partying at. I pushed a couple of guys out of the way of the refrigerator and threw open the door. There had to be some alcohol inside. There wasn’t. I started to ask the guys if they knew where to find any, but they were giving me a particularly dirty look, so I slithered out of the kitchen to continue my search. There was nothing. I looked everywhere. I found a couple of half full bottles of beer, but they had already become party ashtrays. I even tried to drink one but got a cigarette butt in my mouth that I had to spit out on the floor. What’s more, there didn’t even seem to be anybody I knew in the house anymore. I ran from room to room, but I didn’t recognize any of my friends or anybody from the cast of the show I had just done. Where did everybody go? “I guess I might as well head home,” I thought. I stumbled out the front door with the intention of walking home. I was having trouble moving in a straight line, but I figured if I really focused I would probably be able to make it. A sort of jock looking dude about a foot taller than me stopped me on my way down the driveway. “Hey man,” he said, placing his hand on my chest to slow me down, “You’re really drunk. why don’t you let me give you a ride home?” “I’m fine,” I answered, belligerently, pushing his hand out of my way. “Seriously,” he said, reaching out for me but failing to grab my shirt as I dodged his reach, “You’re going to fuck yourself up going off like that.” “Don’t worry about me,” I spit back at him over my shoulder, “I’ve done this a thousand times. I’ve walked home drunk more times than you’ve masturbated, and from the look of you that’s a whole fucking lot.” “Well, fuck you then, asshole,” I heard him shout at me as I lurched from the driveway out into the road, just narrowly stepping out of the path of a pair of headlights that was rushing on me quickly. The problem was that the guy was right. As I walked off down the street, it occurred to me that I had no idea where I was and thus, no concept of the correct direction to choose to get home. I had only the vaguest memory of getting to the party in the first place. I know I had been driven there by one of the other cast members, but I was damned if I could remember which one. I’d had a few fucking drinks, okay? How the hell was I supposed to remember boring details? I hadn’t been paying attention to the streets either. I had just been laughing and telling jokes and otherwise making a spectacle of myself.   “God-fucking-damnit,” I thought, “Why am I always such a colossal fuck up?” I figured the best thing I could do was to keep walking. If I did, maybe I would come to a place I recognized, and from there, be able to find my way home. It’s wasn’t like I just moved here yesterday. I’d lived in this town for a couple of years. I’m not some newbie, wannabe poseur who just fell off the turnip truck.  I just happened to be in a strange part that I didn’t recognize. I walked for about fifteen minutes, turning frequently, but always trying to move in the direction that I assumed the center of town might be. I’m pretty arrogant about my sense of direction. Unfortunately, I was way off. I found myself at the bottom of a cul-de-sac I had been sure was going to lead somewhere, so I marched back in the other direction and turned the opposite way from the one I thought I had come. “This has got to work,” I thought. There were only so many directions I could go. I had to find the town center sooner or later. I was wrong again. I walked about a block and a half on this street before the houses started to disappear and I began to encounter bigger and bigger plots of land. “Oh shit,” I said to myself, slapping my own face with my hand, “I’m on the fucking Bottoms. How did I get to the Bottoms?” The Bottoms were what we all called the huge stretches of farmland on the outskirts of town. I was nowhere near where I had thought I was. The Bottoms were about a twenty-minute drive from the center of town, about thirty minutes from my place. It was going to take me for-fucking-ever to walk home at this point. I briefly wondered what time it was. It must have been after 2am. The party hadn’t even started till 10:30. It occurred to me that I might be really fucked here. I’d never spent much time on the Bottoms in the couple of years I’d lived in town. I mean, why the hell would I spend a lot of time in this area? I’m not a big fan of cow shit and there wasn’t fuck all else on the goddamn Bottoms. Why would anybody with half a brain even come down to this shithole if they didn’t have to? I’m not a frat boy into drinking two shots of Jägermeister and then drunkenly pushing cows over and I don’t need to pick magic mushrooms out of fresh, wet poop. I buy my mushrooms from the dealer like a respectable drug addict. I just kept stumbling down the road. I started looking around, hoping to see a car coming that maybe I could flag down and hitch a ride home. That seemed to be the best idea, but there was nothing, not a car in sight. This wasn’t exactly New York City. If it was as late as I thought it was, every goddamn person in town might be in bed already. “Jesus fucking Christ,” I screamed at the top of my lungs, so the cows could understand my pain, “could this be a bigger disaster?” Then it started to rain. With my luck, I should have predicted it. Oh, it had been misting for a while, but all of a sudden, the skies opened up and it started to pour. The rain was pounding down on the pavement and the marshy farm land the road ran through, splashing mud all over me. Within a few minutes, the original color of the clothing I had worn was impossible to distinguish, covered as it was with a thick layer of dripping clay. “Fuck,” I thought, “these were brand new duds I picked out specifically for the party.” I started to run as fast as I could down the road, screaming at the top of my lungs as I went. I have no idea what I was screaming and was pretty certain nobody could hear me anyway. After a few minutes, I slowed to a halt, realizing that running was counterproductive. I could easily be running farther away from where I wanted to go. I stopped in my tracks. “I’ve really fucked up this time,” I thought. I had no idea how I was supposed to get out of this situation. I probably should have accepted that ride from the jock dude back at the party. The rain continued to pour. If anything, it was raining harder than it had been a few minutes ago. “I guess it’s just never going to fucking stop,” I said to myself. Then I started to laugh. I just threw my head back and let out with as big a belly laugh as I’d ever laughed in my life. “I guess I’m going to die out here,“ I thought, and as I did so, I realized that the laughter had morphed seamlessly into tears, and I was bawling like a baby. I really committed myself to self-pity at this point. I plopped my ass down in the mud at the side of the road and cried my eyes out as the rain pelted me till I could taste the mud in my mouth as it rolled down my face. “What a shitty place to die,” I thought. Then I saw the headlights.   At first, I wasn’t sure that’s what they were, as they crept slowly down the long road. My mind could have easily been playing tricks with me at this point. After a couple of minutes, though, I recognized the outline of a vehicle headed my way. I jumped to my feet and started waving my hands hysterically and shouting. I must have looked a sight, a soaking wet and mud-drenched lunatic standing in the road screaming in the middle of the night. Nobody in their right mind would pull over and let me get in their car. The most likely outcome is that they would just drive on by and leave me there with my misery. I wanted them to stop so fucking badly, though. It could be the difference between life and death for me. I found myself praying for the first time in many years, repeating a mantra to myself over and over again, “Please God, let them stop for me. Please God, let them stop for me.” The car got closer and closer to me and it did appear that they were slowing down. I could see now that it was an old Galaxy 500 in pretty bad disrepair. Even through the driving rain I could see that this was one junker of a car that really had no business being on the road at all. It certainly wasn’t one of those beautifully restored models that real car lover guys often have. It looked like it had been driven non-stop from the 50s to this moment in time without so much as a tune-up. “Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers,” I thought. To my surprise, the car pulled over to the side of the road and the driver’s side window rolled down. Inextricably, the rain seemed to double in intensity at that moment, obscuring my vision, so I couldn’t make out any details of the head or face that looked at me from the open window. “Please God, let them give me a ride home,” I prayed silently, not moving a muscle. At that moment, the face in the window spoke. “Hey buddy,” it said, “are you alright there? You don’t look like you’re doing so good.” “I’m not,” I replied. I wanted to say so much more. I wanted to get down on my knees and beg for my life, beg for him to save me, to give me a ride home. Nothing came out, however, and I just stood there in silence for a minute or two. