Awwww - are the ideological Chekists at Team Scroat getting triggered by all the nasty comments, or is it just getting more difficult to keep up with the ever-fluctuating definition of "Racist, Sexist & Homophobic" when deleting comments?
See Ya >: )
Check your privilege. Just because Rattus Norvegicus is not covered by any existing treaty, does not mean that they ceded rights to this land to you settlers.
Y'know, Tara if you don't like War Films, that's cool. De Gustibus and all that. But if you don't understand them, maybe you shouldn't attempt to review them.
And, if you're so hard up to say something nice about a gyno-centric project out of some absurd feeling of obligation to do so, maybe you shouldn't try to make your point by favorably comparing it to a pair of totally different films (plus one that hasn't even been premiered, yet). Because deriding a film for not being the piece of work that you want to see made is truly the lamest of lame duck moves.
See you , enthusiastically, at Dunkirk
I love how so many of the women who have come here to voice their support have neither noticed, or, chosen to ignore the opening header of this tantrum, which sounds a helluva lot like Vic Toews infamous "You're either with us, or you're with the child molesters" diktat.
And that's the crux of the issue. Now I'm not going to presume to speak for married men of colour, men from the LGBTQIA+ communities *nods at Tickle My Anus* or men living with (dis)ability but I'm going to venture a guess that most couldn't give two stuffs for what women choose to call themselves.
Cassie here can anoint herself Queen Yertle of Turtleland, for all I care. It doesn't matter.
What matters is that in her little hissy fit, her manifesto of oppression, she sounds for all the world like the Mt. Saint Vincent equivalent of a drunken Kellie Leitch supporter, taking a break from the VLT to inform the rest of the people at the Legion that "Friggin Truedud is gonna impose Shakira Law, take ur guns and turn us all inta Mooz-Lims" And she deserves to be treated with the same derision by those of us who understand that critical thinking is not the sole prerogative of the Progressive (Ha Ha) Left.
First world campus feminism is a pathetic joke, but hey, enjoy your privilege girls. Because I'm sure you're all busy highlighting your well-thumbed copies of "The Handmaid's Tale" and telling your Facebook friends "See, I told you, didn't I"
Hay Missie - the 70's called. If you're done with their rhetoric, they'd like it back.
Don't forget to rewind.
Dere was dis lad from I knew from da Bog. 'e visited da Vatican, and 'e 'ad so much of de gargle dat 'e actually kissed 'is woife.
Of course, 'e also beat da Pope's foot wit a coal shovel.
The Old Orange Flute
In the county Tyrone, in the town of Dungannon
There were many a ruction that meself had a hand in
Bob Williamson lived there, a weaver by trade
And all of us thought him a stout-hearted blade.
On the twelfth of July as it yearly did come
Bob played on the flute to the sound of the drum
You can talk of your fiddles, your harp or your lute
But there's nothing could sound like the Old Orange Flute.
But the treacherous scoundrel, he took us all in
For he married a Papist called Bridget McGinn
Turned Papish himself and forsook the Old Cause
That gave us our freedom, religion and laws.
And the boys in the county made some comment upon it
They forced Bob to flee to the province of Connaught;
Took with him his wife and his fixins, to boot,
And along with the latter, his Old Orange Flute.
Each Sunday at mass, to atone for past deeds,
Bob said Paters and Aves and counted his beads
Till one Sunday morn, at the priest's own desire
Bob went with his Old Flute to play in the choir.
He went for to play with the flutes in the mass
But the instrument quivered and cried."O Alas!"
And blow as he would, though he made a great noise,
The flute would play only "The Protestant Boys".
Bob jumped up and huffed, and was all in a flutter.
He pitched the old flute in the best holy water;
He thought that this charm would bring some other sound,
When he tried it again, it played "Croppies Lie Down!"
And for all he would finger and twiddle and blow
For to play Popish music, the flute would not go;
"Kick the Pope" to "Boyne Water" was all it would sound
Not one Papist bleat in it could e'er be found.
At a council of priests that was held the next day
They decided to banish the Old Flute away;
They couldn't knock heresy out of its head
So they bought Bob another to play in its stead.
And the Old Flute was doomed, and its fate was pathetic
'Twas fastened and burnt at the stake as heretic.
As the flames rose up high, you could hear a quair noise
'Twas the Old Flute still playin' "The Protestant Boys".
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