Activist versus Activist
The great Red Star arrives on my front porch every day. It carries with it the voice and the presence of the progressive movement. Some long departed tenant pays for the subscription; I get to throw it out with the recycling. Today is Sunday. I will not talk of my religious practices: I might offend someone, which is an indirect way of saying that I am a Christian. I get better results when I say that I proselytize for Set, the Snake God. There, this morning, on a day somewhat special for those somewhat spiritual, was an article concerning a baby born prematurely. I closed my mouth as I considered reading the article: this must be an attempt to get me to slurp down white guilt, abortion flavor.
My experience reading the Red Star is similar to eating cereal. The unwary diner does not look at what he is eating. Living in Toronto, I never eat out; when I did, before the scandals of state sanctioning non-washing of the fece dipped hands of the kitchen staff, the ongoing incompetence of health inspectors, and the stories of cultures other than my own celebrating food practices that, well, I will not mention for fear of being charged with a hate crime, I always looked at my food before I ate it. I only ate where the lighting was bright. The unwary can be ambushed by food prepared by another, much as the Red Star hides the Red Agenda beneath a rainbow of food coloring.
I sat with my cereal, my tea (sergeant majors tea*, which is unknown to the wogs that begin at Calais), and looked at the current Sunday offering of the paper, the Red Star. My bowl sat on the right hand side of the unopened paper. On the left was this article*, actually the emotionally engaging photo of mom and most vulnerable baby. This is something designed to make me question my nausea at third trimester abortion, I judged. Two and a half months premature: that is the third trimester. I looked from the paper to my bowl of raisin bran cereal. Be wary.
The unwary can be ambushed by their food. Out of the side of their eye they glimpse a shape that should not be found in cereal, in food. Their full attention turns to the bowl, and they stop eating, and swill around the contents. They see nothing but bran and raisins. Their fear subsides from half speed to idle, but it is still on, if only dormant. They pause, and peer into the milk. All clear. Back to eating. The chewing movements of the jaw resume, and the stomach returns to its work of digestion. But one eye is on the bowl. So it is with the Red Star. This article, at surface inspection, appears to generate sympathy for the fetus, which undermines the central phallus of the women’s movement. Anything that questions abortion just leads to concentration camps filled with fags, an economy under the domination of pro-Israeli Jews, and right wing dupes warm in winter wearing furs and dry leather footwear. It must be a clever way to slip a white guilt dispenser into my mouth, somehow. The idea that those third trimester foetuses are somehow human is not a good meme to have out there among those that are supposed to pay taxes and obey the Red Party line. I stopped eating.
The unwary eater might then glimpse a raisin that has properties that do not properly belong to raisins. It has legs, before it disappears back into the milk. The unwary is unwary no more. Full attention is now placed upon the food. Digestion stops. Legs? Did it have legs? It is gone now, submerged. There is no verification by the senses. Just a fleeting glimpse. Legs. Raisins do not have legs. Decades of political correctness kick in. Surely the food inspectorate, properly unionized, has caught this problem. A raisin with legs is not a raisin, but a bug. The statist apparatus would not allow bugs in the raisins in the raisin bran. The unwary eater thinks back to his eating. That last bite: it crunched. It crunched like bran, sort of. It crunched like bran, but different. The unwary look at the mushifying matter in the bowl. This foodstuff is too long in the milk to be crunchy. What crunched in the mouth? It has been swallowed. The stomach tightens. The inner Marine* wakes up, but holds corrective action, held back by progressive conditioning.
OK. I read the article*. Nice article. Should not be in the Red Star, of course. The idea that third trimester foetuses are human, worthy of sympathy or humanitarian consideration is wrong. They turn up in landfills, or in squirming pieces in the abortionists garbage, or drown in the toilet while the mother fades into a progressive haze as the sedative enters her veins thanks to the caring needle jockey nurse. Plenty of suppressed stories about that. The abortion mommies have a disproportionately higher level of suicide, like high school queers; they become sterile, or just die of infection. All bad press for the womyns movement, so it is silenced, painted over, or submerged like a raisin shaped insect in a bowl of cereal.
The socially engineered mind cannot unleash their inner Marine. Just barf, Gunny suggests. Just barf up your troubles. Preferably all over the shoes of the incompetent who brought you insect filled food. Make a scene. Then throw over the table, not pay the bill, and go out into the fresh air. And get back to the serious business of killing Japs. But the socially engineered products of the socialist social services sector cannot have solutions to their problems, only funding shortfalls. That raisin with legs: maybe it is supposed to be there. Like the clip fed weapons sold to Mexican gangsters. You just have not read the secret memorandum. You are being a racist and intolerant of other cultures by not delighting in eating a bug in your food. Doubt stops the reverse peristalsis of the unwary diners stomach. If you complain about it, you could be charged with a hate crime. The unwary mind visualizes a visit to the emergency ward:
Did it have six legs, or eight? the admitting non-nurse, no medical training intake clerk asks. This person has been hired for their sensitivity to other cultures. She/He/He-She can speak on paper other languages than that of the tax payer. She/He/He-She can discriminate between the life threatening inserted anal sex toys, and the comical. Better you had a fourty watt oven bulb resting in your rectum than a bug in your gut. Having a light bulb up your rectum is bad; having some insect roaming your G.I. tract, laying eggs, or just swimming towards your brain, is go wait in your seat material.
The admissions clerk stops writing and asks again Did it have six legs, or eight?. Why is that important? Maybe the eight legged bug is an endangered species of arachnid. More valuable to the green shirt lobby than you are. Poor endangered species. The unwary eater sees themselves reclassified from human being to foetus. The viable third trimester foetus, dismembered, to save mommy from the embarrassment of not bothering to use birth control. After all, the unwary realizes, if their life was important, valued, why have a no medical training clerk at the front desk, whose value is to speak languages and be sensitive to people who choose dangerous 40 watt bulbs over safer twenty watt microwave rated bulbs?
Sure, I read the article. I do not trust the Red Star. There has to be a curve in it somewhere. A wounded soldier groaning for mercy from the enemy even as he holds a live grenade in his bloody, doomed hands, the inner Marine would suggest. Anyone who questions abortions right to unlimited funding is a racist. Abortion on demand, abortion as birth control, abortion to supply parts for fringe science; all to be unquestioned, upon pain of progressive sanction. I keep shut up about abortion. I know that human life does not begin when human life begins, like the little helpless foetus in the article in the Red Star, but when shrill leftists shout it does.
I threw the Sunday Red Star into the recycling, only taking note of the advertisers so I could boycott their goods and services.
I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.
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