Posted on 04/16/2009 3:52:32 AM PDT by RU88
CNN) -- Happy Patriots' Day. April 15 is the one day a year when our country asks something of us -- or at least the vast majority of us.
So why are a bunch of Fox News clowns and right-wing cranks hosting "tea parties" all over the country? The Boston Tea Party, in case the clods at Fox didn't know it, protested "taxation without representation." Note the second word: without. The goofballs tossing tea bags today have representation. They voted in the election; they lost.
(Excerpt) Read more at cnn.com ...
I heard Hannity replay his hyper-comments to Imus. Begala is a slimeball of the worst sort...
Begala is a Clintonista doofus. What a moron.
Hey Begala, what do you call it when a majority gets to vote to tax a minority without limit?
That minority has no real representation. It is mob rule.
FU Begala.
Whoopie Goldberg, I bet you didn’t know you weren’t supposed to complain about taxes, you were supposed to write the check and sing a happy little tune!
I wonder how long this “Cheerily pay your higher taxes for the good of our country” bit will last on the lefties. Surely the rightwing isn’t the only group struggling financially.
Paul “Begoebbels” is a fascist. Most infamous quote:
“Stroke of the pen, law of the land. Kind of cool.”
Worked for Hitler, doesn’t it?
Some of the people commenting there are real idiots too. I left my own comment but I doubt CNN will post it.
Thanks for mentioning about the comments left on CNN. I encourage every one to look at them. When I saw them all I kept thinking to myself was has half of this country has lost it’s collective mind. Government schools have dumbed down the population to a bunch of worthless lemmings.
“You lost” is not supposed to be the way our country works. Yes, elections have consequences, but our constitution does not support ‘tyranny of the majority’, especially thin majorities (his comment about “the vast majority” is vacuous, disingenuous, and just plain old incorrect). Also, putting all of this in perspective, if the ‘vast majority’ of taxes are paid by a relatively small percentage of voters, they will always be ‘underrepresented’. The future of our republic depends very much on not going down the path of ‘we win, you lose’. The left has consistently used identity politics and polarization of the electorate as a strategy. This is highly destructive to our country.
Yeah, the CNN respondents are mostly saying,
“You lost, rightwingers! So shut up and pay your taxes!”
When Congress passes a bill that they didn’t even get a chance to read—that IS taxation without representation.
LLS
In one breath he’s praising those who defend this country in the military while in the next breath warning those same returning veterans may be prone to “right wing militancy.” Priceless.
I have always despised him and that onion head carville. They are the most vile and evil creatures on Earth.
LLS
Democrats always dream about April 15th
I read a good explaination of our problem yesterday. Only about 40% of us are actually paying a significant portion of the US taxes. The 60% that don't pay a fair share of taxes don't care how much the government spends as long as they're getting a piece of the pie.
If the founders had conceived the modern tax burden, they wouldn’t have been that wild about taxation “with representation” either.
Paul Begala, wrong again.
APRIL 18TH IS PATRIOT’S DAY
HAPPY PATRIOT’S DAY from CINCINNA
PAUL REVERE’S RIDE
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,—
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm.”
Then he said “Good-night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,-—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
>From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,-—
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
ALSO
“Concord Hymn”
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare,
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
(Note: This version is from “The Complete Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson” (1904), edited by Edward Waldo
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