I never accepted the idea of the netnutroots, because I’ve been online since the ancient times, when “browser” was the proverbial sperm in Daddy Marc’s glands, and crude BBS software and command line hacks against phone company switches and such ruled the “land.”
Until you permeate the populace–where the nutroots are not even close–you do not have any weight to throw, except in small, unknown to the “Average Joe” precincts that most consider The Land of the Blithering Ass.
Kinda like this:
Firedoglake: Special SHUT EM SHUT EM DOWN!! Edition
or even better, this pile of shit:
What the hell is our obsession with remembering September 11? We remember it, ok. I don’t need a TV commercial to remind me of that day or how I felt. I was there. It took me a long time to get over it. And I most certainly don’t need my politicians, or anyone else, trying to drag me back to that day kicking and screaming several times a year as if I don’t remember it, and as if it’s somehow healthy to keep bringing it up.
Last year when I was in Paris I was out to dinner with friends at a really nice restaurant. Suddenly right behind me an entire tray of dishes went smashing to the floor. I jumped, like anyone would, but then I felt more. My head started to go a little numb and I started to feel boxed in by the booth I was sitting in. My friends continued jabbering away, but all I could think of was how the hell I was going to get out of that restaurant as quickly as possible. Well, I was boxed in by other diners, there was clearly no escape, so I broke into tears. I don’t cry, it was very weird. And I immediately knew that I was having a September 11 flashback – no question at all.
I don’t need anyone reminding me of September 11, thank you very much. In fact, as last summer’s plate crashing episode reminded me, I could still use a little more forgetting about September 11.
I’ll give the author a pass on, per 9-11-01, whether or not “I was there.” Asking whether the author was actually in Manhattan, or even in line of sight of the dstruction, would be, kinda, like, negating the author’s reality (or some such shit). The author, however the input was delivered, felt the moment.
UPDATE: The author’s theme song for Air Idiot NYC today!
But after that exact fateful day how many wakes, funerals or memorials has this skippy little shit actually attended? How many flowers have been placed by this author on graves interning empty boxes, for lack of remains? How many mothers, fathers, sisters and sons, brothers and daughters, has this author actually witnessed die a little at the lost of a loved one? Has this douchebag actually buried someone? Because the language used screams unequivocally “NO.” Show me your dead, douchebag, or get the fuck off my lawn. And, if it is in your narrow world view, tell me you teach your malarkey. And gimme the school district wher you flaunt your folderol.
QUESTION: How come this author’s immediate reaction to a jarring sound invading the bliss of that French bistro (and the probably insouciant conversation) is fear to the point of tears, and not rage that the author’s nerves have been so amped up to any intrusion?
Because the author, and the fucking idiots suffering from BDS and delusions of Utopia, cannot wrap their brains around the fact that there are people who will kill you for the fuck of it, if it helps them get things aimed their way.
The twee bastards should have learned this in middle school, but somehow got sidetracked. And (insert deity here) help us all, these assholes are allowed to vote.
