7

English Football - Call Now!!!!!!!

Do YOU need a fitness programme suited to your busy, glamorous lifestyle? Try ENGLISH FOOTBALL, our new 90 minute workout for a hard days’ shopping with the WAG and a hard nights’ shagging with a hooker. Call Fabio, your personal fitness trainer, who guarantees a sexy six-pack for all your Adidas ads and Vanity Fair photo-shoots.

But don’t take our word for it, listen to these satisfied customers:

Wayne, Manchester: “I was destined for a life of drinking meths, stealing car hubcaps and hanging around bus stops… now I’ve got a ferrari! Thanks English Football!”

Emile, Birmingham: “I was lying in A&E one day, having missed the door and walked into a wall. Again. That’s when I called Fabio, who told me that being a clumsy oaf was a valuable talent! Thanks English Football!”

Steven, Liverpool: “Well you know la, keep me head down, go to ‘arvey Nicks, buy the lot, down to Fendi then back to me 4th ‘ouse in me 15th motor, great eh sound, Fab’s the gaffer you know, cheers English Football, la.”

John, London: "Before I’d even fort abaht futbaw, I waz finkin ov workin’ in a bar in Magaluf, you get lowds a’ clunge aht there. Now I gets to bang loads a’ dirty blonde tarts wiv sexy orange bronzer, even uver blokes’ wives, the lot. It’s triffic. Cheers, Inglish Futbaw". 

Ashley, London: "Listen dahling, are you paying me for this endorsement? I don’t get out of bed for less than a hundred grand, capiche? Samantha, call my agent. And you! Yes YOU, you dirty oik! Get off my driveway, you grubby little poor person." 

David, Portsmouth: “Don’t you just love my hair? Isn’t it gorgeous? With Fabio’s help, you too could have a beautiful weave like mine, no matter how old you are! Call Fabio, it’s never too late!”

Frank, London: “You got any chips? Frigging starving over ‘ere.”

David, Los Angeles (sometimes): "I was washed out, injured and useless, and could no longer keep up my fitness regime. But Fabio was very sympathetic, and he suggested I sit on the bench with him, wearing a tight grey suit and looking like a tit. It really helped my media profile… I mean, I was worried that my wife might have to sing again, that’s how desperate I was. But with Fabio’s help, I could pretend that I was really important, and I got to be in a Star Wars commercial and spend a few days arseing about with James Corden. So thanks Fabio and thanks English Football!" 

Peter, London: “All my life, people told me I was a freak of nature, a great giant skinny streak of piss who looked like Timmy from South Park. Now I’m knobbing a glamour model with absolutely massive tits. It’s brilliant. Thanks, English Football!”

Glen, Liverpool: “When I was a kid, I went to the circus and ever since that day all I’ve ever wanted to be was a clown, bringing laughter and joy to folk with my hilarious pratfalls. But clowns aren’t paid too well you know, they have to live in caravans like pikeys. Thanks to English Football, I got to be a clown with a 10 bedroom house in Cheshire and an Aston Martin! Thanks English Football!” 

Ledley, London: “I can never do the whole fitness programme, the lads call me The Tampon: one week in, three weeks out. But that didn’t matter to Fabio: he’ll take anyone, even the chronically infirm. Thanks Fabio, and thanks English Football!”

So if you’re sick and tired of the real world, try English Football today! No effort necessary. English Football comes complete with an agent, a publicist, a VIP pass accepted in all of Europe’s swankiest brothels, and there’s more! Call today, and you’ll receive this deluxe, limited edition Bumper Book Of Pathetic Excuses, containing such classics as, ”we were tired”, “the ball was funny”, “the fans were horrid to us”, “the media were against us” and many, many more!

Call Fabio now on 1966-EYETIE-TWAT, and you too could live a life of luxurious, self-pitying indolence!

English Football requires an English passport and/or an English grandparent. English Football gives priority to the physically and mentally handicapped. English Football is an equal opportunities employer.