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the driver spoke again. “Why don’t you get in the car dude? We can give you a ride home.” “I’m soaking wet and covered in mud,” I told him, taking a hesitant step towards his car. “No shit,” he replied, “I can see that. It won’t make a difference in this car. Just get your ass inside and we’ll get you home.” I couldn’t believe my luck. A minute ago, I thought I was going to die out here, alone on the road, and now my salvation was at hand. “Thank you,” I said hesitantly, as I stepped towards the car and opened the rear driver’s side door. It was dark inside, but I could make out that there was already someone in the back seat. I looked towards the front and saw that there was another person in the front as well. I still couldn’t make out their faces, just the outlines of their figures. “Three guys in here,” I thought, “I guess that’s okay.” Now, I don’t usually hitch rides and I certainly never pick up hitchhikers. I’ve heard too many of the stories and half the people around here seemed like they walked out of a Manson family look-alike contest, so the last thing on earth I’d want is to share a ride with them. I was hesitating in a limbo between getting in the car and stepping back out onto the road. I was getting a really weird feeling that I couldn’t quite put my finger on, and it was leaving me very unsure as to what I should or shouldn’t do. It was then that the guy in the back seat reached out and pulled me into the car. I flopped down on the seat beside him, spraying an arc of mud across the inside of the car as I did so. “Goddamn,” the guy in the back seat said at this point, “this fucker really is covered in mud.” “That’s okay,” the driver said, turning to look at me, “Would you close the door though, dude? A lot of rain is getting in the car.” “Oh yeah,” I replied, as I pulled the car door shut, “sorry about that.” “No worries,” the driver said, “Now where we takin’ you, Mr. Mud?” “Uh, I live in t…t…town,” I stuttered, “near the corner of 5th and G.” “Alright,” he said, “then let’s get on the road.” He and the other guy both turned their faces back towards the front of the car then and the driver pulled out onto the road. I could hear the rain pounding on the roof as we started to move. If anything, it was falling even harder still. “Thank God I’m finally out of it,” I thought. “Thank you,” I said to the whole car, as I settled back into the seat, resting my head on the cushion. I was still very fucked up and drunk. You would have thought the walk and the rain might have sobered me up a bit but that was far from the case. I turned towards the guy sitting next to me in the back seat and realized that he was staring at me. I had the distinct impression he was sizing me up. I hadn’t paid much attention to the way the guys in the car had looked to this point, but I noted now that they could almost be triplets. All three were blond, white guys with short, military-cut hair and camouflage hats like hunters wear. “So, what’s your story, Mr. Mud?” the one sitting next to me said, “You look like you’ve fucked this night up one side and down the other.” “What do you mean?” I answered tentatively. As I did, I looked over at him and noticed for the first time that he was very heavily tattooed. He was wearing blue jeans and a grey t-shirt and had tattoos all down his arms and up his neck. It’s possible he even had a couple on his skull that were showing through his short blond hair a little bit. In the diffused lighting inside the car, I couldn’t really be sure. Now, I have nothing whatsoever against tattoos. I like them, in fact. I even have a couple myself. One on my right arm of my dog, Oscar, and a Chinese Symbol that means freedom on my chest that I had gotten the first time I got sober. There was one on this guy that bothered me a bit, however, just below his left ear. It was partially hidden but still unmistakable as the double lightning bolt SS symbol of the Nazi Stormtroopers. “I mean all THIS, Dude,” He said, waving his hand at me, “All this mud and water and stench and the scratches on your face. You are one fucked up dude, am I right?” “Yeah, I guess I’m a little drunk,” I said, trying my best to sound confident. I turned to look at the guy in the passenger seat, who was now turning around staring at me. He was smiling the most hideous grimace of a smile I’d ever seen and there was nothing in his eyes, no life, no warmth. He was a killer, through and through. He had the same SS Tattoo under his left ear. I swung my gaze towards the driver to see if he had one too. Mercifully he was still looking forwards, towards the road, but he had an identical SS tattoo under his ear as well. “What the fuck have I gotten myself into?” I thought. I live in little town in Northern California called Arcata. Arcata is the most liberal town you are ever going to find in your life. My guess is that every old hippy left on Earth has ended up here and every young hippy makes a pilgrimage to be among their own kind. It’s my kind of place, full of vegan restaurants, political action committees, and hot hippy chicks. In the end, though, Arcata is just a very tiny, progressive island in a vast sea of redneck ignorance. Some of the dumbest, ugliest motherfuckers you’ve ever seen in your life populate the surrounding towns, like McKinleyville, Garberville, and Laytonville (which I always referred to as Satanville for its hellish, frightening qualities). The most conservative people in Arcata vote Democrat every time, but in the surrounding communities there are a pretty fair share of racists, neo-Nazis, and white supremacists. It was looking like I’d fallen in with three white trash mutants from outside Arcata. Now, I’m sure you’re probably able to guess exactly how I feel about motherfucking Nazis. You are correct, sir, I cannot fucking stand them. We’ve fought long and hard to cut through the moronic racism in this country and shame the drooling, KFC swilling, KKK hood wearing redneck pigs back under the rocks they originally emerged from. What’s more, we had gone to war in Europe not so very fucking long ago to eradicate these ridiculous, sadistic scum from the face of the Earth. Not only were Nazis and white power jerk-offs amazing assholes, but they were always history’s big losers, constantly on the wrong side of both victory and history. Why any human being would want to throw their hand up in a “sieg heil” and declare yourself one of this spineless, pathetic crowd is beyond me. Yet, here I was, trapped in a car with three of them. The driver kept his eyes on the road and without turning, he said to me, “I’d say you’re more than a little drunk, wouldn’t you, friend? I’d say you’re shitfaced, you’re two sheets to the wind, you’re one toke over the line, aren’t you?” This Nazi sure knew a lot of colorful terms for being wasted. “Alright, I’m totally fucked up,” I replied, just deciding to go with it now, “Is that a crime?” The one sitting next to me busted out laughing, and slapping me on the shoulder, said, “I think it might be. What do you guys think, guys? Isn’t getting fucked up out of your mind a crime?” The guy in the passenger seat turned towards me again and in the coldest voice I’d ever heard said, “Yeah, it’s a crime. I think it’s called drunk in public. Maybe I oughta make a citizen’s arrest.” This guy was the one I really needed to watch out for. It’s possible he could jump in the  back seat and slit my throat at any second. “Ha,” I said, laughing myself to try and join in their fun somehow, holding my arms out with the wrists turned up as if I was waiting for handcuffs to be put on, “you got me dead to rights. I’m busted. Why don’t you put the cuffs on and take me to the clink?” The guy sitting next to me grabbed my arms and pulled them towards himself so that I was spun around in the back seat. His grip on my wrist was tight, and he had long, rat-like fingernails that were now digging deeply into my skin. I couldn’t tell for sure by the light in the car, but it was possible that he was drawing blood. “Hey motherfucker,” he screamed at me, moving so his face was so close to mine that I could see the spittle from his pasty lips spraying off him at my mouth and eyes, “Do we