Hey look...actual Russian Collusion...
A check of their November 12 coverage showed both CNN and MSNBC gave enthusiastic coverage to the Russian-organized anti-Trump rally that day, with live reports every hour. Correspondents celebrated the idea that it was “a love rally,” and repeated the marchers’ anti-Trump mantras, such as: “We reject the President-elect.”
While the two liberal anti-Trump networks offered heavy coverage of the anti-Trump rally throughout the day, a check of coverage between noon and 5:00 p.m. Eastern found that the Fox News Channel offered only a short re-cap (66 seconds) at the start of their 4:00 p.m. Eastern hour
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Comments
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2016 called and wants their news back.
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Boris Yeltsin!
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True American Patriots understand with full clarity exactly what flea and hondo are trying to do here.
Good post Houston. -
Micheal Moore pimping 5 guys and natureworks is the real story here.doogie said:True American Patriots understand with full clarity exactly what flea and hondo are trying to do here.
Good post Houston. -
So, how much did he rent you out for?
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You jealous that your masters don't pay you?doogie said:So, how much did he rent you out for?
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Hi, gang. Michael Moore here. I had an chinteresting encounter in a diner and I thought I'd share it.
So me and Joe Palooka are sitting around at Mavis's diner talking.
Joe looks at me. His eyes are wet with anger.
I push a large joint of mutton down my enormous feeding orifice. The bones crack and pop like July fireworks as my massive tusks rend the meat and work the bone into a thick paste.
"How could they do this?!?" Joe wants to know. His hands tremble, as if palsied. "How could these rotten bastards push Saddam Hussein out of office?!"
It's a good question, no doubt. I wish I could answer it. I wish I could answer another question-- How can I eat this cheesesteak, this Monte Cristo, and that four-gallon tank of pork lard simultaneously, when I have only two hands?
"Saddam Hussein was just an chinnocent genocidal madman," Joe sniffs. "He never did any arm to anyone. Or, at least, not to anyone I know." Joe's a sensible man. That's a rare quality these days-- sense.
I'd like to tell him I respect his common sense, but I can't speak, as I currently have my entire ginormous freakhead stuffed into the rib-cage of dangling cow-carcass. I make animalsitic noises and rend with my powerful, overdeveloped jawmuscles, bulging and rippling like those of a sabre-tooth tiger, as I ponder my friend Joe.
I slice through bone and tendon and tough cartilege with my wickedly angled, sharklike chincisors, sending bone-bits and glistening black puddings of coagulated chintestinal blood sailing across the diner with each feral bite.
A pack of Guatemalan-Chindian boys come into the diner, speaking Spanish. Or gibberish. Who can tell the difference?
They walk over to me and ask me to lift my t-shirt.
"What's this about?" Joe wants to know.
I lift my shirt and the boys begin scraping along the chinsides of my luxurious rolls of corpulent fat with old playing cards. One boy gently lifts my massive man-titty and collects a big dollop of a yellowish substance that resembles spoiled soft cheese.
"Oh, I'm just doing my bit to help a downtrodden minority," I explain to Joe. "The Chindians have discovered that the pungent, semi-toxic munge that collects on my unwashed body is a powerful psychedelic drug of some sort. Chingesting my creamy sweat brings them to death's door, but it assists them in reaching the proper mental state for dream-quests."
"Sort of like peyote," Joe offers.
"My munge-cheese kicks peyote's ass to hell and back," I say with some degree of pride. "They call it La Mantequilla del Diablo-- The Devil's Butter."
The boys end up filling an emptied grout-bucket with my powerful psychotropic man-filth. They thank me profusely, and then leave. They'll be having some powerful dream-quests tonight -- I can smell that I'm especially rancid today.
"It's the least I can do in George W. Bush's Amerikkka," I modestly explain to Joe.
"I don't even recognize America anymore," Joe sniffs.
I wipe a turkey drumstick from the corner of my eye. "It's all right, Joe," I say, or rather that's what I attempt to say. My words are chinterrupted by the squawkings of a live chicken which somehow manages to escape my all-consuming maw.
"There will be an election in November," I console Joe. I have now sprung to my feet in order to seize the escaped chicken. The fat ripples along my elephantine haunches as I coil to leap, lethal energy gathered to spring in a frozen moment, like the cocked hammer of a gun. A really fat gun.
"Never give up hope," I advise Joe as I leap over the assembled humanity in the cramped diner, my claws sprung out and shiny-deadly, my lard-dimpled jowls flapping in the chindifferent April breeze.
The chicken dodges a slash from one of my mammoth fore-limbs. It dives beneath the seat of a six year old boy, a ruddy-cheeked, haystack-haired, gap-toothed reminder of what this nation is all about.
The boy is chinconveniently providing cover for the miscreant fowl, so I snatch him up with one sweat-drooling meat-paddle and I drop him, alive and screaming in abject terror, down into my waiting throat.
My roiling gastric acids will take care of the kid. I've got no time to chew him.