English Football! Money for nothing and your chicks for free!

 

 
31

We don’t want your damn Communist World Cup!

So the US won a game at the World Cup, and the Liberals are real excited. The Liberals are using Brandon Donneley or whatever he’s called to try to kill our beautiful country and our American exceptionalism. They want us to take our place among the nations of the earth and live in peace and harmony, and soccer is their weapon of choice. 

Well we’re not playing, Liberals. We hate your damn soccer game. We love our Baseball, so sucks to be you. We love it because it’s OURS, because we can have a national championship and call it a World Series, because we love sports where we know that America will always win because that’s how it should be.

Nothing happens in soccer. It’s a low scoring game where people just run around and they don’t use their hands and they bounce a ball off their heads which is real goofy. Baseball, now that’s a real exciting game. What could be better than eating three times your body weight in hot dogs while watching a bunch of fat guys, sorry, athletes? Take the recent Phillies - Marlins game. Fat guy throws the ball at a fat guy with a stick. Fat guy with a stick misses the ball. Repeat 27 times. And that, my friends, is what we call a perfect game. So exciting it’ll make your heart explode. If those high-calorie hot dogs don’t get you first.  

Soccer is unAmerican. In fact, it’s nothing short of COMMUNISM. North Korea plays it, so do the Cubans. But they don’t play baseball, do they? Oh shit, yes they do. Anyways, soccer is still Communist. They even have games (lots of games) where there is NO WINNER and NO LOSER. Hell, I bet Karl Marx himself was one of those damn goal-tenders.

In US sports we have a free market, where the richest teams get to buy the best players and stay on top for decades. We would never, ever have a draft system where the weakest teams get to choose the best young players. That’s what they do in soccer all over the world. Because they’re Socialists, they can’t help themselves. They see a weak team that’s always losing and they just have to give ‘em a handout.   

Look what happens to a soccer team that runs up debts and goes into administration. If the soccer people acted like Americans, they would say, “your team is bankrupt, it’s your fault so don’t go looking to us for handouts. Go find yourself an investor. In fact, you know what? Not only will we do jack shit to help you, we’ll even punish you by deducting points from your team… how you like them apples, asshat? Don’t be such a bad capitalist in future!” That’s the American Way. Europeans would never act like that.

Whatever way you slice it, soccer is fundamentally unAmerican, and anyone who watches the thing is committing TREASON. You are only watching the game because you HATE AMERICA. If you loved your country, you would watch a game that stops for commercials every 15 seconds. You would hate a game where all humanity- Black and White, Latin American and Asian, tall and short, fast and slow- get to excel and contribute to team play according to ability and effort. You would see that such a game is incompatible with the vision of our Founding Fathers, who would champion our Real American, segregated sports (Blacks on the field, Whites in the seats). Washington’s folks would’ve hated soccer, being English and all. This worldwide obsession with ball-kicking is a threat to our precious freedoms.

So go to hell, Liberal soccer-lovers. Stop trying to shove this damn Communist-Socialist-Nazi-Progressive game down our liberty-loving throats. We don’t care about the World Cup, no matter how much the rest of the world wants us to care. And they really, really want us to care. Just look at their MLS and how desperate they are that we watch it. They just can’t respect our God-given right to loathe soccer, they won’t leave us alone. We never try to get them to love our sports, you don’t ever see NFL teams playing in London. Gosh, the NFL would never try to export their game by bankrolling a European league, would they? If they ever did that, how would the Europeans like it, huh? They would never say, “okay, it’s not for me” and leave Real Football to those that like it without complaint. Hell, those Commies would be rioting in the streets if we ever tried that.

So why should we stand idly by while our very nationhood is threatened by this evil sporting imperialism? We must rise up, assert our second amendment rights to foam hands and regular stoppages! God bless our excessive padding, our silly caps and silly team names! May God grant us yardage!

