Ronald Reagan switched from Democrat to Republican in 1962. Hillary Clinton was a member of the College Republicans before becoming a Democrat in 1968. Rick Perry switched from Democrat to Republican in 1989. Elizabeth Warren switched from Republican to Democrat in 1996. These examples illustrate the great importance of the political parties as a trustworthy sign of what a politician really believes.
But political parties serve an even more important role: they tell us who we should reflexively hate. Without political parties, voters would be forced to evaluate politicians based on the results of their policies instead mindlessly rooting for their team. Chaos would inevitably ensue.
And don’t get me started about 3rd parties. You shouldn’t vote for them because they won’t get enough votes. Circular logic is fun because circular logic is fun!
This country has a two-party system. It says so right in the Constitution. I think it’s between the part that talks about the separation of church and state and the part that says only people in a well-regulated militia are allowed to have guns.
Here’s how it works: if you vote and your candidate wins, your vote is an implicit agreement to whatever happens next. And if you vote for someone else and they lose, you agree to bound by the decision of the majority by participating in the election. And if you don’t vote, you have no right to complain because the only legitimate form of protest is to vote. So you agree to whatever politicians do whether you vote or not. This is called “consent of the governed.” It’s one of those phrases like “living dead” or “quiet riot” that sounds funny if you think about it too much.
My advice is to only vote for flip-floppers. It’s the safest bet because statistically speaking, you’ll get what you want about half the time.
For most Americans, the Middle East is an exotic and mysterious place. Like the Persian carpets made there, it is a complex weave of nations, tribes, languages, and religions. And like a Persian carpet, you can’t pull on one thread without pulling on many others.
However, if you study the history of the region, certain patterns emerge. I studied the history and cultures of the region for many years until I had my eureka moment. I had discovered what I call the Grand Unified Theory of the Middle East. It is a unifying principle which explains every event there since the beginning of history. Once you learn this theory, you will instantly understand everything that happens there.
Here is my Grand Unified Theory of the Middle East: Everyone hates everyone.
The Arabs and Persians hate each other. The Turks and the Kurds hate each other.The Sunni and the Shia hate each other. The Bedouins and the Berbers hate each other. The Muslims and Christians hate each other. And all of them hate the Jews. The Jews, not wanting to be outdone in the hating game, boldly up the ante by hating both themselves and other Jews, mostly because they are either too Jewish or not Jewish enough.
Democracy at work
Could this geopolitical dumpster fire possibly get any worse? Yes, it can! Democracy in the Middle East, where it exists at all, tends to get into a rut. Generally, there is a two-party system which is a fierce duel between the Islamic Party of Islam for Muslims against the Very Very Very Islamic Party. In such a situation, it is difficult to find common ground.
So what should the US do? I suggest treating the place like a nest of killer bees. The farther away you are, the less likely you are to get stung. And if you insist on getting close and throwing rocks at the hive, throw really big rocks. In 1983, Reagan withdrew US forces from Lebanon after a truck bomb killed 241 Marines. He said:
“Perhaps we didn’t appreciate fully enough the depth of the hatred and the complexity of the problems that made the Middle East such a jungle. Perhaps the idea of a suicide car bomber committing mass murder to gain instant entry to Paradise was so foreign to our own values and consciousness that it did not create in us the concern for the marines’ safety that it should have.”
Tō-ji, a Buddhist temple of the Shingon sect in Kyoto, one of the many beautiful attractions in Japan you aren’t visiting.
Welcome to Straffinrun Tours. Do you want to go around and see some of Japan’s oldest and most visited shrines and temples? Experience the subtle beauty of a tea ceremony? Try your hand at the wondrous art of ikebana? Yes? Get the f*** out of here because you bore me. Use Google and save yourself a couple grand. My tour is focused on exposing you to the concept of 本音 (pronounced honne) and 建前 (tatemae). For that we will need to meet and watch real Japanese people doing mundane things in their daily lives.
Have you ever laughed at a bad joke your boss or customer has made because the social situation called for it? If yes, you have practiced tatemae. The Chinese characters 建前 translate literally as “constructed front” and can be seen as your social persona that we put up to keep us from beating each other to death. Some people say it’s basically lying, but, well, they’re idiots.