The chicken runs.
"I'm hoping Wesley Clarke joins the ticket," I tell Joe as I bite out the throat of the boy's mother, who has, as you might well imagine, sprung to her feet to protest my devouring of her sparkled-eyed tyke. I slurp her still-pulsating gizzards down my slavering maw. "That would give us two candidates with combat experience, which our Idiot King Dumbya of course does not."
The chicken scampers over the well-worn hospital-green tiles of the ancient diner. It ducks through the doorway and exits to the street as a truck-driver enters the place.
Angry at the clumsiness of the truck driver, I snap at his head with my yawning pink vortex of saliva-drooling death, severing his head and neck at the clavicle. His body spews a riotously crimson fountain of blood at the ceiling, like he were some liquid roman candle.
The hot blood splatters on the diner's windows and steams.
"But November is such a long way away," Joe calls after me, but I'm on the street now, waddling like an enormous Sumo wrestler with a wedgie, my dainty-tiny feet pounding into the cool asphalt like fleshy jackhammers.
I hear the telltale whine of jet-engines-- F-15's, I'm sure. I've heard them before. I hear them everytime I go out on a citywide rampage.
I'll hear the rumbling of National Guard troop carriers soon enough as well-- a platoon of "mercenaries" out to chill my right to dissent. And my right to feed on human flesh.
"November is virtually tomorrow," I call back to Joe as I stoop to the ground to bite the mid-body out of a policeman's horse. Chintestines ooze and slither out of the gaping wound like wet, grisly Slinkees. "It's just tomorrow. Just plan, and organize, and don't stop thinking about tomorrow!"
The F-15's scream down from the sky as they begin their attack run. My brunch with Joe will have to wait.
I leap into the cool, slimy waters of the East River as the air-to-ground missiles slam into the cityscape behind me.
The filthy river greets me like an old lover. A murky, green lover that smells of cabbage, burnt engine oil, and feet. It smells like... freedom.
The chicken has escaped.
But George Bush will not.
Washington DC is only a few days' swim from New York.
And I am hungry. -
#hondohero
-
Seriously go fuck yourself for thinking that I just look at recruiting ratings and don’t have an opinion on my own you fucktarded piss antGrundleStiltzkin said:Hi, gang. Michael Moore here. I had an chinteresting encounter in a diner and I thought I'd share it.
So me and Joe Palooka are sitting around at Mavis's diner talking.
Joe looks at me. His eyes are wet with anger.
I push a large joint of mutton down my enormous feeding orifice. The bones crack and pop like July fireworks as my massive tusks rend the meat and work the bone into a thick paste.
"How could they do this?!?" Joe wants to know. His hands tremble, as if palsied. "How could these rotten bastards push Saddam Hussein out of office?!"
It's a good question, no doubt. I wish I could answer it. I wish I could answer another question-- How can I eat this cheesesteak, this Monte Cristo, and that four-gallon tank of pork lard simultaneously, when I have only two hands?
"Saddam Hussein was just an chinnocent genocidal madman," Joe sniffs. "He never did any arm to anyone. Or, at least, not to anyone I know." Joe's a sensible man. That's a rare quality these days-- sense.
I'd like to tell him I respect his common sense, but I can't speak, as I currently have my entire ginormous freakhead stuffed into the rib-cage of dangling cow-carcass. I make animalsitic noises and rend with my powerful, overdeveloped jawmuscles, bulging and rippling like those of a sabre-tooth tiger, as I ponder my friend Joe.
I slice through bone and tendon and tough cartilege with my wickedly angled, sharklike chincisors, sending bone-bits and glistening black puddings of coagulated chintestinal blood sailing across the diner with each feral bite.
A pack of Guatemalan-Chindian boys come into the diner, speaking Spanish. Or gibberish. Who can tell the difference?
They walk over to me and ask me to lift my t-shirt.
"What's this about?" Joe wants to know.
I lift my shirt and the boys begin scraping along the chinsides of my luxurious rolls of corpulent fat with old playing cards. One boy gently lifts my massive man-titty and collects a big dollop of a yellowish substance that resembles spoiled soft cheese.
"Oh, I'm just doing my bit to help a downtrodden minority," I explain to Joe. "The Chindians have discovered that the pungent, semi-toxic munge that collects on my unwashed body is a powerful psychedelic drug of some sort. Chingesting my creamy sweat brings them to death's door, but it assists them in reaching the proper mental state for dream-quests."
"Sort of like peyote," Joe offers.
"My munge-cheese kicks peyote's ass to hell and back," I say with some degree of pride. "They call it La Mantequilla del Diablo-- The Devil's Butter."
The boys end up filling an emptied grout-bucket with my powerful psychotropic man-filth. They thank me profusely, and then leave. They'll be having some powerful dream-quests tonight -- I can smell that I'm especially rancid today.
"It's the least I can do in George W. Bush's Amerikkka," I modestly explain to Joe.