PS. I’ll change my mind if the US win! Go team!

5

This is how I feel today.

Jarvis Cocker - Running The World

Well did you hear, there’s a natural order?
Those most deserving will end up with the most?
That the cream cannot help but always rise up to the top?

Well I say,… shit floats.

If you thought things had changed,
Friends, you’d better think again,
Bluntly put, in the fewest of words:

Cunts are still running the world.
Cunts are still running the world.

Now the working classes are obsolete,
They are surplus to society’s needs;
So let ‘em all kill each other,
And get it made overseas.
That’s the word don’t you know,
From the guys that’s running the show,
Lets be perfectly clear boys and girls,

Cunts are still running the world.
Cunts are still running the world.

Oh feed your children on crayfish and lobster tails,
Find a school near the top of the league;
In theory I respect your right to exist,
But I’ll kill you if you move in next to me.

Oh it stinks, it sucks, it’s anthropologically unjust,
Oh but the takings are up by a third, and so 


Cunts are still running the world.
Cunts are still running the world.
(Cunts are still running the world)
(Cunts are still running the world)

The free market is perfectly natural,
Do you think that I’m some kind of dummy?
It’s the ideal way to order the world;
Fuck the morals, does it make any money?

And if you don’t like it? Then leave.
Or use your right to protest on the street,
Yeah, use your right but don’t imagine that it’s heard,


No, no not whilst cunts are still running the world,
Cunts are still running the world,
Cunts are still running the world,
Cunts are still running the world,
Cunts are still running the world,
Cunts are still running the world,

Cunts are still running… the world.

7

Breaking News: North Korea wins World Cup

Kim Jong Il has hailed North Koreas’ inevitable victory in the 2010 World Cup.

Inspired by the Dear Leader, the players of the Glorious People’s Republic won their group by beating all the other teams ten-nil. They then destroyed the USA (17-0), Brazil (12-0), Argentina (14-0),  and then won the final with a 72-0 mauling of Spain. The Dear Leader himself was top scorer in the tournament with 58 goals.

The World Cup trophy will be presented to the North Korean people when the team return home on the 26th June… if the party can find enough gold to melt down to make a copy of it.

8
I’m the dandy tea-bagger that you’re too scared to mention!I don’t like tax, I don’t like blacks or government intervention!The devil take your Medicare and your lousy Commie pension!But don’t you dare to take my guns or my anal retention!
Stand and deliver, your money or your life!Time to make the country more Godly and more white!
I’m the dandy tea-bagger so sick of you freeloaders!Pelosi, Reid, their liberal greed, they want to tax our sodas!And what’s the point of talking when we should be out there killing?We’re gonna fight for liberty and way more off-shore drilling!
Stand and deliver, your money or your life!Time to make the country more Godly and more white!
And even though you won at the polls Big Business will be mineAll mine
We’re the dandy tea-baggers so tired of excuses“George Bush left us all in debt” we’re told by Liberal losersWe’re the dandy tea-baggers and here’s our invitation:Throw the constitution overboard and join the Palin nation!
Stand and deliver, your money or your life!Time to make the country more Godly and more white!

And even though you won at the polls Big Business will be mineAll mineCry liberty, whack-jobs! Cry liberty, whack-jobs!
Cry liberty, whack-jobs! Cry liberty, whack-jobs!
Stand and deliver your money or your life!Stand and deliver your money or your life!…

I’m the dandy tea-bagger that you’re too scared to mention!
I don’t like tax, I don’t like blacks or government intervention!
The devil take your Medicare and your lousy Commie pension!
But don’t you dare to take my guns or my anal retention!

Stand and deliver, your money or your life!
Time to make the country more Godly and more white!


I’m the dandy tea-bagger so sick of you freeloaders!
Pelosi, Reid, their liberal greed, they want to tax our sodas!
And what’s the point of talking when we should be out there killing?
We’re gonna fight for liberty and way more off-shore drilling!