Ever fantasize about slamming you boss’s head into the corner of his desk after hearing his bad pun for the 26th time? Well, that would be honne. 本音 literally means “real sound” or, in other words, what you are really feeling at the moment. Hopefully, you practice some impulse control and don’t run around calling a spade a spade. It can be a bad idea. Especially in Compton.
Pachinko parlor
So now that you’ve gotten the basics of honne/tatemae down, let’s find out what the little Nipponjins are up to. First stop on the tour is a Pachinko parlor. Noisy, smoky, and filled with dejected people gambling. The game itself is ridiculous, but we’re not here to be bedazzled with blinking lights and digital breasts. Over there! Don’t look, but look at the woman in her 60s, wearing the tiger pattern blouse. Her machine just went “reach” which means she has two of the three numbers necessary to win. Will she? Zannen (too bad). She lost. Did you see her reaction? She pawed at the screen as if to say, “Oh, you’re a bad boy.” Now watch the man in his 40s, wearing the suit. His machine just went “reach”. Zannen. He lost, too. Yet his was a stone-faced reaction despite having a 70% chance of winning \10,000. The tiger blouse woman showed you her honne and the man, his tatemae. You’ll notice about 90% of the players react like the man and 10% like the woman. That’s Japan. You don’t show your emotions in daily, public life unless you’re a freak.
Let’s get out of here and grab a drink. I know a pub down the street. Yes, it does say “Pub,” but remember that donut you bought at the bakery in the station this morning? It had “Donut” written on the wrapper, but it had eggplant inside. This is not your mother’s English. “Pub” to them means a small bar where, usually, a youngish gal, the one-san, and an oldish gal, the oba-san, fawn over you and you pay through the nose for the pleasure.
The only pic I could find tagged “oba-san” that wasn’t granny porn.
“Aah, sutoraifeen-san. Hisashiburi, desu ne” (long time, no see). The oba-san greets us as we slide into our stools, her 48-year-old bosom defying gravity due to the hiked up obi (sash) of her kimono. She pours us two Jim Beam Ryes on the rocks from the bottle with my name on it that she pulled off the shelf behind the bar counter. Talk to her. She is a master of tatemae. Your jokes will be hilarious. You look like Bradley Cooper, and where did you ever find that sweater? Goodwill? I’m not familiar with that brand. Is it a boutique on Rodeo Drive?
Here’s the rub; she doesn’t care about you other than you’re a paying customer. She thinks you know that, but you see how good you feel regardless? It’s dishonest honesty. The true masters of tatemae don’t trick you into believing what they are saying is true, but rather allow you to bathe in the respect they are showering you with. This is not your Western, “You look great. Did you lose weight?” type of flattery. It’s respect, so soak it in.
Unless you want to drop a mortgage payment, I suggest we get out of here. Hopefully, you’re beginning to see from our experiences at the pachinko parlor and the “pub” that honne/tatemae permeate Japanese consciousness. You get polite, speedy, and competent service at the convenience store because to do otherwise would be disrespectful of not only you, the customer but also of the clerk themselves.
So when you get back to The States and hear about “trigger warnings” and “micro-aggressions,” think about honne/tatemae. Are the sensitive souls pushing this nonsense because they want a more respectful discourse, or are they simply forcing people to yield to their superior wisdom? If it were truly about being respectful, they would show their tatemae and keep their petty grievances in the honne box. Running around, pointing out trivial offenses is the exact opposite of what honne/tatemae is all about. And for all the faults the concept has, it does provide a shield which can insulate you from nutjobs. The next time you’re accosted by a pink-haired slob for using the wrong pronoun, just remember the oba-san from the pub and tell her, “Those black yoga pants really do smooth out the ripples in your thighs.”
Often I have asked myself: what do all forms of stupidity have in common?
I have concluded that despite its myriad forms, derp has but one source: lack of curiosity. This attitude is exemplified in the cliche “perception is reality,” a phrase which makes me wonder if the people who use it have ever seen a magic trick.
The whole point of thinking is to look past what is obvious. That’s why we say (and should say more often) “don’t judge a book by its cover.” Synonyms for “think” in English include words like “ponder,” “examine,” “consider,” all of these words are derived from Latin words that mean to weigh or look at closely. Thinking means to test ideas, not just have them.
Our natural instinct is to make quick decisions and judgements based on first impressions and to stick with them. This approach works in most but not all situations. Even when faced with disproving evidence, most people are much more likely to look for information that confirms what they believe than evidence which contradicts it.