"I don't even recognize America anymore," Joe sniffs.
I wipe a turkey drumstick from the corner of my eye. "It's all right, Joe," I say, or rather that's what I attempt to say. My words are chinterrupted by the squawkings of a live chicken which somehow manages to escape my all-consuming maw.
"There will be an election in November," I console Joe. I have now sprung to my feet in order to seize the escaped chicken. The fat ripples along my elephantine haunches as I coil to leap, lethal energy gathered to spring in a frozen moment, like the cocked hammer of a gun. A really fat gun.
"Never give up hope," I advise Joe as I leap over the assembled humanity in the cramped diner, my claws sprung out and shiny-deadly, my lard-dimpled jowls flapping in the chindifferent April breeze.
The chicken dodges a slash from one of my mammoth fore-limbs. It dives beneath the seat of a six year old boy, a ruddy-cheeked, haystack-haired, gap-toothed reminder of what this nation is all about.
The boy is chinconveniently providing cover for the miscreant fowl, so I snatch him up with one sweat-drooling meat-paddle and I drop him, alive and screaming in abject terror, down into my waiting throat.
My roiling gastric acids will take care of the kid. I've got no time to chew him.
The chicken runs.
"I'm hoping Wesley Clarke joins the ticket," I tell Joe as I bite out the throat of the boy's mother, who has, as you might well imagine, sprung to her feet to protest my devouring of her sparkled-eyed tyke. I slurp her still-pulsating gizzards down my slavering maw. "That would give us two candidates with combat experience, which our Idiot King Dumbya of course does not."
The chicken scampers over the well-worn hospital-green tiles of the ancient diner. It ducks through the doorway and exits to the street as a truck-driver enters the place.
Angry at the clumsiness of the truck driver, I snap at his head with my yawning pink vortex of saliva-drooling death, severing his head and neck at the clavicle. His body spews a riotously crimson fountain of blood at the ceiling, like he were some liquid roman candle.
The hot blood splatters on the diner's windows and steams.
"But November is such a long way away," Joe calls after me, but I'm on the street now, waddling like an enormous Sumo wrestler with a wedgie, my dainty-tiny feet pounding into the cool asphalt like fleshy jackhammers.
I hear the telltale whine of jet-engines-- F-15's, I'm sure. I've heard them before. I hear them everytime I go out on a citywide rampage.
I'll hear the rumbling of National Guard troop carriers soon enough as well-- a platoon of "mercenaries" out to chill my right to dissent. And my right to feed on human flesh.
"November is virtually tomorrow," I call back to Joe as I stoop to the ground to bite the mid-body out of a policeman's horse. Chintestines ooze and slither out of the gaping wound like wet, grisly Slinkees. "It's just tomorrow. Just plan, and organize, and don't stop thinking about tomorrow!"
The F-15's scream down from the sky as they begin their attack run. My brunch with Joe will have to wait.
I leap into the cool, slimy waters of the East River as the air-to-ground missiles slam into the cityscape behind me.
The filthy river greets me like an old lover. A murky, green lover that smells of cabbage, burnt engine oil, and feet. It smells like... freedom.
The chicken has escaped.
But George Bush will not.
Washington DC is only a few days' swim from New York.
And I am hungry. -
Cool story bro.GrundleStiltzkin said:Hi, gang. Michael Moore here. I had an chinteresting encounter in a diner and I thought I'd share it.
So me and Joe Palooka are sitting around at Mavis's diner talking.
Joe looks at me. His eyes are wet with anger.
I push a large joint of mutton down my enormous feeding orifice. The bones crack and pop like July fireworks as my massive tusks rend the meat and work the bone into a thick paste.
"How could they do this?!?" Joe wants to know. His hands tremble, as if palsied. "How could these rotten bastards push Saddam Hussein out of office?!"
It's a good question, no doubt. I wish I could answer it. I wish I could answer another question-- How can I eat this cheesesteak, this Monte Cristo, and that four-gallon tank of pork lard simultaneously, when I have only two hands?
"Saddam Hussein was just an chinnocent genocidal madman," Joe sniffs. "He never did any arm to anyone. Or, at least, not to anyone I know." Joe's a sensible man. That's a rare quality these days-- sense.
I'd like to tell him I respect his common sense, but I can't speak, as I currently have my entire ginormous freakhead stuffed into the rib-cage of dangling cow-carcass. I make animalsitic noises and rend with my powerful, overdeveloped jawmuscles, bulging and rippling like those of a sabre-tooth tiger, as I ponder my friend Joe.
I slice through bone and tendon and tough cartilege with my wickedly angled, sharklike chincisors, sending bone-bits and glistening black puddings of coagulated chintestinal blood sailing across the diner with each feral bite.
A pack of Guatemalan-Chindian boys come into the diner, speaking Spanish. Or gibberish. Who can tell the difference?
They walk over to me and ask me to lift my t-shirt.
"What's this about?" Joe wants to know.
