We /cyber/ now

Bankrupt doesn't mean what you think it does

nigger

use a proxy mate

it wouldnt matter. attention whore tripfag needs people to know he is posting.

Because lord knows the last 80 years of crooked politicians owned by Israel and the Saudis have done our country so much good.

I'd take an American patriot who actually loves this country over a devil worshipping Marxist puppet (see: Hillary Clinton) any day.

Also maybe if you ask Holla Forums Great Old Ones nicely they'll reduce your ban? They did for me, and I was accused of shilling for TRS- very serious thing on that board these days.

Do you even know what Marxism means?

Please, enlighten me, comrade user.

...

BURN IN HELL, COMMIE
AWAKEN MY MASTERS

attention whore

Burn in Hell, Commie.

fucc TRUMP

God bless America

Attention whore.

LMAO.
thanks for explaining why you always post >>>/leftycuck/ threads and anti >>>Holla Forums threads. you were banned.
gg

...

I know this is asking a lot from you user, but try not being such a fuccing retard.

...

This thread is stupid, post Tomoko

music for today and everyday after.

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.
The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.

Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.
Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere. The black-moustachio’d face gazed down from every commanding corner. There was one on the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into Winston’s own. Down at street level another poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word INGSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle, and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the police patrol, snooping into people’s windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.
Behind Winston’s back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live — did live, from habit that became instinct — in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.

Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was safer; though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing. A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste — this was London, chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether London had always been quite like this. Were there always these vistas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chicken-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright-lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.
The Ministry of Truth — Minitrue, in Newspeak[1] — was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the air. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read, picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three slogans of the Party:
WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding ramifications below. Scattered about London there were just three other buildings of similar appearance and size. So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes of the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.
The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one. There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometre of it. It was a place impossible to enter except on official business, and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed-wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.

okie dokie

do it

mkay faggot, thanks for
personal blog : the sticky

he is right you know, he is smart since he figured out that if he put a board sub-title "more stickies than 4chan" people won't complain about so many stickies.
maybe we should elect him POTUS.

Op, how long did you cry like a bitch today?

I've been crying all day. I'm so proud of this country.

Still using the same talking points that lost you the election. You will never learn. TRUMP has many businesses. A few failed.

Hillary started one business. Whitewater. It not only went bankrupt, but her partner was arrested and killed off before he could testify against her.

“1. JAMES MCDOUGAL. McDougal was a convicted Whitewater partner of the Clintons who died of an apparent heart attack, while in solitary confinement. He was a key witness in the investigation of Special Prosecutor Ken Starr.”

lidblog.com/47-dead-clinton-friends-pt1/

I've always wanted to live in a futurist dystopia

Son, elections were over two months ago. You're gonna have to stop deflecting eventually

the dear leader now has to stand on his own without blaming others

Then why are you still crying?

A lot of times better than become a post nuclear war shithole ruled by antichristians.

Waiting for my Armitage waifu.

Nice

How is this not satire? Why is real life becoming so cartoonish? Don't get me wrong I'm not a butthurt commie, this all of this shit …it's just funny because it's like a clever sketch but it's real. Apparently the NWO control the world stage, war and murder aside I must say it's a hell of a performance.

Why are you pasting 1984? I mean I'm not complaining, that book changed my life like no other.

wew nice spook wageslave, karl is a cuck though like the rest of his collectivist chums.

How are you so unaware that you think TRUMP hasn't been anti-UN even before he started campaigning where he became even more so? Is this bait?

This is what happens when you let memeyme children decide your politics. If they didn't want the lizard woman continuing the line they've now got Snake Repetilicus turn the whole thing into the most stagnant, poisonous well the country has seen in decades.

:^)

when the UN made a resolution to declare israeli settelments illegal and only israel and the us were against this, this should tell you something.