Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Spanish Response Cards

Do not call me anymore France

This is not the vision of the excellent Outlaw Bouchareb particularly moved me is the question, it only confirmed if needed was a deep feeling for years or even decades literally: I have nothing to fuck to be "French". Nothing. At all. Not the slightest tremor jingoistic, not the slightest ounce of jingoistic impulse, not the smallest bouncing light: that slab. And no doubt that the footage of the massacre at Setif, May 8, 1945, when my "compatriots" fired on peaceful protesters in an attempt to silence the bronze had the audacity to claim its independence - while he was yet so happy and fulfilled after 130 years of occupation and subjugation, the ungrateful fells - no doubt that these images have not done little to confirm me in this certainty.
being "French" means nothing to me.

At the film's release, activists and other funds FN dustbin of history had demonstrated in front of cinemas in demanding its ban and background as we understand them: they are described exactly as they are. A bunch of colonialists piglets squealing on their beloved empire now slip through their fingers and ready for all the abuses to continue to exploit human beings and materials, all in the name of their flag in the con and the only pride they may afford: to be loving morons submission to the powers especially the right angle, for just a little sense to exist through something finally.
Two things are absolutely despicable and it universally: one who believes himself superior because he has more money than anyone else, and even lower - though both may well be reconciled - he who believes that his country, he is better than others. Two facets of the same anxiety can exist around things we think larger than ourselves, the money or the nation, two facets of the same weakness and cowardice. The same refusal to be emancipated, autonomous individuals, in fact.

That is also why I so love to see them crying on the world no longer as it is in France that decade, on the sly gook that invaded the Black fuck those that they would never typed any case, the queer rolling shovels her boyfriend in the street on women who have strangely feel like shopping for them, agree that these outcries of wrinkly sometimes before the hour have something infinitely gratifying. But the best, the top of the whipped cream on the delicate creamy candied cherry, is to see, hear, read, when they get crazy with anguish and terror at the idea of the disappearance of this they are and what they like. Their land to the con, the con traditions, their steeples to the con, con their cheeses, their art of living well with us at the con, the existence of the white coward cunt. That's good . That makes you want to have children to take them to Algeria and then in the civil and declare FRENCH, hoping that growing up they become intelligent and thus left, and therefore they understand that this fact an accident of birth that made them "French", except to piss off idiots, it means nothing.

Even the "sporting events", where the least patriotic of us are yet to feel a little jingoistic impulse to "our" team representing "our" country and that even if one may say it's a bit of "France", but What I have to shake these glandus including a complete series of coincidences gave rise to the same administrative area as me, at the end? And they are paid horribly expensive to run after a Baball, they are replaced by golden retrievers and at least it will be a little cute, because it's pretty cute, in fact, a golden retriever.
C is also why even though I should be compelled and forced to put a ballot into a ballot box any Mélenchon by irresponsible resignation of part of the leadership of a certain party, but I would never have the slightest ear for the tagada tsoin tsoin the "Republic" and "France" and my "national pride". They go to hell, the "Republicans" Goch, with their verbiage of the Third Republic and grandpas on their enthusiasm for the tricolor. What, besides a "compatriot"? Laurence Parisot? Jean-Francois Cope? Serge Dassault? Ivan Rioufol? Because we are born in the same place, so I should feel a little closer tabs on such crap, even for infinitesimal way? They are dying. French or not.

And to return to film Bouchareb - It would also taste the best that you screw it urgently as he is well and good, O readers and Trice beloved - another certainty logically follows: at the time, I is bending over backwards to bring suitcases. The more options and heavier than I could. There are times when we can afford the luxury of not having anything to fuck her "country" and there are others where it is glorious to be considered a traitor.

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