Stand and deliver, your money or your life!
Time to make the country more Godly and more white!


And even though you won at the polls
Big Business will be mine
All mine


We’re the dandy tea-baggers so tired of excuses
“George Bush left us all in debt” we’re told by Liberal losers
We’re the dandy tea-baggers and here’s our invitation:
Throw the constitution overboard and join the Palin nation!


Stand and deliver, your money or your life!
Time to make the country more Godly and more white!

And even though you won at the polls
Big Business will be mine
All mine

Cry liberty, whack-jobs! Cry liberty, whack-jobs!

Cry liberty, whack-jobs! Cry liberty, whack-jobs!

Stand and deliver your money or your life!
Stand and deliver your money or your life!…

14

England V USA: thoughts on patriotism

England. Land of fun pubs and dole scum. Where eight year olds can hotwire a Cosworth. We gave the world Atomic Kitten and Greggs pasties. Black pudding and Jim “nick nick” Davidson. Argos, Top Shop, Sports Direct and Cash Converters. Tower blocks and damp semis. Jamie Oliver and Jeremy Clarkson. We elect Old Etonians and somehow cannot mislay a monarch. A realm of glamour and romance… Burnley, Luton, Great Yarmouth, Cleethorpes. Where urban foxes maul your kiddies. Where your kiddies set fire to cows. Where football supporters shout, “you dirty cockney bastard” at people from the Ivory Coast. Where we get free healthcare yet still complain just because the rain is pouring in through the hospital roof and the walls are dirtier than a Turkish toilet.

This great nation… this England. Where the towns smell of urine and the countryside smells of cowpat. A land of engineering genius, like the lifts on the Goodge Street tube. A lyrical land of poets, like Noel Gallagher and Tony Hadley. This happy breed, as depicted on Eastenders and the Red Riding Trilogy. Jack the Ripper. Fred West. Harold Shipman. Peter Sutcliffe. Hindley and Brady. We’re the world champions of serial killing, and as we’ve seen in Yorkshire and Cumbria recently, there’s a healthy crop of talented youngsters emerging to carry on that tradition. Just as the slums of Rio breed football genius, so constant rain, Virgin trains and Ready Steady Cook breed Premier League malcontented deviants.

And our great music! Indie bands with hair that’s a bit too long on the sides, clumsily pawing at Rickenbackers while some nasally youth from Cheltenham strings together colloquialisms no-one uses anymore. Fat fuglies pretending to be Beyonce, who then become anorexic fuglies pretending to be Beyonce once Heat has laughed at them once too often. Painfully hip electro acts claiming to be urban and futuristic when they sound like Hall and Oates.

But our actors are surely the best in the world, aren’t they? Serious, dedicated, committed to their craft. They deliver Shakespeare and Pinter with such gravitas. They talk gravely of the great theatrical tradition and how the writing is the thing. Well, until they get the chance to be in 2 fast 2 furious or Underworld or X Men 3, that is. Then they can’t wait to put on a silly costume and make total tits of themselves. So I’m a warlock and this green screen is full of elves and orcs… what’s my motivation, luvvie? Oh yes, I remember. It’s the 10 million dollars. Prostitute, moi?  

And then there’s our football and its attendant, “patriotism”. Oh, the patriotism. When fat men paint their faces with the cross of St George and wobble off to the stadium looking like hot-cross buns, the Second World War is never far from their minds. Occasionally, the swinging sixties (the Italian Job, Bobby Moore, ‘66 and all that) or the Fantasie Worlde of Merrie Olde England (Richard the Lionheart, Agincourt, the crusades) may encroach, but mostly it’s 1940 and England stands alone and the other bunch kicking a ball around are the Jerries. Even if they’re, you know, Algeria.