Does Not Compute
My favorite example of this is the broken calculator experiment. In it, high schools students and adults who had passed a math test were asked to estimate the answers to some arithmetic questions and check their answers with a calculator. The calculator was rigged to give answers that were off by about 25% – a difference big enough that a numerate person would know something is wrong. Yet in the experiment, about half the participants at the end said they believed calculators do not make mistakes.
In an even more depressing example, 19 college professors with PhDs in sciences were asked to evaluate a geometry lesson on calculating the volume of sphere. First, they were given an orientation on finding the volume by calculation and by measurement. The next day, they were given an incorrect formula which gives a sphere a 50% larger than normal volume. Then they were given actual spheres which they filled with water and then measured the volume with graduated cylinders. Incredibly, none of the participants questioned the formula. They reasoned they must have measured wrong or the equipment was labeled incorrectly.
So why do people persist in error? For the same reason people do many other wrong things – because doing the right thing is uncomfortable. The good news is that false beliefs cannot outlive the people who hold them, and so they tend to die off eventually.
When the decisive facts did at length obtrude themselves upon my notice, it was very slowly, and with great hesitation, that I yielded to the evidence of my senses.
-Joseph Priestley
Leo Tolstoy
The most difficult subjects can be explained to the most slow-witted man if he has not formed any idea of them already; but the simplest thing cannot be made clear to the most intelligent man if he is firmly persuaded that he knows already, without a shadow of doubt, what is laid before him.
-Leo Tolstoy
The main hindrance for the search for truth is probably the inability to abandon a present belief and adopt a better one when it comes along.
-Peter Elbow
The desire to be right and the desire to have been right are two desires, and the sooner we separate them the better off we are. The desire to be right is the thirst for truth. On all counts, both practical and theoretical, there is nothing but good to be said for it. The desire to have been right, on the other hand, is the pride that goeth before a fall. It stands in the way of our seeing we were wrong, and thus blocks the progress of our knowledge.
Gather round, young children, and I’ll tell you a tale. A tale full of treachery and intrigue, mighty heroes and dastardly villains, sung to the tune of the USA PATRIOT Act’s Section 326. A harrowing account of your intrepid author’s attempts to perform a simple act, made not-so-simple by the never-ending meddling of the federal government.
Over the last several weeks, it has been my sworn and sacred duty to set up a small business banking account for our Glibertarian enterprise. Setting up a bank account should, in theory, be an easy enough exercise. One waltzes into a bank; puts hands on hips in the lobby and demands in a loud, commanding voice, “Ho, there! I require the services of a money lender! Make haste, for I have pressing affairs to attend to with the apothecary upon the satisfactory conclusion of our business!”; gives some information; and deposits some money. That is precisely how things worked the last time I had to open a bank account.
Of course, preliminary research had to be conducted. Only one of us is actually made of money (I’ll let you try to guess who!), so the majority of my time was spent on the internet and over the phone with different institutions trying to find an actually free small business checking account. The majority advertise themselves as free, but once you get into the weeds a bit during the enrollment process, it turns out they are free only so long as you meet a variety of requirements, none of which are likely to occur with our current business model.
Pictured here: a banker
And yet, I persisted. Finally landing upon a local bank that, so far as I could tell, had actual, honest-to-Zardoz free small business checking, I gallantly sacrificed my entire lunch break to go speak with these generous merchants of monetary services. I walked into the lobby which, being the middle of a weekday, was largely empty. A thick-set manager in an off-the-rack suit quickly hurried over to me, vigorously shook my hand, and assured me that his underling would be able to attend to our needs. When asking what our business was, I explained that we run a website giving political and pop culture commentary. Why how wonderful! Did you know that the manager was a journalism major? It’s so important for there to be as many voices as possible giving great, down-the-line political commentary, to fight the nefarious tide of fake news!
Bolstered by his enthusiasm and feeling mightily proud of myself for helping to selflessly bring the hard, unvarnished truth to a grateful readership (though given some of the comments made during his rambling glad-handing, I suspect he would not have been so generous with praise if he knew the direction in which our political commentary flows), I sat down comfortably with his associate to begin the process.
Now, as you may or may not know, the leadership of our merry band is scattered across these United States. I explained that not only myself, but a handful of other individuals in various states would need to be signatories on this account. I thought this could be accomplished through digital signatures, faxes, etc. It is here that the first act closes, and the central conflict begins.
