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Title: Harris Cannot Name A Single Way That She Is Different Than Biden
Source: [None]
URL Source: https://www.dailywire.com/news/watc ... nt-than-biden?utm_medium=email
Published: Sep 14, 2024
Author: Horse
Post Date: 2024-09-14 11:38:07 by Horse
Keywords: None
Views: 186
Comments: 23

Vice President Kamala Harris struggled throughout her first solo interview as the Democrat presidential nominee that aired on Friday, including on trying to differentiate herself from President Joe Biden.

During the interview with 6abc Action News (WPVI-TV), Harris was asked if she could name just “one or two” policy areas where she could say that she was different than Biden.

“Well, I’m obviously not Joe Biden, and you know, I offer a new generation of leadership,” she claimed. “And so, for example, thinking about developing and creating an opportunity economy where it’s about investing in areas that really need a lot of work, and maybe focusing on, again, the aspirations and the dreams, but also just recognizing that at this moment in time, some of the stuff we could take for granted years ago, we can’t take for granted anymore.”

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#1. To: Horse (#0)

“Well, I’m obviously not Joe Biden, and you know, I offer a new generation of leadership,” she claimed. “And so, for example, thinking about developing and creating an opportunity economy where it’s about investing in areas that really need a lot of work, and maybe focusing on, again, the aspirations and the dreams, but also just recognizing that at this moment in time, some of the stuff we could take for granted years ago, we can’t take for granted anymore.”

For some reason I have an urge for eggs, scrambled eggs.

ghostrider  posted on  2024-09-14   18:28:53 ET  Reply   Untrace   Trace   Private Reply  

Would you like them on a train
would you like them on a plane?

Would you like them on a bus
would you like them in your gut?

Dakmar  posted on  2024-09-14   18:34:06 ET  Reply   Untrace   Trace   Private Reply  

That reminds me, my danged hat is missing but the cat count is still the same. Too many.

ghostrider  posted on  2024-09-14   18:41:04 ET  Reply   Untrace   Trace   Private Reply  

Any local immigants known for hat eating? I heard of a Ukraine Doctor with openings to treat this dehumanising disorder, but you would have to schedule six months ahead and commit to purchasaing something like 100 beaver pelts.

Dakmar  posted on  2024-09-14   18:45:10 ET  Reply   Untrace   Trace   Private Reply  

Gee, I am kind of busy with the CWII fast approaching, I've got a cottage industry going. I make pitchforks and torches. Any way Lil' Kim is going broody and if I let her hatch the eggs the chicks may not have enough full feathers for December. What is the egg to beaver pelt conversion rate these days or in six months?

ghostrider  posted on  2024-09-14   18:57:12 ET  Reply   Untrace   Trace   Private Reply  

#6. To: ghostrider (#5)

Look after the feathers! Even neocon traitors will tell you that! Oh, and shells. Yes, shells. And pumpkins!

Dakmar  posted on  2024-09-14 19:05:16 ET  Reply   Untrace   Trace   Private Reply  

“I pulled the string of the whistle, and I did this because I saw the pilgrims on deck getting out their rifles with an air of anticipating a jolly lark. At the sudden screech there was a movement of abject terror through that wedged mass of bodies. ‘Don’t! don’t you frighten them away,’ cried some one on deck disconsolately. I pulled the string time after time. They broke and ran, they leaped, they crouched, they swerved, they dodged the flying terror of the sound. The three red chaps had fallen flat, face down on the shore, as though they had been shot dead. Only the barbarous and superb woman did not so much as flinch, and stretched tragically her bare arms after us over the sombre and glittering river.

“And then that imbecile crowd down on the deck started their little fun, and I could see nothing more for smoke.

“The brown current ran swiftly out of the heart of darkness, bearing us down towards the sea with twice the speed of our upward progress; and Kurtz’s life was running swiftly, too, ebbing, ebbing out of his heart into the sea of inexorable time. The manager was very placid, he had no vital anxieties now, he took us both in with a comprehensive and satisfied glance: the ‘affair’ had come off as well as could be wished. I saw the time approaching when I would be left alone of the party of ‘unsound method.’ The pilgrims looked upon me with disfavour. I was, so to speak, numbered with the dead. It is strange how I accepted this unforeseen partnership, this choice of nightmares forced upon me in the tenebrous land invaded by these mean and greedy phantoms.