look like cops to you?” “Uh…,” was all I could say in response as he continued to hold my arms tight. The one in the passenger seat reached back to grab me now too, leaning way over the back of his seat to wrap his arm around my neck and put me in a headlock. “Well?” the passenger seat guy screamed, “Do we look like cops to you, motherfucker?” “N…n…no,” I answered, trying to wriggle out of their grasp, “you guys do not look like cops.” Apparently, that was the right thing to say, as they both released me now and settled back into their seats. I looked at my wrists and saw that the asshole next to me had, in fact, drawn blood. “How fucking long are that guy’s nails?” I thought. “You got that right,” the guy next to me said now, “We ain’t no fucking cops. Maybe you ain’t so drunk after all. You can figure that out at least.” All three were guffawing now. They thought this was the funniest comedy ever. Nazis have a pretty lousy sense of humor, it turns out. Maybe that’s why there are no Nazi comedians I can think of off the top of my head. They just kept repeating “Ain’t no fucking cops” over and over and laughing at the top of their redneck lungs. Suddenly, however, the laughter stopped dead. I looked around the car and the two who weren’t driving were both looking at me with the fiercest intensity I’d ever seen. I could practically see the steam coming off the tops of their heads from the angry fire of their stares. The one in the passenger seat leaned a little closer to me and said, in a voice that could cut through steel, “What DO we look like, Mr. Mud?” Without warning, the driver pulled the car over to the side of the road and turned off the engine. He turned towards me also and asked, “Yeah, what DO we look like?” I said nothing and just looked around the car, from one impenetrable face to the next. “C’mon Mr. Mud,” the guy in the passenger seat said, “you can be honest. Tell us what we look like.” I realized later that I should have said “You look like nice guys” or “You look like cool dudes.” That would have been the safe and appropriate response.  When I get really fucked up, though, as I’ve been telling you, I get very belligerent and the time between thinking a thought and that thought spilling out of my lips becomes almost nonexistent. So, instead of saying something sensible that would help get me safely out of this situation, I opened my big, fat mouth and said, “Inbred hick fucks. You guys look like inbred hick fucks.” This was a mistake. Next thing I knew, the three of them were dragging me out of the car and out into the middle of a muddy field. I obviously do not know when to shut my big, fat, fucking mouth, because I just kept screaming “INBRED HICK FUCKS” at the top of my lungs. If I had had my senses about me I would have understood that this wasn’t going to improve my situation any. Inbred hick fucks do not like to be called inbred hick fucks. Go figure. They must have dragged me for quite some ways because this part seemed like it went on forever. “What they hell is going to happen to me?” I wondered. Were they going to kill me? Rape me? I’d fucking seen Deliverance, you know. The last thing on earth I wanted was to be made to squeal like a pig, not by these stinking scumbags.   Finally, the three of them came to a stop and threw me down hard into the spongy, muddy grass on the ground, so that my face became half submerged in muck. I tried to scream “INBRED HICK FUCKS” one more time but my mouth filled with filthy water and it was all I could do to spit it out before the beating started. The first kick hit me right in the crotch. I jerked in pain and tried to roll myself into a ball, but the kicks started coming hard and fast now, landing from all sides. My stomach, my back, my ass, my ribs. Kicks were landing all over my body and Jesus fucking Christ, it hurt. Those motherfuckers must have all been wearing steel-toed boots. They just kept kicking me and kicking me. All I could do was to put my arms in from of my face to at least protect that. “Please God,” I found myself praying, “don’t let them ruin my pretty face.” I was very worried that one good kick to my kisser would be able to knock out my teeth. I didn’t have the most attractive teeth in the world. I mean, I was usually a lot more interested in getting royally shit-faced than I was in going to the dentist or practicing proper hygiene, but I sure liked my teeth better in my mouth than lying on the ground with the mud and the cow shit. We must have been out in the middle of a field because I could hear the cows mooing over the sound of the still driving rain. The rain didn’t seem to be bothering the three assholes at all, though, or slowing them down a bit. They didn’t say a word while they did it, or even make a sound. They seemed totally focused on the business of beating the living shit out of me. Finally, the one who I think had been the driver shouted to the others, “Okay, that’s enough. We don’t want to kill this fucker.” And like that, the beating stopped. Thank God they didn’t want to kill me. It actually came as a bit of a shock. I didn’t expect Nazis with moral boundaries. I looked up at them, wiping the rain, mud and what I assumed to be blood out of my eyes. The three of them spit on me, and then the one who had been sitting next to me in the back seat kicked me one more time, square in the face and shouted, “Who’s the inbred hick fuck now, fucker?” “Well, it’s still you,” I thought, touching the bruise on my face where the toe of the boot had connected, “kicking my ass doesn’t change that.” I kept this thought to myself, though. For the time being, at least, I had learned my lesson. The three Nazis walked back to their car then and left me lying alone, sprawled on the ground in pain, soaking wet and covered in mud and blood. I tried to raise myself up to my feet, but my legs gave out and I immediately fell back in the mud. “Shit,” I thought, “those guys really fucked me up.” I forced myself painfully to my knees. I didn’t think anything was broken, but until I started to walk I couldn’t possibly be sure. I had no idea what hour of the night it was at this point. It could be four or five in the morning for all I knew. I couldn’t judge how much time had elapsed since those fucking rednecks had picked me up. I looked around, in all directions. All I could see was grass and mud and rain and cows. It occurred to me then that, the vicious beating aside, I was much worse off than I had been when the inbred hick fucks had picked me up. I had been lost to begin with, but now I didn’t even know what direction to go in to find a road. I was well and truly fucked. I plopped my ass down in the mud one more time and just started to scream at the top of my lungs. I don’t know how long I sat there screaming. It could have been five minutes. It could have been an hour. It was impossible to tell. I was bleeding from multiple spots on my face and body and there was so much pain. Every part of my body hurt. Those stupid bastards had really fucked me up. Why the hell had I insisted on telling them what I really thought? At one point during my screaming, I looked over and there was a cow just a few feet away, looking absently at me. It must have wondered what this loud, obnoxious creature was doing out in the middle of its field. The cow didn’t look particularly menacing, more quizzical than anything else, but I did catch myself wondering if there was any way I’d be able to defend myself if the cow decided to charge me. Luckily, that never happened. I didn’t want the headline in the morning to read “Unknown Actor Trampled to Death by Cow.” I just kept screaming and screaming. I wasn’t doing it for any particular purpose. It was more that I just couldn’t think of anything else to do. If I got up and started walking; if I was, in fact, able to make it to my feet at all, I ran the risk of getting myself even farther from the road and making my chance for survival worse than it already was. I screamed for what seemed an eternity. “Somebody has got to hear me,” I thought. I decided I would scream and scream until someone, anyone, eventually showed up to help. “Please just don’t be more Nazis,” I thought. I was still screaming incoherently when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I turned half way around to see the flashing red and blue lights of a police car. “Oh, thank God,” I thought, “I’m saved. These cops will take me home.” You might not be surprised to know that I really don’t like cops. I hate them, in fact. As a general rule, they are never there when I fucking need them, but always manage to show up when I’m speeding, or running a red light, or transporting a shitload of heroin and hashish across state lines. Cops are not my friends