Joyanna Adams

Nobody's Opinion

Are You REALLY a Liberal and Don’t Know it?

Nobody Cares

____about the meaning of words.

I was talking today to my good friend amfortas in Australia (many of you know him from his more than enlightening comments) and he told me, while laughing, that Americans have so many things backward: For instance, we call our Democrats, liberals. To an Englishman, a liberal is a Ronald Reagan, who by our definition was a true conservative. They have the liberals and the labor parties. We have the ‘liberals’ and the ‘conservatives.’

After watching the video, it seems I am a classical liberal, as is …Ron Paul.

SO…WHY do the Democrats in this country call themselves liberals when they, by the English definition, are completely the opposite?

because they can’t call themselves socialists. In fact, up to this past year, it was a dirty word in America. Just four years ago, when running for President, Hillary finally did come out of the closet and admit she was a “progressive.”…communist being too strong a word. The Democrats always lie and confuse…whenever possible.

So, once again, the Nobody learns from the somebody. Give the video a watch, you might find out that YOU TOO…are a liberal! OMG…Who knew? And, it’s about time we ‘correct’ those masquerading as liberals out of respect for the real meaning of the word…don’t you think?

(Thanks to amfortas)

November 23, 2012 - Posted by | British, liberals, progressives | , , , , ,

2 Comments »

  1. So many fine words have been stolen, bashed, mangled and destroyed by lefties.

    ‘Ere is a Poem, wot I wrote.

    Words in Passing
    (By Amfortas)

    We were not ready.
    We were distracted.
    Exhausted.
    Battle had taken its toll
    But the Family survived.
    The children played.

    Malevolent Smile.
    She was Ready.
    Definite. Ordered.
    The Blue Pencil, poised.
    Poisoned.
    Flooding in, the swamp re-defined the land,
    The familiar, the family, the Form.

    The first was Fair, our childhood’s most cherished friend:
    Resolver of squabbles, distributor, sharer,
    Fair cared for all:
    a string of rubies around her doomed, pale and lovely neck.
    It was so sad.
    They said it was consumption.
    All used up, in tatters, shrouded,
    she just faded away.

    Next to go was that sturdy, quarrelsome Equality, which surprised us all
    as he was so in demand, they said,
    by all,
    especially some;
    aye, and relied upon.
    For so many years a staunch friend and fighter.

    His burial dressage, a white cheesecloth, yoked neck.
    Naked beneath,
    his scarred skin a testament.
    Parchment.
    Burned Beyond Recognition.

    Truth tried hard.
    Was Tried. Hard.
    Derided, Derrida-ed,
    denied existence;
    perjured,
    Falsely accused,
    she struggled
    as she was garrotted.

    Died hard.

    Soon after that, Justice
    suicided off a nearby cliff.
    Lover’s Leap, a place then
    from which many a couple had gazed out,
    seeking the broader vista.
    Now has Disabled Access.

    Was it in despair?
    Perhaps sympathy with the others.

    No-one saw her silent fall.
    Was she pushed?
    Who could gain?
    Her handmaids will argue for a time and time,
    billing Innocence by the hour,
    Kept in chains, for gain.

    The old, wise man, Honour, lost his marbles, they said.
    He languished as the village idiot for a while,
    The butt of jokes and calumnies.
    Taunted.

    His body was found in a ditch one day.
    Starvation.
    They left it there.

    The loss of these good companions all
    has been followed now
    by Liberty and Freedom,
    two noble and leathery old soldiers.

    They put on their dress uniforms, immaculate,
    faced each other squarely and
    blew each other’s brains out.
    Such fine shots, both.

    They left a note. Signed as written together.
    They could no longer support the malignancy of the vile regime,
    the note said.
    They felt duty-bound to remove themselves
    from further abuse,
    the note said.

    They took Duty with them.

    An Altar was discovered in the woods
    On which the charred bones of hermaphrodite Trust
    Were found,
    Sacrificed to Narcissus, elevated to the Pantheon.
    Tears flowed down Olympus’ stony sides.

    Even God cries.

    After, there was Laughter, Music, Whine.
    High pitched.
    So much fun.
    The departed were only words
    After all.

    Oppressive words.
    Now dead.
    Like Fathers.
    Dead, white males.

    What, three were maids?
    So? Whatever, said the wenches.

    No one noticed Love fall to her knees.
    Her calls for help were drowned by song.
    Trampled to death under dancing feet.
    The last to succumb.

    Four.

    The surging mob, with popular will,
    Tied Democracy’s hands, and,
    fattened and degraded on suet foie gras
    trotted it to the abattoir.

    The Impostor was on the scene quickly.
    Ready, Definite.
    Re-defined.
    By Order. She said.
    Scripted.

    The Princess of Lies rides
    over barren lands.
    Long hair her spider-silk, chain-mail
    down her back.
    Across her breast,
    Over her steed’s flank.
    Hooves on skulls.

    The children gabble and cry.
    No words
    describe
    their pain.

    They were
    forbidden.

    Like

    Comment by Amfortas | November 23, 2012 | Reply

    • Oh my…that was a most ponderous poem of loss. (sigh) Thanks for sharing…..

      Joyanna Adams

      ________________________________

      Like

      Comment by joyannaadams | November 23, 2012 | Reply


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