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This chapter is an effort to build an ironic political myth faithful to feminism, socialism, and materialism. Perhaps more faithful as blasphemy is faithful, than as reverent worship and identification. Blasphemy has always seemed to require taking things very seriously. I know no better stance to adopt from within the secular-religious, evangelical traditions of United States politics, including the politics of socialist feminism. Blasphemy protects one from the moral majority within, while still insisting on the need for community. Blasphemy is not apostasy. Irony is about contradictions that do not resolve into larger wholes, even dialectically, about the tension of holding incompatible things together because both or all are necessary and true. Irony is about humour and serious play. It is also a rhetorical strategy and a political method, one I would like to see more honoured within socialist-feminism. At the centre of my ironic faith, my blasphemy, is the image of the cyborg.
Colonists who petitioned for autonomy from the imperial homeland could store the knowledge of other classes’ oppression in their repertoire of critique, wielding it as a weapon to indict undesirable foreign regimes of moral failure and illegitimate uses of violence while strengthening their own authority and appearance of ethicality.
At first, I was convinced, but after further thought, I realized the different parts of our brain depend on each other. Each part is specialized to contribute to a whole function. Are the works of left-handed artists, such as Pablo Picasso, a result of neuronal errors or creativity due to the interconnected nature of the brain?
’Twas the night before finals, when all thro ’ the library,
Not a student was stirring, not even the fidgety athletes;
The notes were lined up on the table with care, In hopes that comprehension soon would be there; The triple shot espressos were nestled snug in their hands,
While caffeinated visions of A’s danc’d in their heads,
When out on College Walk there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the desk to see what was the matter. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Handing out papers to stunned students who turned with a jerk
We all opened those books, and exclaimed with pure glee
For on each was written words that set out hearts free
“No finals this year” they said in black ink
“Instead you all get A+’s! Go on home in a wink.”
Then smiling at all the euphoria with which he was faced
And giving a nod, past Blue Java Bar he raced.
He sprung to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle:
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight-
Happy Winter Break to all, and to all a good night!
When Smith holds a female yabby, he knows its gender
(p ). Imagine that Smith has a reliable yabby-sexreader
Logline: When a struggling college girl unexpectedly
loses her financial aid package, she and her
roommate begin an online scam that blows spins out
of control after one of their classmates goes missing.