But the WWII fetishism is not entirely unjustified. Before the Battle of Britain, before 1940, English patriotism meant the Empire, Rule Britannia, knights and redcoats and derring-do. It was a triumphalistic, overtly aristocratic and militaristic thing. The First World War destroyed that strain of patriotism for all but the most reactionary, yet it wasn’t until the Blitz that a new form of patriotism acquired any sort of distinct form. German bombs did not respect class, status or income, and the sense of One Nation (found today among modern conservatives as much as leftists) was given a desperate new impetus. The English no longer saw themselves as conquerors, but as a people defending liberty for all, no matter what the cost; an island race that does not go looking for trouble, but if a tyrant wants it they can bloody well have it. And there is irrefutably a genuine sense of pride to be found here; Britain did stand alone and did not negotiate with Hitler. England’s towns and cities were bombed relentlessly but yes, the nation endured. Nationhood has been built on flimsier foundations. However, while the generations born after the war may retain the Blitz spirit, they frequently fail to embody it with the same quiet dignity. England-the-liberator often asserts itself in particularly ugly ways, especially among English football hooligans. It is manifest in one of their favorite chants, “if it wasn’t for the English you’d be Krauts”. As though the Dutch, the Belgians or the French should express eternal gratitude as we smash up their bars and piss on their doorsteps.  

If England has a national characteristic, it is that it has no national characteristic. In a country where accents can change dramatically every five miles or so, where cities lying next to each other have distinctly different folk histories and traditions, “cultural diversity” is not such much a fanciful left-wing propaganda exercise as wired into the DNA. I think that English patriots are so often needlessly aggressive and bullish because of an insecurity that leads to over-compensation. Deep down most of us are Mackems, Geordies, Scousers, Cockneys or Brummies first, and Englishmen a poor second; thus, when banded together as, “The English”, we have to convince ourselves of that identity as much as anybody else. This parochialism is probably a trait common to most countries; Italy for instance. Like Italy, England is culturally comprised of city states (but with ruddier cheeks and less body hair). There are few places on earth where national identity is as tenuous as it is in England, and fewer still where localism is as stark or as powerful. National pride is a form of method acting.

This brings me to the USA. I have to admit that my attitudes to patriotism have altered slightly since moving here. I used to think that English patriotism was the most vulgar, embarrassing, unreasonable and self-congratulatory on earth. How wrong I was. In England, it is considered rather vulgar to put the national flag on display outside your house, a little… cheap and nasty, ugly and far-right even. In the US, you can’t walk a block without seeing the stars and stripes. I thought that Americans only developed amnesia about certain things (like the actual contents of the constitution) but it seems that if they don’t see their flag every ten seconds, they’ll forget what country they’re living in. And that’s not as odd as it sounds; take a trip down to the NY subway or get on an Amtrak through Baltimore and you’d be forgiven for thinking you were in Albania.

US patriotism also seems to be something mandatory. “Un-American” is a real insult, while, “un-English” just means… well, not much actually. “Un-American” is sinister, subversive and Communist. “Un-English” is… garlic bread? Cheating at Monopoly? English conservatives never claim that lefties hate the country, or that you can’t love England if you don’t believe in Jesus. An American is suspicious of a, “fellow American” who does not celebrate the 4th of July; an Englishman is more likely to be suspicious of someone who does celebrate St George’s Day. No politician would be penalized in the polls for failing to wear a Union Jack badge on his lapel, and we support our troops simply by paying taxes, not by investing in gaudy bumper stickers. English journalists often criticize the whole Blitz thing as backward-looking and reactionary (which indeed it can be) but it was only 70 years ago, a heartbeat away in historical terms. Contrast this with the US obsession with the Founding Fathers; nobody sees that as inherently reactionary. The only beef that so-called progressives have is that reactionaries have got it all wrong, that the Founding Fathers should be unctuously venerated for other reasons. Very few Americans have the balls to admit that a bunch of slave owners and English minor-gentry folk in tricorn hats have no relevance whatsoever in the 21st Century. Constant reference to the intentions of Jefferson et al is as stupid as it would be for an English government to form today’s foreign policy around the letters of Elizabeth I or Churchill’s memoirs.

