Trump beheading post by NC state rep. prompts calls for her resignation

[Bn2f]

Meh. If they wanted to stay on brand, those Mexicanos would've kicked their ball over the fence thus making it criminal, felonious, and I dare say an illegal.

 

[lliicckkss]

Meh. If they wanted to stay on brand, those Mexicanos would've kicked their ball over the fence thus making it criminal, felonious, and I dare say an illegal.

Definitely nothing would have happened..the worst that could happen is they kathy Griffin you

 

[Typo Fu Master]

Dammit. I hate it when I'm the last post on a page and no one acknowledges my question. Rude!

Is this an epitome? Am I. in fact, actually an attention whore? Do my posts matter more than someone else's?

Maybe this isn't the best thread to address this issue in. I have an another option!! Some people are politically sensitive about their feelings. I get it. Tell me about it. There is no other opinion more important than your own. I feel like that needs stars and a declaration that it's a masterpiece post. Share your thoughts here. Or don't.

 

[PaxNurgle]

Yeah. Just a joke. Gotta love the Democrats sense of humor. Let's make a few cuts starting with the president's head. Lol.

SO
MUCH
HATE.

OF COURSE, it's only "funny" when people like Utah senator Mike Lee say stuff like this about Democrats...

 

[Saint_Ann]

OF COURSE, it's only "funny" when people like Utah senator Mike Lee say stuff like this about Democrats...

Whataboutism makes everything ok. Got it.

 

[Rockymtnman]

Who gives a rats ass? Just a sign, protected by that pesky Constitution that maglodytes want to destroy. Not particularly imaginative nor interesting sign tbh. Much funnier ones this weekend. Still nothing better than the orange dipshits face at his own military parade. So sad.

 

[dmallord]

I got that reference. You might be a redneck.

No rednecks were harmed in the making of this post. Some of my best friends are rednecks. Some of them probably own guns.

Violence against anyone out of necessity is wrong.

So I gotta ask. Does Trump need to die?

One of the defining characteristics of a redneck is gun ownership. Even grannie rednecks have guns. Thinking, here, you might strike the word 'probably.'

Everybody dies... sometime. At least one politician says so. Picked out a graveyard to add emphasis to it.

So, yeah, Trump has gotta go sometime. If he doesn't, that would mean... he is an immortal, right?

 

[Typo Fu Master]

One of the defining characteristics of a redneck is gun ownership. Even grannie rednecks have guns. Thinking, here, you might strike the word 'probably.'

Everybody dies... sometime. At least one politician says so. Picked out a graveyard to add emphasis to it.

So, yeah, Trump has gotta go sometime. If he doesn't, that would mean... he is an immortal, right?

I haven't met every redneck. The word is a stereotype. There is at least a grain of truth to it.

I've been assaulted and robbed. I bear considerable ill will to that person. I still don't think he deserves to die.

 

[dmallord]

I haven't met every redneck. The word is a stereotype. There is at least a grain of truth to it.

I've been assaulted and robbed. I bear considerable ill will to that person. I still don't think he deserves to die.

Stereotyping is a reflex, not just here on Lit, but everywhere. We love those who echo our beliefs and dismiss the rest. It’s easier than wrestling with contradiction. Few manage to hold opposing truths in tension. Fewer still change because of it.

I say this more for myself than for anyone else: a decent person should feel unsettled when they stop trying to grow.

What drives someone to harm another? A fractured mind, maybe. Desperation. What help they need is open to debate, especially when they fall into a group we already mistrust.

You’ve found that edge—between rage and restraint. You hold onto it. That says something about you.

This year marks fifty years since the end of the Vietnam War. That war shaped how I see people—especially the question of who deserves death. I was wounded there. For a few hours, I believed I was going to die. That kind of helplessness leaves a mark.

I don’t hate the man who fired the bullet. He’s a blur now. But the one who took my fingers? He’s still with me. I watched him die, and part of me still believes he deserved worse.

Because of him, I’ve struggled not to stereotype. I still catch myself when I see Vietnamese faces—even knowing they had nothing to do with what happened to me. The anger flares anyway. Stereotyping is easy. Undoing it takes effort. Grace, maybe.

