Thing is, it's crap. Steaming cow dung, piled higher than the tower of Babel.
Y'all playing Ultimate Frisbee with the phrase seem to want to pretend we are, to a man (or woman) a lot of vintage 1960's hippies. Some of you even use the term, "hippies," which, while cute in a sad sort of way, is completely ridiculous. I can't help but imagine you all dressed in Joe Friday retro, playing some sort of Greatest Hits compilation on your state-of-the-art 8-track player.
I shave my legs, dude. I pray to my red Chanel lipstick. I look pretty damn good in a pair of black stiletto pumps if I do say so. I've got enough little black dresses to pit myself against any Coulter groupie. I prefer Veuve Clicquot to hash brownies, and I'm sorry to say that I don't even own a bong, and would probably set my hair on fire if someone gave me one.
The problem is not that we are radical, but that we are not bovine.
We (including Mrs. Sheehan) pay the salary of that smirking chimp. We, whether we have children or not, have a right to hold our government accountable for what is done in our name. Any time, any place, any where. Don't like it? Move to Russia and revive the KGB, you'll fit right in.
You are, in fact, the radical chickenhawk right. But keep right on generating the hot air, we can use you for heat when the oil runs out.