Yet US patriotism remains, to us, sometime to be envied as much as mocked. In truth, we English often look longingly to the US (or to the Irish or the Brazilians and to most other peoples) and wonder why we cannot celebrate nationhood with the same exuberance and cheerfulness. But then, of course we can’t: we’re English. I once read a review of an anthology about England by English writers. The reviewer noted that the book should have been called Going To The Dogs, because the underlying theme of all the writers, regardless of genre, sensibility or political affiliation, is that England is shit and it was so much better in the old days. It is perfectly true; read Larkin, Auden, Coleridge, Coward, listen to Morrissey, Blur or Paul Weller. Things were always better in the impossible past, the present is ghastly and somehow foreign, and the country is utterly doomed. There is No Future in England’s Dreaming. English people cannot write wholeheartedly patriotic songs or poems anymore; the most romantic effort of recent times, Pete Doherty’s, “Albion”, still couches its English mysticism in a land of violence in dole queues and a pale thin girl behind the checkout. Our football songs (“Three Lions”, “Vindaloo” or Rik Mayall’s, “Noble England”) attempt a sense of celebration and joy, but quickly return to, “years of hurt” or self-deprecating irony. Perhaps the reason why the English cling to 1940 and 1966 is that these were times when, in different ways, Englishness became an overwhelmingly positive and admirable thing. Such moments are rare in English history, at least when looked back upon by contemporary Englishmen.  

I said earlier that England has no national characteristic, but that isn’t quite true. Actually, we have two. Melancholia is one; only an English person could write, “Aubade” or, “Wuthering Heights”. It is inconceivable that Joy Division could have ever been an LA band. It may have been an American who said that the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation, but it is the English who have most effectively put quiet desperation into practice. In England, melancholia permeates landscape and memory. The English live in an almost constant state of psychological autumn, “season of mists and mellow fruitfulness”. We are at war with our own despair, wrestling the black dog in damp splendor, clinging to tumblers of, “medicinal” brandy. Of course, this fight is expressed in euphemism and understatement; E M Forster called it a, “muddle”, Coward took the concept of the vortex (the collapse of industrial society) and internalized it as a metaphor for mental anguish and being, “fed up”. The comedian Kenneth Williams committed suicide, but before doing so summed up the English attitude in his final diary entry: everything is so shit, I really can’t see the point in anything, it’s all so fucking shit… oh, what’s the bloody point? Quite. This is England; miserable but self-mocking, shrugging at despair. A shuffling, grimacing Goth with a perpetual cold.

As I’ve demonstrated, this melancholia is always tempered, tempered by another English characteristic, taking the piss out of yourself. For the English, it is a cardinal sin to take yourself too seriously. Celebrities who explain their misdemeanors by beginning with, “I’ve been learning through therapy…”, or, “I discovered in rehab…” are met with hoots of derision. Melancholia may be our birthright and our burden, but you’re supposed to soldier on and keep your chin up, not cry like a little girl and look for sympathy. Burly oaf and effeminate fop alike, Rugby scrum half or Quentin Crisp, you are expected to shoulder your misfortune with wit and good grace, not whine about wanting your life back like Tony Heyward. Tony, you’re a disgrace. Not for the oil spill, that’s neither here nor there, but for being a whiner. Did Nelson ever complain that he wanted his life back? Of course not. He didn’t even whine that he wanted his arm back. By mewling like a baby, you have dishonored your country. You should be flogged.