any more than Nazis are. On this one occasion, however, I was overjoyed to see them. I stopped screaming completely at this point. I didn’t want to look like a total idiot. I’m sure I looked bad enough without the screaming. The lights were about a hundred yards away from me. Those fuckers had really dragged me far from the road. I kept staring at the lights to see if anyone was coming towards me, but for the longest time there were just the lights, no movement at all. “What the hell was taking them so long?” I thought. Couldn’t they see I was in trouble here? Finally, I started to see two tiny figures moving towards me in the rain. I stared at them as they got closer, trying with all my might not to start screaming again. It took every bit of my will power, though. In the end, I couldn’t fight it anymore and started waving my arms and shouting, “Hey, over here. I’m hurt bad. Over here.” When the cops got close, I could see that one was a guy and one was a girl. Rather than looking like they were happy to see me, however, they both looked like they were pissed that they had to get all wet on account of me. “Okay, quiet now,” the male cop said to me when he got within a couple of yards, “You can stop screaming now.” I stopped immediately. I hadn’t realized that I had still been screaming. The two cops stopped right in front of me, looking down. I got the distinct feeling that they were observing me like they might a bug they were about to crush. They stood that way for a few moments, before the female cop said to me, “Well, what exactly is going on here?” “Yeah buddy,” the other cop added, “don’t you think it’s time you left these poor cows alone?” “What?” I replied to them, trying to get to my feet, “These fucking Nazi guys brought me out here and beat the shit out of me.” “Hey now,” the female cop said, “watch the language. Is it necessary to have such a foul mouth?” As she said this, the other cop reached out with his foot and pushed me back down into the mud. “Why don’t you just stay where you are?” he said, “You can tell your story from there.” “They beat me up,” I answered, trying to get all the story out now in one breath so that they might believe and help me, “I was walking home from a party and hitched a ride from these guys with Nazi tattoos and they started giving me a hard time, so I called them inbred hick fucks, sorry but that’s what I said. I called them this name, so they pulled the car over to the side of the road and dragged me out here and beat me up. There were three of them and I tried to fight back and defend myself, but they were all attacking me at once and there was nothing I could do except try and defend my face from getting kicked.” “Wow, this guy’s really got a story to tell,” the male cop said, looking at the female cop. He then turned back to me and added, “How much have you had to drink, buddy?” “Uh…,” I answered, stunned, “what’s that got to do with anything?” “It has a whole to do with a lot of things,” the male cop responded, “There’s actually a law against public intoxication.” “Yeah, I’ve heard that somewhere before,” I said, looking from one cop to the other for some sign of compassion. I didn’t see any. I tried to find something else to say but nothing came to my lips. I was dumbfounded. I had told them the whole story of those violent Nazi scumbags and these two stupid cops actually thought that I was the criminal here. These fucking cops were proving to be as useless as all the rest. “C’mon now,” the female cop said as they both reached down to pull me up by my arms, “haven’t you bothered these poor cows enough?” “Yeah,” the other cop added, “maybe we should let them get some sleep.” Both cops started laughing then as they dragged me, tripping and stumbling, the hundred or so yards back to the police car. Every once in a while, one cop would look at the other one and repeat their hilarious joke, “Let them get some sleep.” Then the two of them would both bust out laughing. When we got back to the road and the police car, the female cop threw open the door and the guy cop tossed me unceremoniously in the back seat. “You’re going to get a little time to rest,” he said to me as he closed the door, “Don’t you dare vomit back there.” I must have passed out on the way back to the police station because I don’t remember any details about it at all. I remember being wet and filthy and uncomfortable but there is nothing else. The two cops could have laughed at me or taunted me the whole way, or they could have passed the entire ride in total silence. I have no way of knowing. I do remember arriving at the police station, because the guy cop pulled me so hard from the car that I smashed my head on the doorway as I came out. I thought cops were supposed to protect your head. Maybe that was only getting in the car, not getting out. Fuck, it hurt. I could tell I was going to have a big bump there on top of the damage that the inbred hick fucks had done to me. The two of them each held one of my arms to keep me steady as they dragged me up two flights of stairs. I was thinking the whole time about who I was going to bother when I got the one phone call they always give you. They carried me into a wide room with another cop standing behind a big counter at the end. I didn’t like the look of this one. He looked like a real asshole. In fact, he looked pretty similar to the fuckers I had been in the car with and who had beaten the shit out of me. He had blue eyes and short blond hair and that typical Nazi look of total condescension when his eyes met mine.  “Christ,” I thought, “the two who had arrested me and brought me in might be the nice ones.” Chances were that I was pretty fucked here. “What do we got here?” he said to the cops who brought me in. “Drunk in public,” the female cop said. “We found him crying and screaming in a cow field,” the guy cop added, “He needs a night in the drunk tank to sleep it off.” “Alright then,” the cop behind the counter said, “Let’s get to it then.” The two who had arrested me left me with the asshole looking cop then and disappeared back into the night. I guess they were off to arrest some other poor slob who had been beaten senseless by Nazis. The majority of the booking process that followed occurred in almost complete silence. The asshole looking cop may have said one or two words to me the entire time but that was the extent of it. He took my mugshot and my fingerprints, and I had to blow into some balloon like thing, I guess it was to measure my level of drunkenness. It was totally unnecessary. If he would have just asked I would have gladly told him how drunk I was. “Alright,” he said when we were finished with that, “I think it’s tank time for you.” “Don’t I get a phone call?” I asked him. I had been going over my options and I planned to call my friend, Satlin, who was a guy I’d known for a long time and who had been at the performance of the terrible play earlier in the evening. Damn, that seemed like a lifetime ago now. I’d been wracking my brain and Satlin was the only one I could think of who might be interested in me getting the hell out of here. It wasn’t that he cared so much about my wellbeing, but Satlin had a sick sense of humor and would want to make sure I was safe and ready to give another over-the-top performance of “The Feeling Child.” In response, however, the asshole looking cop just slapped me on the shoulder and laughed. After he had giggled and chortled his fill, he looked at me and said, “No phone call. Now, take off your clothes.” “Wh…what?” I replied to him. “I said give me your clothes,” he said to me, biting off the words right in my face, “You’re not getting in my tank wearing all that filthy, stinking shit.” “M…my clothes?” “Yes, your clothes. Go ahead now. I’ll wait.” So, I proceeded to strip naked in front of the asshole cop. He didn’t seem to be enjoying it, thank God. It wasn’t one of those things, at least. As I mentioned earlier, I naturally always think the worst of cops and It would surprise me not the tiniest little bit to find out they made a habit of raping and murdering the people they arrest. To be perfectly honest, though, it felt pretty good to take my clothes off. I had been wet and covered in mud for so long that I had kind of gotten used to it, but it was a bit of a relief to finally be rid of the clothes. When I got down to just my underwear, I thought of asking if he wanted me to continue but I knew the answer already, so I just stripped them off and threw them onto the pile of my clothes on the floor. “Okay, what now?” I said to him when I was finished, standing completely naked in front of him. “Now I say nighty-night,” He answered, taking me by the arm and leading me down a short hallway to a room with