Posted on 03/23/2017 6:46:46 AM PDT by pabianice
With or without ketchup.
Toughen up buttercup.
I’m cooking a Cajun Chicken Sandwich for breakfast.
We do not choose our biological sex”
apparently now, in fact, we do. at least if you go tran.
I'm so sick of this. Queers should have stopped at "Stay out of my bedroom" - which I am more than happy to do, by the way.
But nooooo...
Sad man. Very unhappy person. As usual he blames his misery on others not himself.
And there you go, the template is set.
I would say he also needed a dad in his life which he did not have.
He has no idea what masculinity is so he thinks it is liking group sports and eating steak. If you don't care for those things you must not be a "man."
just reading this made me want to eat a raw beef plate just to cleanse myself
This clown will have a degree.
A degree on absolutely nothing.
It’s long past time to divorce the real university departments from the toy ones.
And we all know which ones are toy departments.
he sounds more try-sexual than bi-sexual...
as in, he’ll try anything to get him off...
deviant behavior looking for acceptance.
perhaps he should try a little more steak, than tube steak...
How about he responds that ‘I am a child of God, trying to figure out who He is calling me to be.”
The Gods of the Copybook Headings
AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.
We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.
We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.
With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.
When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “Stick to the Devil you know.”
On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “The Wages of Sin is Death.”
In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “If you don’t work you die.”
Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.
As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool’s bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;
And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!
What a faggot....
When CWII gets hot this human is safe. He poses a threat to no one.
Pffft... fag.
Robert Rigo is the Collegian Editor in Chief
Me thinks that he has tasted penis and liked it. A lot!
Just like losing your virginity...
Editor In Chief...but such a poor writer that he invalidates his vast expanse of boilerplate with a simple-minded cliche and a vulgarity.
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