America, The Best: Our Sexist Roots

I am glad to have found yet another way that America is the best country in the world. It has recently come to my attention that England is ruled by a queen.

The misleading sexist bastards. All this time, I thought they had a king! They've been duping us left and right, helter-skelter, and I come with the truth. Why does a queen deserve to be king of England? It's not as if females are any better than males! Honestly, it's scandalous!

That's a reason as good as any to have broken off of England. Sure, they had a king at the time, but we knew, oh we knew, that they would come to this, and show their true selves, so we broke off into our own nation to prove a point.

And now we can justify our behavior. We may have dumped a bunch of tea into Boston Harbor, but not only did that make tea-flavored water, (Err...tea, that is) but it spared us from the sexist English legacy.

Oh, and if you happen to argue that the ends don't justify the means, consider this.
Where does tea come from? Asia.
Where does most of the tea in Asia come from? China.
What is the country with the most women? China.
Is it sexist to have more of one gender than another? Yes.
See? Take that Bernanos!

Now, I won't say America is perfect on that account.
Wait, what am I saying? Of course it is. Bring me proof that the number of men and women in the United States are unequal, and I'll consider it. But until then...

Wait, what's that? England....is also part of the United Kingdom?
Oho! Nice try, England. But I can see right through your tricks. Trying to kiss up to the United States, now, are you? Well, mimicking us by adding United onto your name won't help, and that whole kingdom thing? A sham.

I know who holds the true power. The parliament. For shame! Making a woman queen, and then denying her power! That's even more sexist, for reasons so shocking I don't even know them! I've called your parliament-posing-as-queen-posing-as-king bluff! Just call yourself the Parliamentdom and be done with it!

You can keep the United part, actually. It sounds nice. Got that catchy ring to it.





Hold it. Hold it. Hold it. I was about to let you go there with America proven as the superior country. Then I found this. It's not big enough to make into a post, and you're reading this already, so I might as well rant further.

And I quote, "Research shows that men are far more easily distracted behind the wheel than women."
Yeah, right. Look who this is coming from! I bet your research shows that men are also far more easily distracted by-

...

...

Sorry, squirrel. Where was I?
Oh, right. Shame on you, Telegraph, for publishing this! More proof of the sexist nature of England. I bet it's the only place in the world where they say men are more attracted to women the women are. For shame!

Of course, I had to develop a solution to this. What is it?
Cover the windshield of your car with Playboys. Problem solved.



Afterwards: That was one hell of a meandering, confusing post. Hope it made sense to someone out there.
Props go to the Atlantan (Is that the correct form?) who suggested this =)

Because I Can...

Apologies for the overused meme. Saw this, had to make this.

Picture 8 Of 7 (Bonus)

WARNING: POST CONTAINS GRAPHIC  HIGH AMOUNTS OF   SOME    NO    A METRIC FUCKTON OF VULGAR "HUMOR"!
To respond to a request from my "Turkish" friend...

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Picture 7 Of 7

Source

When you hear the word outlaw, you think of someone living in the wild, scrounging together what little they can to survive. Or perhaps they are well-off in their new life in the mountains or woods. Perhaps they seek refuge in a neighboring country, disguised as someone who never existed, except in the minds of whoever the outlaw meets. That is the romanticized image of an outlaw.

The real outlaws of the world live under the noses of the very government which seeks to be rid of them, risking capture, or worse, each day. But few need to fear this. Like the majority of people, their lives are subdued, with very few actions meriting anybody's attention but their own. No government, though they may profess it, can be on watch of all of its citizens. No government will know each and every single person living in their country, though they may try. The nearest they can come is making everybody believe that, and they have nearly succeeded in that task.

So that is how I live, how we live. Right beneath the frozen noses of the Russian leaders. Walking in plain view, and remaining within the great Motherland. My comrades and I, we are all exiles. Exiles in Russian eyes. None of the others in our lives know of our past. Not our real past. Of course, they have heard some feeble tale from the depths of our mind, spun by Alexey. He was always one for tales, and they are believable enough. Before the war, he wished to be a writer. Before the war, we all had our aspirations. But the war changed everything.  It crushed the dreams of so many, the face of war sending scholars to the front lines, and  little children to the factories. And then, that was it. The war began, then it stopped. Lives were lost, battles were won, guns were fired. Then it was over, ended as simply as one might squish a fly. The victors would be hailed as great leaders, and the losers would have their faces ground into the dirt of history, their names reviled forever.

History only cares for the victors. That much was clear. But even the losers are lucky, in a way. The losing side will always be held in fame, if only in the form of infamy. The winning side would only be remembered for its leaders. The names of the soldiers who fought, who bled, sweated, and died would be cast away as one might dispose of an apple's core, used, and now useless. Even the most valorous were cast aside, the "mighty" leaders taking that fame for their own. These true heroes of the war were proclaimed outcasts, exiled for minor crimes that every soldier did, that they were even congratulated for doing. But they lived on. 

Some just wished to reinstate their old lives, though many found this nearly impossible in the recovering Russia. The economy was devastated, and the majority of the men just out of school had no profession, the six years of the war stealing away precious time. The majority of the country only knew how to fight. A small number of the ex-soldiers turned to crime, and many were killed in the resulting wars within Russia itself. Finally, there were those, an even smaller percentage of the population, who sought revenge. Revenge against the government which left the true force which had won the war to rot. Revenge against the officials who stole the glory for themselves. Revenge against all the injustice that was so heavily dolloped upon them.

And now these four plotted in this little shack outside of Novgorod. What their goals were, none of them were sure. They wanted something big. Something worthy of attention. Something that would get those lazy officials out of their easy chairs and make them fear for their lives, their lives which were so readily built upon the backs of others, tricked into taking the fall. Something that would get the world to look up and see the injustice which they had been dealt, to make the so-called victors of the war be reviled as much as the losers.

