get fucked. Lol
I don’t think most pro-israel members are gonna win. Unless they pack the race and ONLY pro-israel members are in it.
They’ll fuck it up so bad. Every accusation is a projection. They are gonna purge voter rolls, prevent people’s votes from arriving on time, kill candidates and then voters. When that’s not enough.
American “democracy” is dead. And they really shouldn’t want that, because that’ll break the seal allowing people to shoot back. They think they will win.
Lmao
Damn the U.S are gonna send another trillion to Israel.
They are gonna have to shoot people of every race and ethnicity walking into polls. They are losing by double digits in special elections in deep red districts. They are absolutely fucked.
Please give me these scenes of horror, cut between interstitials of the working class building a utopia.
Maybe the Trotskyists are right on one thing - the working class need to own newspapers cause the billionaires can't even do that right.
My fellow… my fellow, uh… beings. Americans. Americans! Yes.
Thank you… thank you for the tremendous outpouring of… of chairs. There are so many chairs here tonight. And your faces—they glow like microwaved peaches in July. That’s the spirit. That’s… America.
They said I wouldn’t make it past the caucuses. They said I wouldn’t make it past the breakfast buffet at the Super 8 in Scranton. But I did. I did, and I found a waffle that looked like Franklin D. Roosevelt. I took that as a sign. Or a snack. The syrup was confusing.
Anyway.
We’re gathered on this glorious evening—not morning, no, the moon’s not yet done with us—to dream. To dream of highways that turn into rivers, of eagles that pay student loans, of… of vending machines that dispense justice, and maybe… maybe… onion rings.
America is a… is a casserole of contradictions. A democracy baked at 350 degrees until the top layer forms a crust of optimism. Underneath—beans. Lots of ’em. And I say, we stir it. Stir the beans of freedom. Stir ’em good. Don’t just let ‘em sit there.
When I was a boy, my grandfather told me… well, he didn’t talk much, mostly just whittled things that looked like regret. But still, you could hear the silence. It said: “Plant potatoes. And never trust a duck with opinions.”
Now—now listen, I’ve been to the mountaintop. It was actually a landfill, but there was a man there juggling batteries and telling fortunes in Morse code. He told me the American people are tired of normal. They want strange. They want… ergonomic policy. They want healthcare that tastes like peppermint and a tax code that hums lullabies.
My platform? Simple: We legalize naps. Mandatory poetry in the Senate. Nationalize kindness. Every citizen gets a dog or a duck. You choose. But choose wisely.
What was I saying?
Oh yes—this nation… this brilliant, chaotic quilt of parking lots and ideals, we will rise. We will rise like a balloon full of civic responsibility and helium-flavored liberty. We’ll float. Float until the stars notice and nod.
In conclusion… or beginning… we ride at dawn. Or dusk. I forget which one has pancakes.
Thank you. God bless. And remember: the future is just yesterday wearing sunglasses.
Prompt
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Capitalist Realism and his chapter on Children of Men and Wall-E, are quite something.