I lift my shirt and the boys begin scraping along the chinsides of my luxurious rolls of corpulent fat with old playing cards. One boy gently lifts my massive man-titty and collects a big dollop of a yellowish substance that resembles spoiled soft cheese.
"Oh, I'm just doing my bit to help a downtrodden minority," I explain to Joe. "The Chindians have discovered that the pungent, semi-toxic munge that collects on my unwashed body is a powerful psychedelic drug of some sort. Chingesting my creamy sweat brings them to death's door, but it assists them in reaching the proper mental state for dream-quests."
"Sort of like peyote," Joe offers.
"My munge-cheese kicks peyote's ass to hell and back," I say with some degree of pride. "They call it La Mantequilla del Diablo-- The Devil's Butter."
The boys end up filling an emptied grout-bucket with my powerful psychotropic man-filth. They thank me profusely, and then leave. They'll be having some powerful dream-quests tonight -- I can smell that I'm especially rancid today.
"It's the least I can do in George W. Bush's Amerikkka," I modestly explain to Joe.
"I don't even recognize America anymore," Joe sniffs.
I wipe a turkey drumstick from the corner of my eye. "It's all right, Joe," I say, or rather that's what I attempt to say. My words are chinterrupted by the squawkings of a live chicken which somehow manages to escape my all-consuming maw.
"There will be an election in November," I console Joe. I have now sprung to my feet in order to seize the escaped chicken. The fat ripples along my elephantine haunches as I coil to leap, lethal energy gathered to spring in a frozen moment, like the cocked hammer of a gun. A really fat gun.
"Never give up hope," I advise Joe as I leap over the assembled humanity in the cramped diner, my claws sprung out and shiny-deadly, my lard-dimpled jowls flapping in the chindifferent April breeze.
The chicken dodges a slash from one of my mammoth fore-limbs. It dives beneath the seat of a six year old boy, a ruddy-cheeked, haystack-haired, gap-toothed reminder of what this nation is all about.
The boy is chinconveniently providing cover for the miscreant fowl, so I snatch him up with one sweat-drooling meat-paddle and I drop him, alive and screaming in abject terror, down into my waiting throat.
My roiling gastric acids will take care of the kid. I've got no time to chew him.
The chicken runs.
"I'm hoping Wesley Clarke joins the ticket," I tell Joe as I bite out the throat of the boy's mother, who has, as you might well imagine, sprung to her feet to protest my devouring of her sparkled-eyed tyke. I slurp her still-pulsating gizzards down my slavering maw. "That would give us two candidates with combat experience, which our Idiot King Dumbya of course does not."
The chicken scampers over the well-worn hospital-green tiles of the ancient diner. It ducks through the doorway and exits to the street as a truck-driver enters the place.
Angry at the clumsiness of the truck driver, I snap at his head with my yawning pink vortex of saliva-drooling death, severing his head and neck at the clavicle. His body spews a riotously crimson fountain of blood at the ceiling, like he were some liquid roman candle.
The hot blood splatters on the diner's windows and steams.
"But November is such a long way away," Joe calls after me, but I'm on the street now, waddling like an enormous Sumo wrestler with a wedgie, my dainty-tiny feet pounding into the cool asphalt like fleshy jackhammers.
I hear the telltale whine of jet-engines-- F-15's, I'm sure. I've heard them before. I hear them everytime I go out on a citywide rampage.
I'll hear the rumbling of National Guard troop carriers soon enough as well-- a platoon of "mercenaries" out to chill my right to dissent. And my right to feed on human flesh.
"November is virtually tomorrow," I call back to Joe as I stoop to the ground to bite the mid-body out of a policeman's horse. Chintestines ooze and slither out of the gaping wound like wet, grisly Slinkees. "It's just tomorrow. Just plan, and organize, and don't stop thinking about tomorrow!"
The F-15's scream down from the sky as they begin their attack run. My brunch with Joe will have to wait.
I leap into the cool, slimy waters of the East River as the air-to-ground missiles slam into the cityscape behind me.
The filthy river greets me like an old lover. A murky, green lover that smells of cabbage, burnt engine oil, and feet. It smells like... freedom.
The chicken has escaped.
But George Bush will not.
Washington DC is only a few days' swim from New York.
And I am hungry. -
Exactly what a Russian paid troll would have as a talking point.doogie said:True American Patriots understand with full clarity exactly what flea and hondo are trying to do here.
Good post Houston.
I like the Moscow style of capitalizing True American Patriots. That really pops for the paste eating retards in the crowd. -
No surprise this completely flew over your head2001400ex said:
Cool story bro.GrundleStiltzkin said:Hi, gang. Michael Moore here. I had an chinteresting encounter in a diner and I thought I'd share it.
So me and Joe Palooka are sitting around at Mavis's diner talking.
Joe looks at me. His eyes are wet with anger.
I push a large joint of mutton down my enormous feeding orifice. The bones crack and pop like July fireworks as my massive tusks rend the meat and work the bone into a thick paste.