The banker looked at me with a nervous smile. “Is there any chance of your associates being able to come in to one of our branches?”
“None at all,” I replied, “and frankly I think it quite racist of you to ask*.”
“I’ll need to speak to my manager. Please excuse me for a moment.”
*thundering denunciation* “YES, YOU SPEAK WITH YOUR MASTER, VULGAR HIRELING, AND TELL HIM THAT I WOULD SPEAK WITH HIM FORTHWITH!”
Some five minutes pass in hushed consultation. There are no other customers in the bank. I nonchalantly begin to inspect the windows and doors at the edge of my vision, to plan my escape, if it turns out that my growing suspicions are true, and I have wondered into a clan of vampires or ghouls using a regional bank as a front to draw in potential victims.
Meaty Manager avalanches back across the room, with an exasperated look upon his reddened ground chuck face.
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we’ll not be able to meet your needs.”
“Excuse me?” I replied, momentarily dumbstruck.
“It’s the PATRIOT Act, you see…” and he then begins to tell me of a curse that the Great Tribe has laid upon he and all his kind.
In 2001 of the Western reckoning of years, as many of you may recall, our great nation was paid a friendly visit by some rather motivated Mohammedans who, through a series of peculiar mishaps, wound up killing thousands of innocent people. The immediate and predictable response to this, was for our Federal Government, Beloved by All, to pass an enormous omnibus bill full of things like indefinite detention and a host of new regulations on a wide variety of industries. If they hated us for our freedom, we had found a most ingenious method by which to defuse their wrath – simply get rid of the offending freedoms.
Fox News graphic of PATRIOT ACT, heroically standing in front of the sigil of the glorious Department of Homeland Security
In this behemoth of a law lies section 326, dealing with the establishment of what is known as a Customer Identification Program. Now before establishing accounts, banks are required to, and held liable for, making strong efforts to establish the identify of their customers. The exact methods by which they do this are left up to the individual institutions. According to the text of the act itself, it sounds easy enough to perform using only legal documents. However, Meaty Manager explained to me that practically all banks, particularly those who are only regional players and who cannot afford to buy off entire branches of government, generally are held to much tighter restrictions by their compliance departments, lest they find themselves on the wrong end of a federal inquiry. And so, without having the opportunity to actually see each of the individuals face to face and have a chat with them, they simply could not pass muster using their bank’s particular CIP rules. There was no way, you see, for them to have faith that we were not drug dealers or terrorists (he mentioned those two professions explicitly, showing an interesting creep from Fighting Terrorism to Eh, the Tool is Already There, Might As Well Use It to Fight Drugs).
Gathering what dignity remained to me, I indignantly declared to him that such was foolishness in the age of internet business, and that surely a great catastrophe (in the form of lack of growth) would befall his institution if it continued in this folly. Meaty Manager could only smile and give me a Gallic shrug, as if to suggest that, if such were the vicissitudes of fate, then he would suffer what he must.
On my way out the door, Meaty Manager did offer one piece of parting advice. He suggested to consult with a bank whose reach extends across all the lands, so that there would be outposts near any person that we decided needed official access. Perhaps then, could their identities be properly ascertained to the King’s satisfaction.
Thoroughly demoralized at this point, your dogged author decided to follow the suited mound’s advice and talk to a big bank. And so, this past Saturday morn, I found myself in the lobby of a Major National Bank. After waiting for some time, I was finally introduced to Paul**, the small business banking representative. I explained to him right away the issue I had had previously, and he agreed it was an obstacle.
There followed two hours, and I am not kidding or engaging in hyperbole there, in which I was interrogated by Paul and his Manager (I was by now convinced that every man who works in a bank has the exact same physical build). I explained more than once what our business did. I showed them the site. I explained about the concept of the Internet, and how it came to be that many different people, only a few of whom have ever met in person, can reside in different states and still all have interest in a shared venture. I was asked more than once some questions that sounded suspiciously like they were going to lead to “gotcha!” moments had I answered differently, some about drugs and some about terrorism. It was, frankly, ludicrous.
I asked why I was being treated this way. Same story, different day: PATRIOT Act, section 326. We don’t Know you. How can we Know your compatriots when they aren’t even here? Was I aware how deeply suspicious this entire thing was? Why, did I know that some young dissidents have used otherwise seemingly innocuous websites to sell the Devil’s own concoctions? What nerve had I, to come in here proclaiming my own innocence, when all of my actions so clearly speak to the contrary!
