Nothing ends the dead white male’s bullshit macho hard on lies and this is the 81 year old fucking stain who wants the lesser of all evils to rule again?
Utopia lies at the horizon. When I draw nearer by two steps, it retreats two steps. If I proceed ten steps forward, it swiftly slips ten steps ahead. No matter how far I go, I can never reach it. What, then, is the purpose of utopia? It is to cause us to advance.
― Eduardo Galeano
Now, shifting top the fucking dirty Uncle Fucking Daughter Showering BIDEN! (But I will return to Eduardo!!)
In another example, Biden proclaimed to a group of Democrats in 2006 that while he intended to run for president, he’d “rather be at home making love to my wife while my children are asleep.”
Biden has bragged about his bedroom performances before. Back in 1974, the then-senator told the Washingtonian magazine how his late wife Neila “had the best body of any woman I ever saw,” and how the rigors of the campaign trail meant that he “might satisfy her in bed but I didn’t have much time for anything else.”
Biden offers dating advice to underage girl (VIDEO)
Reacting to Biden’s braggadocio, commentators suspected that the 81-year-old president may be exaggerating.
“Joe Biden who can’t climb the stairs without falling, says the secret to his marriage is ‘good sex.’ Really,”
‘Outkick’ founder Clay Travis wrote on X. “F**king the entire country doesn’t count!” Donald Trump Jr. chimed in.
His daughter? Hmm, her diary/journal was stolen, and . . . . In an entry to a diary believed by the US Justice Department to be genuine, Biden’s daughter, Ashley, wrote about taking “showers [with my] dad” as a child, saying that these encounters were “probably not appropriate.”
But the cool uncle has become, practically overnight, the creepy uncle. On one level, the driving reason for this is no mystery. Within the past week, two women have accused the former vice president of unwanted touching: Lucy Flores said he kissed the back of her head at a campaign event in 2014, and Amy Lappos said he “put his hand around my neck and pulled me in to rub noses with me” at a fundraiser in 2009. These accusations, coming in the #MeToo era, have prompted a reevaluation of Biden’s history of showing physical affection toward women and girls.
Biden’s daughter who was forced to take showers with Father/Uncle/Genocide Biden.
Perversity. Fuck these pigs. Die baby die.
Here, Cornel attempts to go after Biden:
Done with the fucking human stain, that goddamned Jewish Catholic Zionist Joe Genocide Biden!!!!!!!
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Here, a poet’s take on Eduardo Galeano:
The Nobodies
Los nadies: los hijos de nadie, los dueños de nada.
Los nadies: los ningunos
—Eduardo Galeano
1.
They rise from the dawn and dress.
They raise the bundles to their heads
And their shadows broaden—
Dark ghosts grounded to nothing.
They grin and grip their skirts.
They finger the gold and purple beads
Circling their necks, lift them
Absently to their teeth. They speak
A language of kicked stones.
And it’s not the future their eyes see,
but history. It stretches
Like a dry road uphill before them.
They climb it.
2.
With small hands
They pat wet earth
Into brick.
And we wonder
What they eat
And why they believe
In their gods
With faces
Like frightening toys.
We pay what they ask,
Minus something
For our trouble,
Wondering why they don’t
Pack up from the foot
Of the volcano,
Why they ruin their hands,
Their teeth, why they swallow
What they are given
Without a smile,
Or the hint of anger.
3.
A goat watches with eyes the inverse of danger,
Knowing there will always be some wafer of meaning
To savor on the tongue. Its munching
Is belief in the body and in the long dry grass.
What it finds, it takes into its mouth as proof
that necessity is the same as plenty.
The child who tends the goat
Sits on his knees in the shade of a low tree.
He considers what he knows. He lies down
On his side, takes the teat into his mouth
And drinks. What he does not know
Flickers in the breeze, brushes past his cheek,
The tip of his ear, and is quickly behind him.
4.
If it is true that the earth respires,
That it speaks only to those
Who command nothing—
If it is true that the first man
Was fashioned of corn.
Of divine shit. Of dust—
If a bale of cotton—
If color is trance,
And trance is to ride the back
Of the first great bird
In first flight—
If the world has ended twelve times—
If the atom is cognizant, coy;
If light is both pow-wow
And tango—
If, at the final trumpet,
Oil magnates will kiss the ankles
Of earth-caked girls who traipse
Along the highway’s edge,
Hugging the mountain
When trucks barrel past—
If Satchmo. If Leadbelly—
If wind on the horizon,
Thundering the trees,
Making all of our houses small—
Galeano:
The Nobodies
Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream of escaping
poverty: that one magical day good luck will suddenly rain down on
them—will rain down in buckets. But good luck doesn’t rain down
yesterday, today, tomorrow, or ever. Good luck doesn’t even fall in a
fine drizzle, no matter how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their
left hand is tickling, or if they begin the new day with their right
foot, or start the new year with a change of brooms.
The nobodies: nobody’s children, owners of nothing. The nobodies: the
no ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, dying through life,
screwed every which way.
Who are not, but could be.
Who don’t speak languages, but dialects.
Who don’t have religions, but superstitions.
Who don’t create art, but handicrafts.
Who don’t have culture, but folklore.
Who are not human beings, but human resources.
Who do not have faces, but arms.
Who do not have names, but numbers.
Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the police
blotter of the local paper.
The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.”
― From Open Veins of Latin America: Five Centuries of the Pillage of a Continent
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Here that dead Oreo Cookie Prez with a real man, Chavez!!!!!
Versus:
In 1492, the natives discovered they were indians, discovered they lived in America, discovered they were naked, discovered that the Sin existed, discovered they owed allegiance to a King and Kingdom from another world and a God from another sky, and that this God had invented the guilty and the dress, and had sent to be burnt alive who worships the Sun the Moon the Earth and the Rain that wets it.
― Eduardo Galeano, Children of the Days: A Calendar of Human History (2013)
Galeano’s vivid portrayal of that symbol of colonial pillage – Potosi, the mountain of silver in Bolivia, discovered by the Spanish conquistadors in their quest for mythical El Dorado:
They say that even the horses were shod with silver in the great days of the city of Potosi, The church altars and the wings of cherubim in processions for the Corpus Christi celebration in 1658, were made of silver: the streets from the cathedral to the church of Recoletos were completely resurfaced with silver bars. In Potosi, silver built temples and palaces, monasteries and gambling dens; it prompted tragedies and fiestas, led to the spilling of blood and wine, fired avarice, and unleashed extravagance and adventure.
The sword and the cross marched together in the conquest and plunder of Latin America, and captains and ascetics, knights and evangelists, soldiers and monks came together in Potosi to help themselves to its silver. Moulded into cones and ingots, the viscera of the Cerro Rico – the rich hill – substantially fed the development of Europe.
“Worth a Peru” was the highest possible praise of a person or a thing after Pizarro took Cuzco, but once the Cerro had been discovered Don Quixote de la Mancha changed the words: “Worth a Potosi,” he says to Sancho. This jugular vein of the vice-royalty, America’s fountain of silver, had 120,000 inhabitants by the census of 1573. Only twenty-eight years had passed since the city sprouted out of the Andean wilderness and already, as if by magic, it had the same population as London and more than Seville, Madrid, Rome, or Paris.
What would Galeano say about Biden and Genocide?
Die, Bibi, DIE. Die, JOE, DIE.
Paul Haeder, Author 