"How could they do this?!?" Joe wants to know. His hands tremble, as if palsied. "How could these rotten bastards push Saddam Hussein out of office?!"
It's a good question, no doubt. I wish I could answer it. I wish I could answer another question-- How can I eat this cheesesteak, this Monte Cristo, and that four-gallon tank of pork lard simultaneously, when I have only two hands?
"Saddam Hussein was just an chinnocent genocidal madman," Joe sniffs. "He never did any arm to anyone. Or, at least, not to anyone I know." Joe's a sensible man. That's a rare quality these days-- sense.
I'd like to tell him I respect his common sense, but I can't speak, as I currently have my entire ginormous freakhead stuffed into the rib-cage of dangling cow-carcass. I make animalsitic noises and rend with my powerful, overdeveloped jawmuscles, bulging and rippling like those of a sabre-tooth tiger, as I ponder my friend Joe.
I slice through bone and tendon and tough cartilege with my wickedly angled, sharklike chincisors, sending bone-bits and glistening black puddings of coagulated chintestinal blood sailing across the diner with each feral bite.
A pack of Guatemalan-Chindian boys come into the diner, speaking Spanish. Or gibberish. Who can tell the difference?
They walk over to me and ask me to lift my t-shirt.
"What's this about?" Joe wants to know.
I lift my shirt and the boys begin scraping along the chinsides of my luxurious rolls of corpulent fat with old playing cards. One boy gently lifts my massive man-titty and collects a big dollop of a yellowish substance that resembles spoiled soft cheese.
"Oh, I'm just doing my bit to help a downtrodden minority," I explain to Joe. "The Chindians have discovered that the pungent, semi-toxic munge that collects on my unwashed body is a powerful psychedelic drug of some sort. Chingesting my creamy sweat brings them to death's door, but it assists them in reaching the proper mental state for dream-quests."
"Sort of like peyote," Joe offers.
"My munge-cheese kicks peyote's ass to hell and back," I say with some degree of pride. "They call it La Mantequilla del Diablo-- The Devil's Butter."
The boys end up filling an emptied grout-bucket with my powerful psychotropic man-filth. They thank me profusely, and then leave. They'll be having some powerful dream-quests tonight -- I can smell that I'm especially rancid today.
"It's the least I can do in George W. Bush's Amerikkka," I modestly explain to Joe.
"I don't even recognize America anymore," Joe sniffs.
I wipe a turkey drumstick from the corner of my eye. "It's all right, Joe," I say, or rather that's what I attempt to say. My words are chinterrupted by the squawkings of a live chicken which somehow manages to escape my all-consuming maw.
"There will be an election in November," I console Joe. I have now sprung to my feet in order to seize the escaped chicken. The fat ripples along my elephantine haunches as I coil to leap, lethal energy gathered to spring in a frozen moment, like the cocked hammer of a gun. A really fat gun.
"Never give up hope," I advise Joe as I leap over the assembled humanity in the cramped diner, my claws sprung out and shiny-deadly, my lard-dimpled jowls flapping in the chindifferent April breeze.
The chicken dodges a slash from one of my mammoth fore-limbs. It dives beneath the seat of a six year old boy, a ruddy-cheeked, haystack-haired, gap-toothed reminder of what this nation is all about.
The boy is chinconveniently providing cover for the miscreant fowl, so I snatch him up with one sweat-drooling meat-paddle and I drop him, alive and screaming in abject terror, down into my waiting throat.
My roiling gastric acids will take care of the kid. I've got no time to chew him.
The chicken runs.
"I'm hoping Wesley Clarke joins the ticket," I tell Joe as I bite out the throat of the boy's mother, who has, as you might well imagine, sprung to her feet to protest my devouring of her sparkled-eyed tyke. I slurp her still-pulsating gizzards down my slavering maw. "That would give us two candidates with combat experience, which our Idiot King Dumbya of course does not."
The chicken scampers over the well-worn hospital-green tiles of the ancient diner. It ducks through the doorway and exits to the street as a truck-driver enters the place.
Angry at the clumsiness of the truck driver, I snap at his head with my yawning pink vortex of saliva-drooling death, severing his head and neck at the clavicle. His body spews a riotously crimson fountain of blood at the ceiling, like he were some liquid roman candle.
The hot blood splatters on the diner's windows and steams.
"But November is such a long way away," Joe calls after me, but I'm on the street now, waddling like an enormous Sumo wrestler with a wedgie, my dainty-tiny feet pounding into the cool asphalt like fleshy jackhammers.
I hear the telltale whine of jet-engines-- F-15's, I'm sure. I've heard them before. I hear them everytime I go out on a citywide rampage.
I'll hear the rumbling of National Guard troop carriers soon enough as well-- a platoon of "mercenaries" out to chill my right to dissent. And my right to feed on human flesh.
