It's so endlessly revealing that people believe there is so much unmet need for MRIs it would create a constant unmet 6 month waiting list, and their position isn't "what a terrible healthcare crisis!" but "I'd rather continue blocking people's care than wait my turn."
I mean yes, it's also a nonsense lie, but even it it were true, the fact that the people who believe it think it's a good argument rather than a confession of profound selfishness and inhumanity, really reveals them for what they are.
You understand why they wouldn't find a million Covid dead to be something worth preventing. Less people in line, after all.
Death for you is a shorter wait for me.
They'll just say it without knowing they've said it.
Conservatism is caught in a genocide mindset
oh and by the way, yes, I know that's a trollbot, everyone knows that's a trollbot, nobody will be impressed with your trollbot detecting skills.
Millions of real people actually believe this and use it as a rationale for not supporting a humane health care policy in the US.
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He's just going to keep travelling the country and insisting he's still president to crowds of angry white racists who haven't read a single true thing in the last decade, until the whole mass of them form a pulsing mass of rage meat and pulsing veins.
And we're all going to be scolded by putty-brained nationally syndicated op-ed writers for creating division in the country for not getting out of our bubble to see their side, which is that Joe Biden is a replicant gay pedophile Jewish sex robot who harvests their organs.
At a certain point we are just going to have to insist that people exist in reality, and insist that comfortable enablers stop creating conditions that make it easy for them to go on not existing in reality.
Father Julius’s purported “miracle,” on the other hand … that’s one reason some people believed he was a holy man, or maybe even a real priest, despite his deviations from expected norms. It happened—if indeed it did happen—the night the old abandoned cathedral burned.
Nobody found out what got the fire started—and, it being in the Island, nobody inspected—but whatever the cause, it burned from the inside and up, its wooden innards consumed, its stone heated to a kiln, its interior converted to a deadly smoker choking those trapped within.
By the time anybody noticed it, it was too late; the flames were already licking the shingles. For there to have been so few fatalities required a miracle.
To a perverse mind, it might almost seem fatalities had been intended.
The thought was simultaneously unbearable and unbearably tempting; the fear of it would not leave her, nor would the desire for it.
Sickening to imagine various tragedies, yet from her mind they leapt unbidden. Greatest of these was the thought Morris would repent his small charity and return to finish them.
She knew she would try to kill him to prevent it, and would surely be destroyed in the process. The existence of her fear for another being she saw as some parasitic alien root that had captured her mind. To allow it to remain seemed intolerable. To uproot it would destroy her.
The people who spent 4 years saying "you lost, get over it," have, for the very first time ever, demonstrated a rather obvious hypocrisy.
Yes, it's easy to miss, especially if (likely because of their long history of ideological probity and strict internal consistency) you aren't looking for it.
In retrospect, if you go back through his history as president carefully, it's possible to see one or two signs that we might have used as a potential early warning, that Donald Trump might not take a loss well.
They pass to the ground level and Morris leads them down beige hallways.
At length they enter a darkened cafeteria through double swinging doors. Low tables with molded seats attached line up on either side as they make their way into the kitchen, where stainless steel gleams occasionally in the gloom.
Morris walks to a windowless wooden door with a deadbolt and no handle. It opens onto a closet: empty, walls ceiling and floor all done in white.
The Colonel stands center stage, awash in light, his trademark patois made incomprehensible by a huge red bullhorn.
Suddenly the air is full of lithe and spangled tumblers in blue and red and white leotards, swinging in wide loops from metal batons attached to wires so thin one can easily imagine them invisible, lending the acrobats the illusion of flight.
The tumblers barely touch the bars, swinging wild and at seeming random, catching for the briefest moment before flying out once again into the void, somersaulting and catching the next baton as if only by chance.