I shall not bore you with further details; suffice to say that due to some stern negotiations and my resolve to not leave without a deal in hand, one hour after the bank closed, I left with a newly established account, and a series of addendums that I could mail to my compatriots that which, upon completion in front of a notary, would then suffice to establish identity for banking purposes. You see, the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network’s FAQ on the CIP allows for a bank to rely on the good offices of a third party for purposes of establishing identity. However, the bank is held responsible if the third party’s methods are found to be insufficient or unsound. As such, few banks are willing to take such a risk. However, when it comes to dislodging an agitated libertarian from your place of business after the automatically timed overhead lights have already extinguished, it appears they were willing to make an exception.
TL;DR version: apparently starting a small business with partners in different states is now considered to essentially be drug-running or terrorism related unless and until proven otherwise. This helps to preserve our freedom after 9/11. Be grateful the King is there to see all, and to protect us from the evils that lurk in the dark.
Production poster for The Patriot Two: After the Apocalypse.
All information used to write this article that was not gleaned from my personal experience was obtained here and here, if you want to ruin your Sunday afternoon reading through it. Having already done so, I wouldn’t recommend it.
*conversations may not have occurred precisely as recounted
**names have been changed to protect the barely competent
My brain is going in a thousand different directions today, so I’m gonna roll with it. I’m just gonna write a few sentences for each thought in stream of consciousness form and see whether it gets me booed off the stage.
It’s amazing how much money touches every sore spot in a relationship. My wife and I are going through Dave Ramsey’s FPU to “tune up” our finances now that I’m making a paycheck again, and it’s painfully obvious how different our respective priorities are. I’m very risk averse and want to be completely out of debt within 5 years. She’d rather have nice things and not think about money. There was definitely some sleeping on the couch happening this week.
Am I the only one who couldn’t care less about this Russian bullshit? It didn’t pass the smell test in November. It didn’t pass the smell test in January. Now it smells like an Obama fart as we are starting to get wiretapping information.
I’m not at all surprised that the Whatever 7 from Wikileaks was another big nothing. We learned more about how utterly out of control our intelligence agencies are, but none of it was a “shocking revelation.” Wikileaks needs somebody to better market their info dumps because they’re all hat and no cattle at this point.
I think the NFL is suffering from the same problems as the NBA, and their ratings will continue to decline in the next few years. The players are less and less interesting to the majority of the population, prices for tickets and apparel are out of the reach of many, and the media spends more time on who beat up their girlfriend than on actual football anymore.
Basic Economics by Thomas Sowell is a great read! I think I’d recommend Economics in One Lesson by Henry Hazlitt first, simply because it’s shorter and less repetitive. Either book is a great primer on why everything politicians say about economics is crap.
Complete detox from the MSM has been nice. I’ll watch the occasional local news segment or click the random link to a MSM outlet, but generally I just avoid it. It gives a level of perspective to the daily Olympic pants shitting that happens in our culture. Also, nothing pisses a prog off more than when they’re hyperventilating with “Did you see that Trump did that????!?!?!?”, replying with “nope, must’ve missed it. Doesn’t sound very important.”
After watching a few Dateline episodes with Mrs. trshmnstr (what is with women’s obsession with that show??), I’ve come to the conclusion that if the random guy you met at a party texts you 2 hours later, he’s already in your garage getting ready to rape you, strangle you, and dump your body three counties over.
Final thought: I had always thought of the Civil War as being fought mostly in open fields. My visits to the Manassas Battlefield have disavowed me of that notion. I’m sure the artillery were set up in large fields, but it looks like much of the battle must have taken place in densely forested areas.
I really don’t like Bill O’Reilly. He’s a blowhard, a grade-A prick and often seems inordinately proud of being, at best, a mediocre thinker.
But he’s not wrong. That is James Brown’s hair. I don’t know if she stole the wig off his corpse or they just go to the same wigmonger or if there is something even darker, even more sinister behind the resemblance.
Maybe Maxine Waters was James Brown all along and before she could be exposed, she faked “his” death. Maybe James Brown was Maxine Waters the entire time and terminally retired from show business to be one of the leading idiots in Congress. Maybe they both are from the planet Fucktard Salon.
But the one thing I do know is that in the land of the blind, the one-eyed O’Reilly is king, and it’s a sad ass day for all us when we leave it up to him to point out The Emperor’s New Weave.
