Month: November 2018
I have a lurker’s account on Gab, the “Not Nazis, but number one with Nazis” social media platform, and after a brief hiatus, they’re back online. Here’s what’s on their “Popular posts” section as of this morning:
The actual numbers are still too close to call and not the numbers shown.
ZOG is short for “Zionist Occupational Government,” one of the biggest antisemitic conspiracy theories.
The phone number in “End Cultural Marxism’s” post is Rep. Steve Stiver’s office number and generally known to the public, so there’s no need to redact it.
It really happened: in September 2017, the @tedcruz Twitter account “liked” a post by @SexuallPosts featuring — as the Washington Post oh-so-tastefully phrased it — “a sectional sofa, the pornographic actress Cory Chase, her fictitious nude stepdaughter, and a very energetic young man.”
My initial inclination was to believe that a staffer with Ted Cruz’ Twitter account clicked on the “like” button. But after reading his account in his book about the time he was a 26-year-old law clerk at the U.S. Supreme Court, I’m willing to believe that he clicked it himself. Back in the 1990s, the Supreme Court justices were deciding whether to regulate internet porn and decided to watch it for themselves. Cruz was present, and his account was a little too “lady doth protest too much” for me to think he’s not into Cory Chase’s MILFy goodness and accidentally mis-clicked while doing some one-handed surfing.
(Hey, I’m a divorcé, and I lack the shame required to not tell you that I have passing familiarity with Ms. Chase’s oeuvre. And before you go looking that up, hoping for something kinky, that’s French for “the set of one’s works”.)
The best thing: Cory Chase is miffed that he didn’t pay for the video. In an interview with the Huffington Post, she said: “I didn’t like that he watched it for free. He pirated that video. He should have paid Reality Kings for a subscription.”
Ed. note: Ron DeSantis is still terrible.
Click the photo to see it at full size.
Click to see the fashion disaster at full size.
It’s not autumn until I’ve caught the scent of the “Three C’s”: cinnamon, cloves, and cat poop.