"November is virtually tomorrow," I call back to Joe as I stoop to the ground to bite the mid-body out of a policeman's horse. Chintestines ooze and slither out of the gaping wound like wet, grisly Slinkees. "It's just tomorrow. Just plan, and organize, and don't stop thinking about tomorrow!"
The F-15's scream down from the sky as they begin their attack run. My brunch with Joe will have to wait.
I leap into the cool, slimy waters of the East River as the air-to-ground missiles slam into the cityscape behind me.
The filthy river greets me like an old lover. A murky, green lover that smells of cabbage, burnt engine oil, and feet. It smells like... freedom.
The chicken has escaped.
But George Bush will not.
Washington DC is only a few days' swim from New York.
And I am hungry. -
So, did you get laid at the Rally or what?dflea said:
Exactly what a Russian paid troll would have as a talking point.doogie said:True American Patriots understand with full clarity exactly what flea and hondo are trying to do here.
Good post Houston.
I like the Moscow style of capitalizing True American Patriots. That really pops for the paste eating retards in the crowd. -
I thought this was going to be a thread about curling. Dang it.
-
Couldn't get laid in a whorehouse for the blind.doogie said:
So, did you get laid at the Rally or what?dflea said:
Exactly what a Russian paid troll would have as a talking point.doogie said:True American Patriots understand with full clarity exactly what flea and hondo are trying to do here.
Good post Houston.
I like the Moscow style of capitalizing True American Patriots. That really pops for the paste eating retards in the crowd. -
Chinto the slavering maw, HondaCuntWaffle said:
No surprise this completely flew over your head2001400ex said:
Cool story bro.GrundleStiltzkin said:Hi, gang. Michael Moore here. I had an chinteresting encounter in a diner and I thought I'd share it.
So me and Joe Palooka are sitting around at Mavis's diner talking.
Joe looks at me. His eyes are wet with anger.
I push a large joint of mutton down my enormous feeding orifice. The bones crack and pop like July fireworks as my massive tusks rend the meat and work the bone into a thick paste.
"How could they do this?!?" Joe wants to know. His hands tremble, as if palsied. "How could these rotten bastards push Saddam Hussein out of office?!"
It's a good question, no doubt. I wish I could answer it. I wish I could answer another question-- How can I eat this cheesesteak, this Monte Cristo, and that four-gallon tank of pork lard simultaneously, when I have only two hands?
"Saddam Hussein was just an chinnocent genocidal madman," Joe sniffs. "He never did any arm to anyone. Or, at least, not to anyone I know." Joe's a sensible man. That's a rare quality these days-- sense.
I'd like to tell him I respect his common sense, but I can't speak, as I currently have my entire ginormous freakhead stuffed into the rib-cage of dangling cow-carcass. I make animalsitic noises and rend with my powerful, overdeveloped jawmuscles, bulging and rippling like those of a sabre-tooth tiger, as I ponder my friend Joe.
I slice through bone and tendon and tough cartilege with my wickedly angled, sharklike chincisors, sending bone-bits and glistening black puddings of coagulated chintestinal blood sailing across the diner with each feral bite.
A pack of Guatemalan-Chindian boys come into the diner, speaking Spanish. Or gibberish. Who can tell the difference?
They walk over to me and ask me to lift my t-shirt.
"What's this about?" Joe wants to know.
I lift my shirt and the boys begin scraping along the chinsides of my luxurious rolls of corpulent fat with old playing cards. One boy gently lifts my massive man-titty and collects a big dollop of a yellowish substance that resembles spoiled soft cheese.
"Oh, I'm just doing my bit to help a downtrodden minority," I explain to Joe. "The Chindians have discovered that the pungent, semi-toxic munge that collects on my unwashed body is a powerful psychedelic drug of some sort. Chingesting my creamy sweat brings them to death's door, but it assists them in reaching the proper mental state for dream-quests."
"Sort of like peyote," Joe offers.
"My munge-cheese kicks peyote's ass to hell and back," I say with some degree of pride. "They call it La Mantequilla del Diablo-- The Devil's Butter."
The boys end up filling an emptied grout-bucket with my powerful psychotropic man-filth. They thank me profusely, and then leave. They'll be having some powerful dream-quests tonight -- I can smell that I'm especially rancid today.
"It's the least I can do in George W. Bush's Amerikkka," I modestly explain to Joe.
"I don't even recognize America anymore," Joe sniffs.
I wipe a turkey drumstick from the corner of my eye. "It's all right, Joe," I say, or rather that's what I attempt to say. My words are chinterrupted by the squawkings of a live chicken which somehow manages to escape my all-consuming maw.
"There will be an election in November," I console Joe. I have now sprung to my feet in order to seize the escaped chicken. The fat ripples along my elephantine haunches as I coil to leap, lethal energy gathered to spring in a frozen moment, like the cocked hammer of a gun. A really fat gun.
"Never give up hope," I advise Joe as I leap over the assembled humanity in the cramped diner, my claws sprung out and shiny-deadly, my lard-dimpled jowls flapping in the chindifferent April breeze.