I’ve been told I have five months, maybe two years if I’m lucky. My body is beginning to fail, and the road ahead won’t be kind. That kind of news reshapes things. It doesn’t erase the anger or the scars, but it makes me ask whether I really want to carry them any further. Some weight, I’m learning, can be set down—if not for them, then for my own peace.

Maybe that’s the resolution: not justice, not forgiveness, but a gentler grip on the past. Enough to leave room for the rest of the journey.

 

[Typo Fu Master]

Stereotyping is a reflex, not just here on Lit, but everywhere. We love those who echo our beliefs and dismiss the rest. It’s easier than wrestling with contradiction. Few manage to hold opposing truths in tension. Fewer still change because of it.

I say this more for myself than for anyone else: a decent person should feel unsettled when they stop trying to grow.

What drives someone to harm another? A fractured mind, maybe. Desperation. What help they need is open to debate, especially when they fall into a group we already mistrust.

You’ve found that edge—between rage and restraint. You hold onto it. That says something about you.

This year marks fifty years since the end of the Vietnam War. That war shaped how I see people—especially the question of who deserves death. I was wounded there. For a few hours, I believed I was going to die. That kind of helplessness leaves a mark.

I don’t hate the man who fired the bullet. He’s a blur now. But the one who took my fingers? He’s still with me. I watched him die, and part of me still believes he deserved worse.

Because of him, I’ve struggled not to stereotype. I still catch myself when I see Vietnamese faces—even knowing they had nothing to do with what happened to me. The anger flares anyway. Stereotyping is easy. Undoing it takes effort. Grace, maybe.

I’ve been told I have five months, maybe two years if I’m lucky. My body is beginning to fail, and the road ahead won’t be kind. That kind of news reshapes things. It doesn’t erase the anger or the scars, but it makes me ask whether I really want to carry them any further. Some weight, I’m learning, can be set down—if not for them, then for my own peace.

Maybe that’s the resolution: not justice, not forgiveness, but a gentler grip on the past. Enough to leave room for the rest of the journey.

Masterpiece post, sir. It deserves stars and probably at least one purple heart. We forget that another's experiences can be radically different from our own. It will definitely change your perspective. I am anti-violence, believe it should only be used as a last resort. Death for the man who took your fingers was a kindness he did not deserve. Thank you for your service.

 

[Rockymtnman]

Stereotyping is a reflex, not just here on Lit, but everywhere. We love those who echo our beliefs and dismiss the rest. It’s easier than wrestling with contradiction. Few manage to hold opposing truths in tension. Fewer still change because of it.

I say this more for myself than for anyone else: a decent person should feel unsettled when they stop trying to grow.

What drives someone to harm another? A fractured mind, maybe. Desperation. What help they need is open to debate, especially when they fall into a group we already mistrust.

You’ve found that edge—between rage and restraint. You hold onto it. That says something about you.

This year marks fifty years since the end of the Vietnam War. That war shaped how I see people—especially the question of who deserves death. I was wounded there. For a few hours, I believed I was going to die. That kind of helplessness leaves a mark.

I don’t hate the man who fired the bullet. He’s a blur now. But the one who took my fingers? He’s still with me. I watched him die, and part of me still believes he deserved worse.

Because of him, I’ve struggled not to stereotype. I still catch myself when I see Vietnamese faces—even knowing they had nothing to do with what happened to me. The anger flares anyway. Stereotyping is easy. Undoing it takes effort. Grace, maybe.

I’ve been told I have five months, maybe two years if I’m lucky. My body is beginning to fail, and the road ahead won’t be kind. That kind of news reshapes things. It doesn’t erase the anger or the scars, but it makes me ask whether I really want to carry them any further. Some weight, I’m learning, can be set down—if not for them, then for my own peace.

Maybe that’s the resolution: not justice, not forgiveness, but a gentler grip on the past. Enough to leave room for the rest of the journey.

Took both my grandfathers probably 30 years to make peace with Japanese and German people. My mom’s dad served in the army in the Pacific and my dad’s dad in Europe. I still remember them saying some pretty damn hateful things into the 70’s. Seemed like one day, like you said, they just dropped the weight. My dad and uncle, conversely, both served in the navy during Vietnam and never said a disparaging word about Vietnam or its people. But, neither saw any action and didn’t lose any friends so that probably has a lot to do with it.