I like these English traits. I share them. Note that in musing about patriotism, I could not possibly avoid them; I began with four paragraphs lampooning my crummy little homeland and its strange, puckish inhabitants. It is why, on Saturday, I will watch the England – USA game in Dupont Circle brimming with national pride… well, not pride exactly, as I’ve already told my American friends that England will probably lose, and watching the game will be roughly as enjoyable as being stuck in a broken elevator with a Belgian dentist. I should say that I’m not so much proud to be English as glad that I’m English. Our eccentric brand of patriotism, half-jingoistic and half self-loathing, a push-me-pull-you vision of nationhood, is nevertheless a vibrant and inspiring thing. England, to me, does not mean the Queen or the Empire or the right to beat seven bells of crap out of passing Germans because after all, we won the war. It is the land of lovable crapness; of bad teeth and knackered lifts, of silly walks and men in dresses, of great literature, great music and of being embarrassed by show-offs. Americans, much as I love them, are show-offs. They have showy patriotism, showy religion, showy “family values”, showy cars, showy movies. Frankly, as brilliant and as vibrant as they undoubtedly are, they still have more confidence than talent.

So on Saturday, I will raise a glass to England and St George. Because if there’s one thing of which I am completely certain, it’s that I can drink each and every one of you under the table. I’m English.      

5

The story of the murder of pro-Palestinian activists by Israeli commandos (as told by Scorcese)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2oP1NMB_I0s

Flotilla: Yer little prick yer, I known you all my life… relax will ya, I’m breakin’ ya balls a little bit that’s all, I’m kiddin’ witcha…

Israel: Sometimes ya don’ sound like ya kiddin’, there’s a lot o’ people around…

Flotilla: Now go home and get ya fuckin’ commandos!

Israel: You fuckin’ mutt! You-you-fuckin’ piece a shit! Fuckin’ fake tough guy!

Flotilla: Yeah, yeah, come on, come on!
(Israel leaves)

Flotilla (to the US): He don’t mean no disrespect, teach this kid some fuckin’ manners, I didn’t insult nobody… and I want what I gotta get, I got fuckin’ mouths to feed…

(Israel enters. With extreme violence.)

Israel: I’m gonna shoot ‘im in his big fuckin’ mouth!

US: This is fuckin’ bad… the whole world’s gonna be condemning this.

89
Reblogged from STFU, RACISTS! - the archive
"Racist people, interestingly, are never as polite as smokers. Have you noticed that? Smokers always go, “Do you mind if I smoke? Oh, you do? Okay, I’ll go outside and have a cigarette.” Racist people never go, “Do you mind if I’m racist? Oh, I’ll go outside … fucking blue people, eh? Coming here, steal our hamsters …”."
- Eddie Izzard (via justjasper) (via stfuracists)
5

peakskeletonism said: Comrade, do you agree that one of the more ironic things about the more fringe American Libertarians is that they are preaching the very class struggle they supposedly hate commies for, only instead of trying to support the downtrodden proletariat, they're trying to support the downtrodden...banking class?

I think the greatest irony is the gulf between who they are and how they see themselves. I’d compare this gulf to that of certain genres of heavy metal that create a fantasy world of guitar-wielding warriors; the men look like Conan The Barbarian and the women are busty amazons eager to please… yet the fans are generally spotty nerds who can’t get a girlfriend for love nor money. In the world they envisage as paradise, Libertarians would be crushed like bugs. Egoism prevents them from having that epiphany.

Laissez-faire capitalism produces atomized individuals, so it should come as no surprise that its most extreme champions are extremely atomized people. I think this means that inevitably, lonely nutcases will latch on to it and will attack IRS buildings in its name. However, like Satanism, it is both elitist and ludicrous, and so will never become a mass movement.

If Libertarianism ever takes over the world, it cannot hope to last. People may be willing to kill for deregulation, but precious few people are willing to die for it.

4

stanic-registrar said: Download and read this.
http://www.mediafire.com/?sharekey=13e93b2da11bc2ae6e7203eb8736812936140b01a979e073f7e866bfb1230ce0

This is “Why Socialism?” by Albert Einstein (you may have heard of him ;) ) and I urge everyone to read it.

Thankyou ellisondubois!