The chicken dodges a slash from one of my mammoth fore-limbs. It dives beneath the seat of a six year old boy, a ruddy-cheeked, haystack-haired, gap-toothed reminder of what this nation is all about.
The boy is chinconveniently providing cover for the miscreant fowl, so I snatch him up with one sweat-drooling meat-paddle and I drop him, alive and screaming in abject terror, down into my waiting throat.
My roiling gastric acids will take care of the kid. I've got no time to chew him.
The chicken runs.
"I'm hoping Wesley Clarke joins the ticket," I tell Joe as I bite out the throat of the boy's mother, who has, as you might well imagine, sprung to her feet to protest my devouring of her sparkled-eyed tyke. I slurp her still-pulsating gizzards down my slavering maw. "That would give us two candidates with combat experience, which our Idiot King Dumbya of course does not."
The chicken scampers over the well-worn hospital-green tiles of the ancient diner. It ducks through the doorway and exits to the street as a truck-driver enters the place.
Angry at the clumsiness of the truck driver, I snap at his head with my yawning pink vortex of saliva-drooling death, severing his head and neck at the clavicle. His body spews a riotously crimson fountain of blood at the ceiling, like he were some liquid roman candle.
The hot blood splatters on the diner's windows and steams.
"But November is such a long way away," Joe calls after me, but I'm on the street now, waddling like an enormous Sumo wrestler with a wedgie, my dainty-tiny feet pounding into the cool asphalt like fleshy jackhammers.
I hear the telltale whine of jet-engines-- F-15's, I'm sure. I've heard them before. I hear them everytime I go out on a citywide rampage.
I'll hear the rumbling of National Guard troop carriers soon enough as well-- a platoon of "mercenaries" out to chill my right to dissent. And my right to feed on human flesh.
"November is virtually tomorrow," I call back to Joe as I stoop to the ground to bite the mid-body out of a policeman's horse. Chintestines ooze and slither out of the gaping wound like wet, grisly Slinkees. "It's just tomorrow. Just plan, and organize, and don't stop thinking about tomorrow!"
The F-15's scream down from the sky as they begin their attack run. My brunch with Joe will have to wait.
I leap into the cool, slimy waters of the East River as the air-to-ground missiles slam into the cityscape behind me.
The filthy river greets me like an old lover. A murky, green lover that smells of cabbage, burnt engine oil, and feet. It smells like... freedom.
The chicken has escaped.
But George Bush will not.
Washington DC is only a few days' swim from New York.
And I am hungry. -
Fucked your mom.salemcoog said:
Couldn't get laid in a whorehouse for the blind.doogie said:
So, did you get laid at the Rally or what?dflea said:
Exactly what a Russian paid troll would have as a talking point.doogie said:True American Patriots understand with full clarity exactly what flea and hondo are trying to do here.
Good post Houston.
I like the Moscow style of capitalizing True American Patriots. That really pops for the paste eating retards in the crowd.
But she IS a whore, so there's that. -
Fox keeps conservatives in their bubble, shocking news!!HoustonHusky said:https://www.newsbusters.org/blogs/nb/rich-noyes/2018/02/19/flashback-cnn-and-msnbcs-enthusiastic-coverage-russian-sponsored-anti
A check of their November 12 coverage showed both CNN and MSNBC gave enthusiastic coverage to the Russian-organized anti-Trump rally that day, with live reports every hour. Correspondents celebrated the idea that it was “a love rally,” and repeated the marchers’ anti-Trump mantras, such as: “We reject the President-elect.”
While the two liberal anti-Trump networks offered heavy coverage of the anti-Trump rally throughout the day, a check of coverage between noon and 5:00 p.m. Eastern found that the Fox News Channel offered only a short re-cap (66 seconds) at the start of their 4:00 p.m. Eastern hour
........................
The Russians organized Pro and Anti Trump marches on the same day in the same cities.
http://www.foxnews.com/politics/2018/02/16/indictment-reveals-russians-also-organized-anti-trump-rallies-after-election.html
All they wanted to do is fan the flames and they did a great job of it. -
You fell for it
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An estimated 25,000 Russian colluders were at the anti-Trump rally in NYC (especially ironic considering a lot of their signs they were holding...) vs something like 40 Russian colluders at the pro-Trump rally. Want to guess which the press covered?UWhuskytskeet said:
Fox keeps conservatives in their bubble, shocking news!!HoustonHusky said:https://www.newsbusters.org/blogs/nb/rich-noyes/2018/02/19/flashback-cnn-and-msnbcs-enthusiastic-coverage-russian-sponsored-anti
A check of their November 12 coverage showed both CNN and MSNBC gave enthusiastic coverage to the Russian-organized anti-Trump rally that day, with live reports every hour. Correspondents celebrated the idea that it was “a love rally,” and repeated the marchers’ anti-Trump mantras, such as: “We reject the President-elect.”
