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View Diary: Confessions of a Reluctant NRA Spokesperson (192 comments)

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  •  you don't know (15+ / 0-)

    what she's looked at. It is you who is cluelessly judging.

    And speaking of judging, in my judgement your behavior here is repulsive.

    And I suggest you refrain from hurling your repugnant "someone who has never looked into the eyes of a killer" bullshit at me. You'll lose.

    •  I'm sure I will (2+ / 1-)
      Recommended by:
      BlackSheep1, oldpunk
      Hidden by:

      because your reputation as a ruthless bully precedes you.

      I don't need to win.  I know my life, and I know what I will do to protect it.  Carry on with your bad - ass self, policing what others may feel or think, just as rigidly as the right does.

      ..the smoker you drink, the player you get....

      by Diane Gee on Wed Dec 26, 2012 at 07:30:13 PM PST

      [ Parent ]

      •  and (6+ / 0-)
        Recommended by:
        Avila, RUNDOWN, vcmvo2, indubitably, Smoh, kefauver

        your reputation precedes you: not only a ruthless bully, but a ceaselesly yammering blogmouth, a duckspeaker whose understanding of all things flows straight from the larynx:

        From the table at Winston's left, a little behind his back, someone was talking rapidly and continuously, a harsh gabble almost like the quacking of a duck . . . . He was a man of about thirty, with a muscular throat and a large, mobile mouth. His head was thrown back a little, and because of the angle at which he was sitting, his spectacles caught the light and presented to Winston two blank discs instead of eyes. What was slightly horrible, was that from the stream of sound that poured out of his mouth it was almost impossible to distinguish a single word. Just once Winston caught a phrase—"complete and final elimination of Goldsteinism"—jerked out very rapidly and, as it seemed, all in one piece, like a line of type cast solid. For the rest it was just a noise, a quack-quack-quacking. And yet, though you could not actually hear what the man was saying, you could not be in any doubt about its general nature. He might be denouncing Goldstein and demanding sterner measures against thought-criminals and saboteurs, he might be fulminating against the atrocities of the Eurasian army, he might be praising Big Brother or the heroes on the Malabar front—it made no difference. Whatever it was, you could be certain that every word of it was pure orthodoxy, pure Ingsoc. As he watched the eyeless face with the jaw moving rapidly up and down, Winston had a curious feeling that this was not a real human being but some kind of dummy. It was not the man's brain that was speaking, it was his larynx. The stuff that was coming out of him consisted of words, but it was not speech in the true sense: it was a noise uttered in unconsciousness, like the quacking of a duck.
        No one who posts to this site is more rigid than you. And few so avidly, unconsciously, duckspeak the quackings of the right—as you do here, in this Diary, from banging the Limprod/Klannity drum of "the worst school disaster was in 1927 from a bomb," to your Charlton Hestonesque ululation: "I have a handgun, and they are meant to kill people and I will kill anyone that tries to kill me, or my kid."

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