a very thick door and an extremely tiny window. I assume the window was for checking on what was inside rather than looking out. The asshole looking cop opened the door and I peered inside. There were two other guys already in there, sitting on the floor. For some reason, they had been allowed to keep their clothes. The walls and floor were all heavily padded, and other than the two guys, there was nothing in the room but a dirty toilet in one corner. “Home sweet home,” I thought. “Hey look, I got a friend for you guys,” the asshole looking cop said, then threw me roughly into the room. Luckily everything was padded because I smashed hard into one wall and slid to the ground. What was it with people throwing me around? The two guys didn’t even look at me. they were both in their own little worlds. Then the asshole looking cop slammed the door and left me alone with my new friends. I looked up from where I was now squatting uncomfortably against the wall. The excitement had roused the two other guys in the cell and they were now looking in my direction. Both of them looked like redneck guys in their mid to late 50s. They were wearing jeans, flannel shirts, and red MAGA caps, and both of them had long cracker beards, like the assholes on Duck Dynasty. They eyed me like a piece of meat. I was trying to figure out if they wanted to kill me or fuck me, or both. “Christ almighty,” I said to myself, “how many fucking rednecks does a guy have to deal with in one evening?” They were both the same evil person as far as I was concerned, so I don’t remember which of them spoke first. Maybe it was the one closest to me, maybe it was the other one. It doesn’t make any difference. One of them, however, asked me then, “So, what are you in for?” “I was arrested for being drunk in public,” I answered, feeling that I had nothing really to gain by lying about my situation at this point, and really, who gave a damn what these rejects thought of me, “but in truth I had the shit beat out of me by these three guys and I was left out in a field to die. The cops decided not to believe any of that, though. They think I did this shit to myself somehow and decided to drag me in.” The two of them sat up a little straighter against the wall, and this time I’m certain it was the one closest to me who said, “Those motherfuckers. They never fail to let the bad guys run wild in the streets and arrest the decent, law-abiding folks.” “Right?” I responded. I was pretty sure that when he said “bad guys” he meant immigrants and African Americans. I thought it best to keep that to myself for the time being, however. “What the fuck did they do with your clothes?” the other one said to me. “They told me to take them off,” I answered,” I thought they were going to give me new ones. “Those motherfuckers,” the first one said again, “Did they at least give you a motherfuckin’ phone call?” “No,” I said, feeling like I was starting to win them to my cause, “I asked for a phone call and they just laughed at me.” “Goddamnit,” the second one said, and the first one chimed in with another “motherfuckers.” “Yeah,” I told them, “It doesn’t seem right to me. Does it seem right to you?” “Hell no,” the first one said, “it does not seem motherfuckin’ right. You are owed one goddamn phone call, like everybody else.” “Those bastards are robbin’ you of your rights,” the second one added. Both of these were certainly insufferable redneck racists in real life, but I sure needed someone on the me-team at this point, so anyone was welcome. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, or some such nonsense, right? Never underestimate the comradery of shared whiteness. The two of them got up on their feet at this point and started pounding on the door and walls, shouting “Give this guy a phone call,” and “Everyone deserves a phone call,” and other stuff like that. I watched them in amazement for a while. I was pretty certain they had as good a chance of getting me beat up again as they did of getting me a phone call, but there was no way I was going to stop them. After a while, I got up myself and started pounding the walls and shouting with them. I was not unaware of how ridiculous I looked doing this, being naked and all, with my junk bobbing up and down every time I pounded the foam rubber wall. All this accomplished nothing, however. The cops never showed up and eventually, my two new friends gave up, sitting back down in pretty damn near their original positions and passing out. Mercifully, it wasn’t too much longer before I passed out myself. I was roused by a sharp kick in my already badly bruised and painful ribs. “Fuuuuuuuuuck,” I exclaimed, as I opened my eyes to see the asshole looking cop standing over me. He had my clothes in his hands. They were folded neatly, so maybe someone had washed them in the night. “Get up, buddy,” He said to me, “It looks like you’re in luck.” “What?” I replied, not understanding. “You’re in luck,” he said again, “It looks like somebody loves you. Now get your ass up and let’s go. I don’t have all day.” I looked around the room and my new friends were both gone. I wondered for a second what had happened to them, but then the asshole cop kicked me in the fucking ribs again, so I got myself up and followed him. He led me out of the padded cell and motioned silently to a bathroom just outside, handing me my clothes as he did so. “Why are they letting me go?” I wondered to myself, and what had the asshole looking cop meant when he said, “It looks like somebody loves you.”? I slowly got into my now clean clothes. It was difficult because of all the cuts, abrasions and bruises I had suffered from the night before. I had been hoping all that had been a bad dream. Apparently, it was all too real. I checked my poor, battered face in the mirror. “Fuck,” I thought, “Those inbred hick fucks really did a number on me.” I opened the bathroom door and the asshole looking cop was still there waiting for me. He took me by the arm and led me back to the very same room where this trip to the looney bin had begun. Satlin was sitting there, waiting for me. I should have guessed. Who else had enough riding on my continuing to breath air? He had an expression on his face that said, “What idiotic situation have you gotten yourself into this time?” It looked like he was having serious difficulty holding back a laugh. Satlin has always been fond of telling other people that they should only spend time with me if they want their entire lives turned upside down. Of course, this comes from a wealth of his personal experience. One time Satlin and I been walking together to the movies, when a car came screeching around a bend in the road and plowed us down in the intersection we were crossing. The car hit Satlin’s leg and spun him to the ground, but I jumped and and ended up on the hood, hanging onto the windshield wipers. The first thing Satlin said after the car had sped away was “This is all your fault.” I was pretty certain he was really enjoying seeing me like this. The asshole looking cop pushed me, not entirely gently, in Satlin’s direction and said, “He’s all yours. Don’t let him take you on a tour of any cow fields.” Then, he threw his head back and let loose with one last hideous guffaw. Fuck, I fucking hate cops. Almost as much as Nazis. Of course, there’s probably a lot of crossover there. On the way home, neither Satlin or I spoke a single word to each other. I wasn’t in the mood, with my head banging and pounding like someone was playing an NFL game inside of it. Satlin must have known it wasn’t a great time to give me any shit about what had happened. There’d be plenty of time to hear the whole story and to bust my chops later. When we got to my apartment, I got out of the car without saying goodbye and walked into my place. The first thing I did was to draw myself a hot bath and place my wounded body into the blissfully warm water. “What a fucking night,” I thought. I spent the rest of the day in the bath, not being able to pull myself out, wondering if I’d ever learn to keep my big fat mouth closed. The moral of the story, of course, is I should give my life to Jesus, and I should spend my days praying and imitating Norman Rockwell paintings so that shit like this doesn’t happen to me. If that’s too extreme for me to handle, then maybe I should go to an AA meeting and get a grip on my drinking problem, or at least learn how to leave a party while there are still drugs and alcohol waiting to be consumed. None of those things are going to happen, of course. The best I may achieve is to learn to keep some of my more unflattering thoughts inside my head where they belong, instead of blurting them out in people’s faces. At least around inbred hick fucks.