While the two liberal anti-Trump networks offered heavy coverage of the anti-Trump rally throughout the day, a check of coverage between noon and 5:00 p.m. Eastern found that the Fox News Channel offered only a short re-cap (66 seconds) at the start of their 4:00 p.m. Eastern hour
........................
The Russians organized Pro and Anti Trump marches on the same day in the same cities.
http://www.foxnews.com/politics/2018/02/16/indictment-reveals-russians-also-organized-anti-trump-rallies-after-election.html
All they wanted to do is fan the flames and they did a great job of it.
Agree completely that they wanted to fan the flames on both sides... -
-
They attacked Hillary because they knew she was going to win like everyone except for me
Then they turned on a dime to go after Trump and the media and M Moore couldn't jump on fast enough
The goal was to sow discord. Like say accusing a duly elected President of being a Russian agent or using a fake dossier to spy on the duly elected Presdient
A lot of folks here are in line for Russian Medals of Honor from Putin -
Trump won. Get over it.RaceBannon said:They attacked Hillary because they knew she was going to win like everyone except for me
Then they turned on a dime to go after Trump and the media and M Moore couldn't jump on fast enough
The goal was to sow discord. Like say accusing a duly elected President of being a Russian agent or using a fake dossier to spy on the duly elected Presdient
A lot of folks here are in line for Russian Medals of Honor from Putin -
Excellent comrade. Keep up the good work2001400ex said:
Trump won. Get over it.RaceBannon said:They attacked Hillary because they knew she was going to win like everyone except for me
Then they turned on a dime to go after Trump and the media and M Moore couldn't jump on fast enough
The goal was to sow discord. Like say accusing a duly elected President of being a Russian agent or using a fake dossier to spy on the duly elected Presdient
A lot of folks here are in line for Russian Medals of Honor from Putin -
That doesn’t sound fair!?!! What about trump?HoustonHusky said:
An estimated 25,000 Russian colluders were at the anti-Trump rally in NYC (especially ironic considering a lot of their signs they were holding...) vs something like 40 Russian colluders at the pro-Trump rally. Want to guess which the press covered?UWhuskytskeet said:
Fox keeps conservatives in their bubble, shocking news!!HoustonHusky said:https://www.newsbusters.org/blogs/nb/rich-noyes/2018/02/19/flashback-cnn-and-msnbcs-enthusiastic-coverage-russian-sponsored-anti
A check of their November 12 coverage showed both CNN and MSNBC gave enthusiastic coverage to the Russian-organized anti-Trump rally that day, with live reports every hour. Correspondents celebrated the idea that it was “a love rally,” and repeated the marchers’ anti-Trump mantras, such as: “We reject the President-elect.”
While the two liberal anti-Trump networks offered heavy coverage of the anti-Trump rally throughout the day, a check of coverage between noon and 5:00 p.m. Eastern found that the Fox News Channel offered only a short re-cap (66 seconds) at the start of their 4:00 p.m. Eastern hour
........................
The Russians organized Pro and Anti Trump marches on the same day in the same cities.
http://www.foxnews.com/politics/2018/02/16/indictment-reveals-russians-also-organized-anti-trump-rallies-after-election.html
All they wanted to do is fan the flames and they did a great job of it.
Agree completely that they wanted to fan the flames on both sides...
Unfair! Bias! Can this happen in OUR America???!!?!1!1 -
Comments like this is just playing into the hands of the Russians. Give our great country a chance and be a builder not a divider. Your leadership is needed now more than ever.RaceBannon said:They attacked Hillary because they knew she was going to win like everyone except for me
Then they turned on a dime to go after Trump and the media and M Moore couldn't jump on fast enough
The goal was to sow discord. Like say accusing a duly elected President of being a Russian agent or using a fake dossier to spy on the duly elected Presdient
A lot of folks here are in line for Russian Medals of Honor from Putin -
Sounds like now would be a good time for the President to denounce the Russian meddling and enforce the sanctions.RaceBannon said:They attacked Hillary because they knew she was going to win like everyone except for me
Then they turned on a dime to go after Trump and the media and M Moore couldn't jump on fast enough
The goal was to sow discord. Like say accusing a duly elected President of being a Russian agent or using a fake dossier to spy on the duly elected Presdient
A lot of folks here are in line for Russian Medals of Honor from Putin -
It's BOTH SIDES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!dflea said:
Sounds like now would be a good time for the President to denounce the Russian meddling and enforce the sanctions.RaceBannon said:They attacked Hillary because they knew she was going to win like everyone except for me
Then they turned on a dime to go after Trump and the media and M Moore couldn't jump on fast enough
The goal was to sow discord. Like say accusing a duly elected President of being a Russian agent or using a fake dossier to spy on the duly elected Presdient
A lot of folks here are in line for Russian Medals of Honor from Putin -
doogiebot is against Russian sanctions apparently.
Makes sense. -
Don't bring me into this. I'm just here for the popcorn.dflea said:
doogiebot is against Russian sanctions apparently.
Makes sense.