Here we are at another Friday, Glibs. Our beloved Jesse is out of town, but I’m hoping that this particular Fur Friday makes you long for his return.
I’m sure there’s a depressing story behind that eye.
Contrary to popular belief, I am just one big softy. Look at this puppy’s face and tell me you aren’t, also. I have a particular fondness for blue heelers, corgis, wolfhounds…and, well, most furry creatures. Yes, even cats, albeit at a distance.
In Montana, there are several pet rescue chapters–various regional Humane Societies since the state is so vast, “Res-Dog-Rescue” types (usually around the major reservations), and even some breed specific Rescues if you’re just really into Border Collies or herding types. The focus of my post today is RezQ Dogs. As was mentioned in a previous post of mine, we have some odd racial dynamics at play in the Last Best Place. However, folks seem to be able to put aside any “racist!!!1!” decries they might have when it comes to pet rescues. RezQ Dogs is a volunteer, nonprofit organization in Dodson, Montana, a bustling town of ~124 people, as of the last census. They try to find homes for the unwanted and abandoned dogs from the Fort Belknap and Rocky Boy Indian Reservations. You might have guessed that it’s hard for them to find homes for all of the pups they take in, and you would be right. The owners and the volunteers of this organization foster these dogs in their own homes until they can place them. Of course, at some point, they run out of vacancy and have to turn dogs away, too. They hope that one day they won’t have to do this anymore, that people on reservations will have some kind of respect and sanctity for the life of another creature.
Clearly spoiled rotten
Before this starts to read like one of those awful, heart-breaking commercials with Sarah McLachlan music in the background, here’s a picture of a dog who has literally never known hardship, besides trying to figure out which stuffed animal to rip the eyes off first. When I drove down to Wyoming to buy this little bundle of fur, I had no idea that an organization like RezQ Dogs existed, or I really would have considered them first. They mention on their website that the bulk of their rescues are just puppies, less than a year old. You don’t always know the story behind abandoned dogs, but in the case of a puppy, seems to me like someone just wasn’t ready for the responsibility or they lacked the patience and consistency to train the dog properly, and so they abandon it. They literally leave it by the side of the road in a box, assuming that a good Samaritan will happen upon it and give it the life it deserves. Or maybe they don’t assume anything at all. Maybe they just leave it there and figure it’s in someone else’s hands now and no longer their problem. Whatever their motivation is, they deserve to go to a special Hell.
Anyway, if you’d like to make a difference in a dog’s life, feel free to visit RezQ Dogs Facebook page or their website. It doesn’t look like they update their website as often as they do their Facebook, but they do make an effort to list all of the dogs they’re currently fostering. Better yet–seek out rescue facilities in your own neighborhood and make a difference locally. It might not seem like much, donating your time one afternoon or kicking in $5, but it really does have an impact.
Let’s take a moment a consider Haribo Milky Mushroom treats.
What the fuck is going on here? Milky mushrooms? Have you ever had a mushroom whose taste you would describe as “milky?” Are they made from milked mushrooms? What sort of milk do mushrooms produce and is it an appropriate flavor for candy?
Now, there is a type of mushrooms called “milky mushrooms” but they are a pure, snowy white, not the swirling cream and pink madness you see here. And I doubt the candy tastes anything remotely like them.
And let’s be honest: those discs don’t even look like candy mushrooms. That is a plastic tub of severed nipples. Excited, severed nipples, erect for eating. And pink young nipples at that, not the tough, brown, chewy nipples of a mature woman who has breastfed. I’m surprised there isn’t cherry-flavored red dipping sauce congealing in the bottom of the tub.
And yes, we eat gummy frogs and sharks and worms, but shouldn’t we draw the line at some fucked up Ed Gein shit like gummy nipples or, at least, not market them to children? They sell these nightmarish things on Amazon. They will ship them to your home.
Hey, Haribo, you sick German fucks, Gein kept a bowl of salt-cured labias on his bedside table for late-night snacking. Am I giving you ideas?
Ed Gein also had a belt made out of nipples. Coincidence, Haribo? Are we really supposed to believe that?
But political parties serve an even more important role: they tell us who we should reflexively hate. Without political parties, voters would be forced to evaluate politicians based on the results of their policies instead mindlessly rooting for their team. Chaos would inevitably ensue.