Max Mundan, Inbred Hick Fucks

© Max Mundan 2018

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[ramrodd]

The New Marine Rifle Squad

COMMENTARY:

The first thing I was taught in ROTC tactics was that the basic unit of the military organization is the squad. That's doctrine.

The basic unit of the Roman legions was the 8 man squad, which trained, lived and fought as two 4 man teams. You can see this organization in Mark 15, when Jesus is brough out, in Matthew 28 and the Gospel of Peter reflect a 17 person guard mount: two 8 man squads, I centurion/Gunnery Sgt. Unlike the military organizations in the rest of the world, the Roman legions, like Latin were put together like Lego blocks and the centurions represented the inspector general function the USMC centuriate performs horizontally and uniformly across the Corps. The Praetorian Guard was the functional core of the Roman republic, which continue to operate as a republican structure arising from the rule of law and the centurions of the Praetroian guards (or the Italian Cohort indentified in Acts 10) were the prototypes for the rest of the legions. Once Constantine disbanded the Praetorian Guard and adopted the verticle (and, necessarily, decadent) structures of the theocracy, it was just a matter of time until the Empire fell apart for pretty much the same reasons the Articles of Confederation were abandoned and replaced by the US Constitution.

However, this squad organization, which perfectly reflects the group dynamics of Kurt Lewin's research and the natural law of the Ennlightenment, was abandoned as near as I can tell, formally, by Frederick the Great's manual of arms developed to optimize firearms. This system is based on the private soldier as the basic unit of the military organization and this doctrine persisted in the American US Army until 1947, when S.L.A. Marshall's "Men Against Fire" provoke a change of doctrine to the squad paradigm based on lessons learned from the Wehrmacht.

The US Army Ranger School was created to proliferate this new model of small unit leadership throughout the US Army community. This goal was achieved when Colin Powell became Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. My dad was one of the people involved in the creation of the Ranger School when Joe Collins was Army Chief of Staff.

Now, the reason why the Marine Corps is reducing their 13 man TO&E to the 12 man squad and consolidating the three 4 man fire teams to two 6 man fire teams has to do with the relationship between economies of scale and index of scale in small units. The perfect size for an intimate dinner party is 8 persons and it has to do with face time and collective resources I associate with the process theology of individual and organizational high performance. The 13 man squad reflects the structues of Jesus's "A" Team, but, for various reasons, it's a clumsy operatonal construct. For one thing, what actually happens in sustain combat operatons, you end up with a squad leader and, maybe, four or 5 guys, and 3 of them could be buck sergeant Team Leaders. The Army's organization begins with that assumption and the Organization Effectiveness people in the USMC could measure the advantages to the Army model. And it goes back to the Roman legions for the same reasons: natural law/process theology.

I'm an Army brat. Unlike you, I dedicated myself to a military vocation after listening to MacArthur's Valedictory in 1962. You should listen to it if you haven't recently done so: in response to the slander that opens this video, who wouldn't want to spend their life with men such as these? As I 've written in the Quora War Elephant, I figured I'd take a burst of 40 years in the Green Beret and retire as the CG of Ft. Monroe VA. That was Plan A. One of your War Elephant contributors scoffed at the idea of a 40 year military career,  because most of the people on your forum are dumber than dog shit and the only difference between them and the guy bad mouthing the military in you video is their willingness to kiss your ass for a little stolen valor. I've been dealing with assholes like this since I got back from Vietnam in 1971, but, if they pony up for your War Elephant Patreon cash flow, hey, get it while you can. I just don't have much use for the Swift Boat slander patrol who I associate with Ollie North and other lifers like Michael Flynn who are fellow travelers in Newt Gingrich's plot to overturn the verdict reached at Appomattox by political coup arising from violent revolution because they think it's the only way to do business.

But that's another story. Went through ROTC from June 1965, just before the drafts for Vietnam began, until 1969, after the Police Riots at the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago. I went to college to get an ROTC commission, but I had to carry an academic load, so I majored in English Romantic Literature, Epistemology and German literature. As a hard-wired Eisenhower Republican in ROTC and military ambitions, I was caught between anti-war, draft-dodging self-righteous Fascist liberals like Sam Seder and pro-war, draft-dodging, self-satisfied crypto-Nazi white supremacists like Tucker Carlson. At the time I started college, the Tucker Carlson crowd were the Big Men on Campus, Greeks and athletes and controlled campus society missing no opportunity to mock and generally harrass the independent Fascist liberals. By the time I left, the independent Fascist liberals had won the cultural warfare and were, in effect. controlling campus politics and who became Homecomming Queen. That's why right wingers my age, like Newt Gingrich, Roger Stone, Bill O'Reilly and Pat Buchanan resent all liberals: the liberals had become the "in crowd" that the conservatives had dominated until the GI Bill opened up the campuses to a new source of student too poor to join a fraternity and, in the 60's, identified with the white Freedom Riders and didn't expect to inherit daddy's business or work for IBM as a legacy executive.

So, I've watched this shit for a long time and the people you're associated with are like all the assholes in the GOP that returning combat vets had to deal with in finding work, because they all avoided the draft, like Trump or Dan Quayle or W, and got on with their business careers and were two or three years ahead of you if you had been a draftee and had two years and a wake-up on active duty. And you reminded these people that they were scared shitless of going to Vietnam, like John Bolton, who had a 4 year ROTC deferment, like me, and then went into the Nationa Guard because he, like the rest of them, was scared shitless of going to Vietnam.

These are the people at War Elephant. In 1981, I was put on a Reagan White House black list by Charles Z Wick for being a Vietnam "Loser" and for doing business with the Soviet Union in line with Nixon's diplomatic and domestic agenda and people like Tucker Carlson and on the War Elephant made it stick. I haven't had a corporate pay check sine 1981: at one point, I couldn't even get telephone calls returned.

When I say that Newt Gingrich employs a political strategy based on Trotsky's process for social disorder leading to a political coup arising from violent revolution, I know what I am talking about. You probably heard about the violence the Proud Boys brought to BLM plaza yesterday in DC: that's one symptom of Trotsky's processes. The late election reflected the structural polarization the Gingrich/Trotsky processes are designed to create: it's how he became Speaker of the House.

He's an Army brat. We were living in Stuttgart at the same time and he knows exactly what he is doing with Trotsky's formula for violent revolution: Politics is the continuation of warfare, which I am sure you recognize as the inversion of Clausewitz's "War is the continuation of political intercourse by the intermixing of means", which defines the relationship of the US military to the US Constiitution. Gingrich is engaged in treason and most of your stakeholders are useful idiots in his agenda.

It's unclear what your participation in Newty's plot represents.

Did you ever hear the squadie version of the 23 Psalm: "The Lord is my First Sergeant, I shall not want."  I've forgotten how the rest of it went. If you remember, post it on the War Elephant.