“Kurtz discoursed. A voice! a voice! It rang deep to the very last. It survived his strength to hide in the magnificent folds of eloquence the barren darkness of his heart. Oh, he struggled! he struggled! The wastes of his weary brain were haunted by shadowy images now—images of wealth and fame revolving obsequiously round his unextinguishable gift of noble and lofty expression. My Intended, my station, my career, my ideas—these were the subjects for the occasional utterances of elevated sentiments. The shade of the original Kurtz frequented the bedside of the hollow sham, whose fate it was to be buried presently in the mould of primeval earth. But both the diabolic love and the unearthly hate of the mysteries it had penetrated fought for the possession of that soul satiated with primitive emotions, avid of lying fame, of sham distinction, of all the appearances of success and power.

“Sometimes he was contemptibly childish. He desired to have kings meet him at railway-stations on his return from some ghastly Nowhere, where he intended to accomplish great things. ‘You show them you have in you something that is really profitable, and then there will be no limits to the recognition of your ability,’ he would say. ‘Of course you must take care of the motives—right motives—always.’ The long reaches that were like one and the same reach, monotonous bends that were exactly alike, slipped past the steamer with their multitude of secular trees looking patiently after this grimy fragment of another world, the forerunner of change, of conquest, of trade, of massacres, of blessings. I looked ahead—piloting. ‘Close the shutter,’ said Kurtz suddenly one day; ‘I can’t bear to look at this.’ I did so. There was a silence. ‘Oh, but I will wring your heart yet!’ he cried at the invisible wilderness.

“We broke down—as I had expected—and had to lie up for repairs at the head of an island. This delay was the first thing that shook Kurtz’s confidence. One morning he gave me a packet of papers and a photograph—the lot tied together with a shoe-string. ‘Keep this for me,’ he said. ‘This noxious fool’ (meaning the manager) ‘is capable of prying into my boxes when I am not looking.’ In the afternoon I saw him. He was lying on his back with closed eyes, and I withdrew quietly, but I heard him mutter, ‘Live rightly, die, die...’ I listened. There was nothing more. Was he rehearsing some speech in his sleep, or was it a fragment of a phrase from some newspaper article? He had been writing for the papers and meant to do so again, ‘for the furthering of my ideas. It’s a duty.’

“His was an impenetrable darkness. I looked at him as you peer down at a man who is lying at the bottom of a precipice where the sun never shines. But I had not much time to give him, because I was helping the engine-driver to take to pieces the leaky cylinders, to straighten a bent connecting-rod, and in other such matters. I lived in an infernal mess of rust, filings, nuts, bolts, spanners, hammers, ratchet-drills—things I abominate, because I don’t get on with them. I tended the little forge we fortunately had aboard; I toiled wearily in a wretched scrap-heap—unless I had the shakes too bad to stand.

“One evening coming in with a candle I was startled to hear him say a little tremulously, ‘I am lying here in the dark waiting for death.’ The light was within a foot of his eyes. I forced myself to murmur, ‘Oh, nonsense!’ and stood over him as if transfixed.

“Anything approaching the change that came over his features I have never seen before, and hope never to see again. Oh, I wasn’t touched. I was fascinated. It was as though a veil had been rent. I saw on that ivory face the expression of sombre pride, of ruthless power, of craven terror—of an intense and hopeless despair. Did he live his life again in every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during that supreme moment of complete knowledge? He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision—he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath:

“‘The horror! The horror!’

“I blew the candle out and left the cabin. The pilgrims were dining in the mess-room, and I took my place opposite the manager, who lifted his eyes to give me a questioning glance, which I successfully ignored. He leaned back, serene, with that peculiar smile of his sealing the unexpressed depths of his meanness. A continuous shower of small flies streamed upon the lamp, upon the cloth, upon our hands and faces. Suddenly the manager’s boy put his insolent black head in the doorway, and said in a tone of scathing contempt:

“‘Mistah Kurtz—he dead.’

Dakmar  posted on  2024-09-14 21:14:08 ET  Reply   Untrace   Trace   Private Reply  

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