They had what they needed already. The stealth needed to begin the operation was already there. The government officials were so arrogant to think that the exiles would actually obey them, so they wasted no time informing the police of who to watch out for. And besides, Moscow was so large, one could lose one's self in the crowds without meaning to. The firepower was provided for by their "friends", their supplicants, who operated within the shadows of the minor countries which were beginning to rise out of the ashes of the war. And the publicity would be provided by the media. They wouldn't need to be prompted to jump on this. After all, there had been no news for days and weeks on end. There was just reporting on the plights of poverty, and the endless treaties which were to be signed after the war. The media would jump on this new story like beggars on a 50 Reichspfennig note, and quicker.

All that was left was the planning. There was endless planning. Notes and papers and spent coffee grounds. Kostya demanded it. He was a tactician in the army, ruthless in his planning. He had been diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder early on in life, and it had seized him in a unique way, making him a control freak. He wanted to be sure every situation was planned for, from the obvious to the improbable. Vassily had tried many a time to persuade him out of this, as had I, but he persisted. We now had more notes than the CIA had on Vyshinsky.

We probably wouldn't need to use even a tenth of these notes, but the pragmatic part of me was glad to have them. Better safe than sorry. Already the sun looked brighter.

Tomorrow, the ground will shake.

Picture 6 Of 7

It was a typical August day. The sun was high overhead, and its rays speared the ground uninhibited by the cloudless sky, where they would rebound and lance back into the sky. A pleasant breeze, sent from the highlands, rolled through the city, ruffling hair and dresses alike, scattering the lighter debris not yet picked up by the cleaners. That same breeze brushed across the face of the president as he paced back and forth on the patio of the White House. To his left was the open lawn of the area, where a pair of lawn care professionals - watched over by a Social Security agent - were tending to the grass, cutting it just right, creating patterns so the birds flying high above would have something pleasant to look at amid the urban landscape. To the president's right were the doors to the White House, one slightly ajar, the air conditioned air mixing with the hot air outside, their interactions invisible to the eye.

Also invisible to the untrained eye was a man clad in full black, standing in the shadows at the far end of the patio. A pair of shades mitigate any sun rays daring enough to try to pierce the shadow, but that was the only part of the outfit suited for the day. The stiff black suit would be hell to wear this day, and one could only imagine that the man would be altogether too happy once this was all over.

"Sir." His voice cut through the air, the breeze delivering it to the president before crumbling the message away. It would never be heard by anyone else.

"Yes." As the president stated this, he kept his back turned to the man. They had had multiple such encounters before, and it had been made clear on the first that the identity of the man, who went by Mr. Black, was to be kept unknown, even to the president. The president had no doubt he could obtain this man's true name - he certainly had power enough - but he chose not to. It would drive him away, and his services were invaluable.

"The Laps gather." The Laps were a boisterous political group, most of whom were not above intimidation and aggression as tactics to gain votes. They were sly, their movements unknown. There were few Americans who knew of their existence who did not work in the intelligence sectors, or who had not been obviously confronted by them. Those who tried to make a story of it were silenced. To the majority of the public, the Laps were just another political party that had recently popped up, like all the others.

Recently, there had been an upsurge of political parties. With Bin Laden finally captured, and a cheap source of alternative energy developed, and no natural disasters on the horizon, America turned to politics. Politics had always been large in the life of the average American, but now, it was nearly the largest thing in everybody's life. There was not a single American who was not strongly affiliated with any party, not a single American who did not know how they would vote in the next election. Sure, the voter turnout was nearly 100%, but the huge variety of political parties meant that gaining more than double digits in any election was a feat, a feat which could give victory.

And with all that political deviation, thuggish parties like the Laps were inevitable. Most were small, restricted to cities, a problem for the city, but the Laps had gained a foothold in California at first, gaining control of the governorship as it finally pulled out of its economic downturn. With that foothold, they moved to other states. First the Pacific Northwest, then the south. The East Coast came next, with the Midwest the last to succumb. The public could still remember Shotgun Sam, the farmer who attended the first Laps rally in Tennessee with his loaded Ithaca 37. He was labelled a crazy during the lawsuits and sensationalist news reports which followed the deaths of five prominent Laps members. He was saved from jail, much to the outcries of the public, via a series of well-greased hands, all slipping off of one another. The first had started from the White House.

"When." The Laps were associated with several pro-vigilante justice groups in the United States, and these groups usually had their own perverse views of how the law should be interpreted, usually in the way which would give them the most profit and fame. The Laps were not above attacking other parties, and used the groups as scapegoats for the resulting slaughters. The White House had been hunting them for months, trying not to expose themselves in the process. It was hard, and trying. They had to kill the whole operation at once, not eat at them slowly. The hydra had to be stabbed in the body, not in one of its many necks.

"Two weeks."

"Then you have two weeks. Get your forces together."

"The bait, sir?"

"Stage political rallies."

"The bait." Someone would die. More than one someone. That was for sure.

"Whoever you can find." The ones who would die would be prisoners, long forgotten in their cells, locked away by the chains of their imprisonment as well as those of time. Their bodies would be altered by plastic surgery and they would be offered freedom if they did a single task for the government. Heaven was a sort of freedom.

"Yes sir. Have a good day sir." With a padded footstep, the figure was gone, away to begin planning the extermination. The Laps had been around far too long, and now the nuisance had to be dealt with in the government's own way. Secretly, beneath the headlines of the news. And it was all so very illegal.

The president was left with his thoughts on that quiet August day. It was about to get a lot louder. A lot.