[sportsleague365]

The day after Valentines’ Day there’s nothing worse than waking up and remembering you got that leathered on your romantic meal that when you got home, the evening was a bit of a flop. Not that I’d know anything about that of course, it just erm, happened to a mate of mine, honest. Whilst the aforementioned scenario may be something of an embarrassment, it’s nothing compared to some of the flops we’ve seen at Old Trafford over the years, particularly the post- Sir Alex Ferguson era. Tuesday night was a timely reminder of some of the transfer carnage that has ensued on Ed Woodward’s watch as one United number 7 whose wages could fund a Presidential election campaign, was outshone by another who’s transfer fee could fund a military one. Chances are neither Alexis Sanchez nor Angel Di Maria will end up being revered by Reds, the latter actually did well to leave the ground unharmed such was the level of hatred towards him. The two South Americans are far from being the only pair of expensive follies to darken the United manager’s door over the past few years. It’s almost as if since Fergie retired, United managers have been doing their best to outdo each other in the transfer stakes, forgoing tactical policy and squad requirements in favour of media impact and marquee impressiveness. We need a midfielder? Forget that, Chelsea’s player of the season is available let’s break the transfer record to get him. We’re crying out for another full back? Forget it, there’s a £75 million striker with our name on it. Let’s make that happen. As the Bard once wrote of United’s transfer policy: ….a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. Anyway enough of the Shakespeare, here’s a top five of United transfers that turned out to be crap. 5. Radamel Falcao. This may seem somewhat controversial, as after all unlike others on this list, the Colombian striker didn’t cost the Reds a fortune. His performances in a United shirt were far from disastrous and he did have the excuse of being far from fully match fit when we signed him. The reason the occasional Monaco forward makes this list, is more to do with the expectation being a million miles away from the reality. Signing Falcao on loan with a view to a permanent move was seen as a massive coup for a club out of the Champions League and trying to remind the world we were still part of the elite. Falcao’s debut saw United fans singing his name for the best part of the second half, even before he came on. That was arguably about as good as it got. 4 goals in 29 appearances, including anonymous displays against the likes of such footballing giants as Preston North End and Yeovil Town saw the man who came with a huge fanfare, leave with a whimper. Bizarrely to Chelsea who seemed to be oblivious to his struggles in England. One goal in his Stamford Bridge career, saw him return to Monaco where the cheeky bastard promptly scored 30 goals in a season to remind us exactly what all the fuss was about. 4. Juan Sebastian Veron. The odd thing about Veron’s United career is that he was arguably one of the most gifted midfielders we’ve ever seen at the club and at times it showed. The issue was it showed around once a month, if we were lucky and usually then it was only in the Champions League. In the Argentinean maestro’s defence he was signed to a side that had the best midfield pairing on the planet in Paul Scholes and Roy Keane as Ferguson seemed unsure of how best to use all three of them. Shifting Scholes further forward didn’t work, despite Veron getting off to a flyer. Watching his display against Everton just after his arrival it was easy to believe United had signed the player who could take the reigning Premier League champions, bidding for a record fourth consecutive title, to the next level. Unfortunately he flattered to deceive as games, fatigue, niggling injuries and the pace of the Premiership caught up with the once majestic midfielder. United finished third after Veron’s first season, the club’s lowest finish in over a decade. Despite showing glimpses again of his greatness the following season, especially in Europe, it was another campaign of disappointment for Veron, if not for United who regained the title in spite of rather than because of the former Lazio man. Ferguson once launched a passionate defence of Veron when questioned about him, noting to journalists with his usual relaxed charm: “He [Veron] is a fucking great player.” “And you’re all fucking idiots.” One could argue it was Chelsea who were idiots, paying £15 million for Veron who spent one patchy season at Stamford Bridge before returning to Italy. Veron was far from poor at United but his £24 million signing, put Sir Alex off expensive ‘superstars’ from abroad for years to come. 3. Garry Birtles. The original United flop and the one all others are measured by Birtles was a carpet fitter from Nottingham who somehow became one of the most expensive players on the planet. To put just how bad the former Forest striker’s time at Old Trafford was into perspective, in his first full season he managed 16 league goals less than Romelu Lukaku managed in his. But hang on a minute, I hear you cry, Lukaku only managed 16 league goals in his first season. That’s right Birtles didn’t manage a single league goal in his first United season, despite playing 25 games. Birtles enjoyed a better second season – let’s face facts it couldn’t have been much worse- bagging 11 goals before Ron Atkinson decided to cut the Reds’ losses and sell him back to Forest. Dave Sexton had forked out £1.25 million for the striker, Atkinson reportedly accepted £300,000 to get rid of him. At least he didn’t have to go back to carpet fitting. 2. Angel Di Maria. Okay it’s a populist choice, seeing as most Reds hate the Paris Saint Germain winger, but there’s no denying the former Real Madrid man didn’t exactly shine at Old Trafford. Brought for a club record £59.7 million, Di Maria had been lauded as the unsung hero of an awesome Los Blancos team. Like Veron, Di Maria shone early on in his United career, before degenerating into a player who looked like he’d been allowed to play for the team as some form of charity competition winner. For want of a better description, Di Maria was garbage. In mitigation Louis van Gaal playing him as a striker and an attempted burglary at his house didn’t help, but it can’t hide the fact the Argentine international was more Lionel Blair than Lionel Messi in his solitary season at the club. Now, unfortunately, much improved at PSG, who ‘rescued’ him and us from his Old Trafford nightmare, at a loss of only £15 million for the Reds. Few were sad to see him leave, arguably until Tuesday. 1. Alexis Sanchez. Okay you’ll think I’m being overly harsh or even controversial for the sake of it here, but allow me to elucidate. If we take transfer flops as a simple equation: ‘expectation’ divided by ‘impact’ plus ‘success’ then Sanchez has to be bottom of the pile. When United beat City to the Chilean’s signature it was seen as the biggest coup since Sir Alex took a call from a drunk Yorkshireman. Sanchez was awesome for Arsenal – City were nailed on to get him, they were destined to lift the title. It looked like mission impossible to lure him to Old Trafford but thankfully Arsenal preferred getting Henrikh Mkhitaryan to nobody, so took the Reds’ offer. You have to wonder if the Gunners now regret that. In terms of impact, Sanchez has managed 3 league goals in 12 months, a paltry return that would make even Birtles blush. Then there’s success, well quite simply there hasn’t been any. An offside goal, correctly ruled out by VAR in the FA Cup final, denied Sanchez of the chance of silverware while in both the league and Champions League this season, he’s been neither use nor ornament in the club’s pursuit of either. Tuesday simply highlighted how far Sanchez has fallen in that by the full time whistle many Reds were actually pining for Di Maria to return to the number 7 shirt. It’s been such a disaster for the Chilean that he’s now been linked with a return to Arsenal, it genuinely doesn’t get much worse than that. Source link The post Top 5 Manchester United Transfer Flops appeared first on 10z Soccer. #ManchesterUnited #AlexisSanchez #AngelDiMaria

[eloquentmydear]

YOU KNOW WHAT REALLY PISSED ME OFF? THE FACT THAT MARK, AS A GAY MAN, AS A SHERLOCK'S FAN BOY/NERD HAS TO BE A JOHNLOCK SHIPPER. THERE'S NO WAY HE HAD READ THE BOOKS AND THOUGHT "OH YEAH THAT'S A REAL FRIENDSHIP, LOOK AT THEM, SUCH BROS". NO WAY! I KNOW HE SHIPS THEM, AND HE LIES ABOUT IT. WTF MARK? WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU? HE SHOULD FOLLOW HIS LITTLE GAY HEART AND FIND THE WAY OF REDEMPTION...I KNOW HE KNOWS WHAT IS RIGHT...DEEP INSIDE HIS EVIL SOUL. (YES I AM AN ANON AND I AM SCREAMING ).

