Hitler getting bitch-slapped
How to spot a nerd: See if they’re wearing this, then take their lunch money
I think you meant, then see if they want to have an in-depth conversation about it. Because taking their lunch money makes you a bully.
And being a bully makes you an asshole.
Pex Lives returns with its first ever on-air guest! keepingwolteraccountable joined us to talk about the Web Planet and much more. This our first episode on since the new season of Doctor Who has started airing and we take in our thoughts on Peter Capaldi’s first…
Hey, that podcast I do dropped a new episode. Check it out!
On some nights, on those dark nights when armed and alert I would try to penetrate the obscurity of the fields and the mystery of things, I rose from behind my parapet as if in a dream, not to awaken my numbed limbs, which having been tempered in pain are like steel, but to grip more furiously my rifle, feeling a desire to fire not merely at the enemy sheltered barely a hundred yards way, but at the other concealed at my side, the one calling me comrade, all the while selling my interests in most sordid a manner, for no sale is more cowardly than one nourished by treason. And I would feel a desire to laugh and to weep, and to run through the fields, shouting and tearing throats open with my iron fingers, just as I had torn open the throat of that filthy political boss, and to smash this wretched world into smithereens, a world in which it is hard to find a loving hand to wipe away one’s sweat and to stop the blood flowing from one’s wounds on returning from the battlefield, tired and wounded.
At night, conveying my sorrow and pain to the men, my anarchist comrades there in the harsh Sierra, huddled in small bunches under the vigilant eyes of the enemy, how often would a friendly voice and loving arms restore my love for life! And each time the sufferings of the past, with all the horrors and torments that wracked my body, would be thrown to the wind as though from a distant age, and I would abandon myself joyfully to dreams of adventure, beholding with heated imagination a world that I knew not in life but in desire, a world that no man has known in life but that many of us have known in dreams. And dreaming, time would fly by, and my body would stand weariness at bay, and I would redouble my enthusiasm, and become bold, and go out on reconnaissance at dawn to find out the enemy’s position, and…. All of this in order to change life, to stamp a different rhythm onto this life of ours; all of this because men could be brothers and I among them; all of this because joy that surges forth even once from our breasts must surge out of the earth, because the Revolution, this Revolution that has been the guiding light and watchword of the Iron Column, could soon be tangible reality.
My dreams would fade away like the wispy clouds blown high over the Sierra, and my disenchantment would return, only to give way at night; once again to joy. And so my life has alternated between sorrow and joy, between anguish and weeping, a joyful life in the midst of danger compares with that life of darkness and misery in the dark and miserable prison.
One day - a day that was mournful and overcast - the news that we must be militarised descended on the crests of the Sierra like an icy wind that penetrates the flesh. It pierced my body a dagger, and I suffered, in advance, the anguish of the present moment. At night, behind the parapet, the news was repeated: “Militarisation is coming!”
At my side, keeping vigil while I rested without sleeping, was the deleate of my group, a would-be lieutenant; and two steps further over, lying on the ground, head propped on a pile of bombs, slept the delegate of my century, a would-be captain or colonel. I… would continue being myself, a son of the countryside, a rebel unto death. I neither desired nor desire crosses, stripes, or command positions. I am who I am, a peasant who learned to read in prison, who has seen pain and death at close quarters, who was an anarchist without being aware of it, and who knowing it is still more an anarchist than yesterday, when I had to kill in order to be free.
A day Mournful and Overcast…
by an “uncontrollable”
from the Iron Column.
Here’s a thing I wrote about a thing.