Limbaugh is a Christian fundamentalist fascist. He is the last gasp of
a dying movement - Republican Neo Cons.
I don't know ANYTHING about this latest controversy but I know that
the Far Right is working itself into a FRENZY trying to discredit
I also know that the USA is PROBABLY doomed as a result of
fundamentalist Neo Con Bush rule over the last 8 years.
Are the Liberals the answer? Maybe not but I told you clearly that
Bush would financially ruin the USA and he and his policies did
exactly that. He and his party lied and cheated and stole for personal
gain at every opportunity and still you supported him.
I believe Obama is the last best chance that the US has for emerging
from years of national mismanagement and corporate greed.
One last thought - I believe that Christian Fundamentalists are just
as dangerous as Muslim Fundamentalists - they are all TOTALLY FUCKING
Perhaps we shouldn't talk about this shit.
I know I am a hero and that I will fight the evil people and die for the Good. I am real. I know.
Jesus looks at the Pharises and says, They are building magnificent monuments to the prophets their fathers have killed.... They are saying, 'If we had lived in the time of our fathers, we would not have joined them in killing the prophets.' If you transpose the saying, you can see that Christian anti-Semitism is the same thing. The Christians say, 'If we had lived in the days of our Jewish fathers, we would not have joined them in killing Jesus.' Or today you have the incredible self-righteousness of the new generation toward the generation of the second world war. The younger generation say 'If we had lived in the days of our fathers we would not have joined them. We would have been so heroic, vis a vis the Gestapo, that we would have all died rather than surrender one inch of our innocence.'
Rene Girard, "The Scapegoat: Rene Girard's Anthropology of Violence and Religion." CBC Ideas Transcripts. Toronto, Canada. 9 March, 2001.
I know that I am a hero. I know this because I know myself, and I know I am heroic. I ask myself, and my answer is that I am a hero.
‘Look, they can do what they bloody well like,’ declared the youth, vaingloriously certain of himself. ‘I don’t give a tinker’s damn for any of ‘em. Far as I’m concerned, they can go and get knotted.
He was sitting on the draining board, his feet in the sink, eating pickled gherkins from a jar. As he spoke, his companions solemnly nodded their agreement and approval. The house was full of young people, boys and girls, all very vociferous and very sure of themselves; sure of their ability to stand out against authority and of their willingness to face death rather than fight for a cause they did not believe in. On the chairs and the tables, stretched out on the floor, squatting in the corners, in the kitchen, the salon, the bedroom, this band of young rebels shouted their agreement.
‘It’s not our war!’ cried a disembodied voice from beneath a table. ‘We didn’t start it, we don’t want it, and we’re not going to fight it!’
‘People are dying every day, in their thousands, and the poor fools don’t even know what they’re dying for—‘
‘They torture them at the Gestapo. People are scared to open their mouths and tell the truth anymore,’ declared a young girl who was not quite as young as she looked and was doing her best to seduce a nervous youth who was still a virgin.
‘Well, I’m not scared!’ screamed a fragile-looking creature from his position on top of the unlit stove. ‘When my turn comes to be called up I shall tell them exactly what I think of them!’
‘Hear, hear.’ Muttered his companions, while the nervous youth took off his spectacles and vigorously polished them, rather alarmed at his won daring at being in such company.
‘What happens if the Gestapo comes?’ queried some faint-heart sitting in the passage.
‘Let them come!’ A young boy seated on the kitchen table, who was in the habit of declaiming dramatic poems that he learnt by heart, threw wide his arms and faced them challengingly. ‘Let them come! What do we care? The world is our oyster… and this land is our land, because we are the future! They can’t force us to fight and destroy ourselves!’
One Sunday morning, five months later, their weekly meetings were brought to an end by the sudden arrival of three men. Three men in leather coats, wearing shoulder holsters.
The nervous youth, who greeted their appearance with shrill screams of hysteria, was silenced by one sharp slap across the face.
The young girl who was not so young as she seemed, and who never had succeeded in seducing him, managed to spit out a couple of obscenities before she was kicked in the stomach and pushed to one side.
The boy in the sink had moved to the bathroom and was making love on the floor with his girlfriend. They were separated with a few well placed prods with the butt end of a pistol and sent downstairs to join the others.
The poet wet himself with fright the very moment the intruders arrived. He offered no resistance of any kind.
In a long line, shuffling single file with their heads hanging, fifty-two boys and girls left the house and entered two green coaches that were waiting outside. The world was their oyster, but fear was an unknown quality and they were meeting it face to face for the first time.
For three days they were retained at Stadthausbruke No. 8. Their treatment was not particularly harsh, but it was enough to simply be there; it was enough to learn the meaning of fear and to understand that courage had no place in their lives. Courage was for those with power.
After three days they were put into uniform and sent off for training. Several died during the preliminary courses of instruction; some through accidents, others because they chose to. And as for the rest, they battled on and tried to come to terms with their new situation and their new selves; tried to grow reconciled to the fact that when it came to the point, they were no different from all the other poor idiots whom they so heartily despised.
They didn’t want to fight. It wasn’t their war. They hadn’t started it and they didn’t believe in it. But they fought, just the same.
That’s a passage from my second-favorite Danish Existentialist philosopher, Sven Hassel, Assignment Gestapo. 1965. Trans. Jean Ure. London: Corgi Books; rpt. 1973; p.p. 110-111.
I am a hero. I am a hero. I am a hero. I know I am a hero.