Most pathetic shitlib response to the USSC’s belated correction of the original Roe misfire.
Most pathetic response SO FAR, that is.
Please don’t cut trans men and nonbinary people out of the conversation today. This is not just a women’s rights issue, anyone who can get pregnant is affected.
— Amber (@amber_kadabra) June 24, 2022
I’d ask that somebody go explain the problem with her premise here, but this bimbette has obviously been so incurably enstupidated by the Xtreme PC virus as to render any attempt along such lines a complete waste of time. Entirely too much more lackwittery, hysteria, irrational panic, life-threatening mental illness, and sidesplitting self-beclownment here.
I do declare, I can’t for the life of me recall any other Supreme Court decisions ever being so much damned fun as these last two have been. Explanation for my post title at 7:16 or so of this vid:
The five-song Ramones concert sequence from Rock and Roll High School literally changed my life forever, which is why I embedded the whole thing up here. After I saw it for the first time (there would be many, MANY more of them), I quit the doomed-from-Day-One 70s hard-rock cover band I had been slowly circling the drain with for the previous cpl-three years to put together a punk-rock outfit which, to everyone’s complete shock, ended up leaving an indelible mark on Charlotte’s barely-noticeable music scene. The enjoyment and rich, singular experiences our unexpected success provided the four of us drove the final nails into the coffin of my meandering try at higher education, convincing me that my addiction to the risk-rife idea of a career as a no-shit Rock Star—a craving that had set a stainless-steel hook deep inside me early on; the seductive power of the thing had been steadily tightening its grip on my imagination throughout most of my life—might in fact have some real potential that could very well amount to something way beyond mere childish daydreams.
Alas, though, t’wasn’t so. Despite attaining a totally respectable level of fame, the fortune part remained elusive, so the Rock Star thing didn’t work out nearly as well for me as I had hoped it might. The platinum records, the arena tours, the mansions, the truckloads of cash, the willing supermodels, the private jets, all the other trimmings—none of that extravagant finery did I ever get within sniffing distance of, as they say. Even so, I’m still much better off than poor old Amber is, and most likely I always will be. After all, I’ve never made anything like as complete a fool of myself as she did with that lunkhead Tweet of hers up there.