I got very worried reading the first sentence in all caps from an anon, but thankfully I agree. Before I ever believed in TJLC or Johnlock endgame or even my own queerness, my tiny gay brain read Scarlet and Sign of Four and Hound and I knew they were so in love. Mark is either full of bullshit or an idiot. Actually he's either an idiot full of bullshit or just a plain idiot, because either way he's a moron for throwing away this huge, HISTORY-MAKING chance to make one of the most GLOBAL, famous characters openly, undeniably gay (homosexual) and gay (happy) with his bisexual husband John Watson. But no. He fucked up big time and I hope he knows what he threw away and that he regrets it for the rest of his life. I hope he knows how much pain he's caused his own damn communities - LGBT, Sherlock, writers, left-wingers. Fuck him. The fact that he didn't even stop to consider creating that real, meaningful representation, or how it might hurt our communities, shows just how fucking privileged he is. Everything's okay for the old white gay man, so fuck the young, queer, unrepresented, fragile, hoping and aching fans, right? They're just annoying and ungrateful and they don't understand the value of gay jokes. It's their own fault, right? I'm so fucking salty.I know that we can reclaim our communities from him and share love and heal together and come back even stronger than before. As I said on twitter - we'll do better. We have to. And unlike him, we actually WANT to contribute to our communities.

[jonboudposts]

Stop Crying for Boris Johnson

In the middle of the Corona Virus pandemic, the Prime Minister was taken into intensive care for what until then seemed like a case of skiving more than full-on sickness.  The weirdest and saddest sight has been left-wing commentators, activists or just wet people on Twitter and the like feeling a need to write support for Boris Johnson. The reason for doing so are more about a cultural weakness than any real commitment.  More out of fear of judgement because, after all, who with any decency could really care about Boris Johnson?

This idiot got Corona Virus through his own actions.  The same total irresponsibility he has displayed his whole overprivileged life.  All those people in parks over the weekend we are encouraged to condemn; the prime minister is one of those, but even more ignorant because the best-informed scientific minds in the country have been telling him what needs doing for a couple of months and he ignored it.  It seems strangely appropriate that Boris Johnson may die from the thing he and his extremist advisers made such a crap job of preparing for both personally and professionally because it does not match their political ideology to act on it.  

On the 3 March he talked about shaking hands in a hospital with people probably infected with Corona.  He also wanted all of us to get Covid-19 to create a heard immunity that is not only scientifically improbable but would involve many people – your friends, loved ones and work colleges and mine – dying.  Many of them already have because the government failed to take action quickly enough and now, we see exposed the full damage that ten years of austerity has done to the NHS and wider society, all under governments of varying Conservative stripe.  We are seeing increasing numbers of NHS workers dying trying to save all our lives, while the empty gesture brigade clap them on once a week (even ones who have voted Tory).  

The media have collectively forgotten all this; because to do otherwise would mean admitting they are wrong in their political support for this totally inept and extreme government – and I am the one scoring political points here? The British media is totally broken and cares more for attacking dissenters than reporting.  The level of carelessness toward the sick is breath-taking, as the BBC evening news discusses those old and infirm or suffering pre-existing conditions as people who would ‘have dies soon anyway’ (a literal line from The Day Today).  Unlike Boris Johnson of course, who is ‘a fighter’ (indicating that all those other people killed by this bastard virus were not).

But most importantly, no one on the right – politicians, newspaper owners, supposed writers or just dickheads screaming because the BBC have not played the national anthem today – would ever extend any understanding or care toward the left; or any notion of equality.  Come the day Jeremy Corbyn dies, these fuckers will gloat like there is no tomorrow; while now they shout on social media saying ‘the left’ are hypocrites for not caring about Boris Johnson, even when you do express such misguided care.   But most importantly, left-wing campaigners and commentators are regularly threatened with death, rape and other serious violence.  We are often subjected to it too.  Whatever I write, even if mildly critical of the PM at this time will always be thrown back at me by trolls and right-wing scum.  If I express any care or sympathy, it would be sneered at and disbelieved; so you cannot win with these people, no matter what.

Yet the same media, politicians, permanently online saddos and un-fuckable freaks never stand up for us or support the freedom of speech to say you hate this government or think soldiers and police are not heroes.  When you are threatened, they agree and amplify – from a safe distance naturally, as they are all utter cowards.  As I write this, they are all over Twitter calling left wingers childish names.  With this in mind, why on earth would make the effort to kiss up to these people?  

They know perfectly well that when you give an inch to the likes of them, it’s over for you.  None of them care what you or I think in the same way I could not give a rusty fuck about their opinions – they just want the power over you.  They want to make you apologise for doing nothing wrong or over something they do not even really care about because it makes you – and us – weak.  Always on the defensive, always fighting back.  We are the ones who believe in things; the right are a gaggle of scumbags who love only their own enrichment at the expense of those most vulnerable.

They wish they could suppress the left, like Orban or Duterte, among their fascist heroes.  But our political movement, for all the faults, has always been too strong and right to be repressed.  Really, they want us to die, preferably in the most violent ways possible and with a dose of sexual violence if you are a woman.  When you simper to them, what do you really imagine this achieves?  

While I rarely wish anyone suffering, I do not care about Boris Johnson. With or without Corona Virus running around his bloodstream, he is still a racist, homophobic, flag-waving twat who is responsible for poverty, injustice and death in Britain.  He is authoritarian, intolerant of anyone who challenges him and was involved in a situation last year with his now-pregnant partner that sounds awfully like domestic violence.  He is an awful man no matter what position he holds or where he comes from.  The best reason for his to survive is so he can go on trail for all the deaths in Britain from Covid-19 caused by him and his degenerate eugenicist adviser Dominic Cummings. This feudal-obsessed shithole of a country just bows and scrapes to the likes of him out of fear and habit.  

But still they Tweet and announce how they are ‘thinking of him and his family’. London mayor Sadiq Khan Tweets his prayers for Boris, who is an Islamophobe who refuses to investigate his political party that is full of Muslim-haters.  When fascist and far-right groups march in the UK these days (back when we were allowed outside), they have chanted the name ‘Boris’ and proclaimed him ‘their’ PM. That has never happened before.

Who do you people think you are kidding trying to make out this man has anything decent within him?  Take a look at Britain; with a failing healthcare system, increased hate crime and racist attacks, life-destroying levels of grinding poverty and a media that refuses anything other than the establishment line.  Boris Johnson has been fundamental is turning Britain into a cruel, cold failed state.  This is what you get when you send in the clowns.  These are the things we should be concentrating on changing; not a pathetic game of back-and-forth with a soulless runt of self-made human garbage.

The man who has led a government of over-privileged white power extremists has become a victim of his own actions; plain and simple.  He took on survival of the fittest; let’s see if he lives through it.

But whatever happens, do not come sniffing around here for an apology for anything I have said here; or for help whitewashing this vile man’s record.  Too many decent, innocent people have died in Britain due to Corona Virus.  Boris Johnson will not be one of them.