It all started when I was 17. I remember that it was a hot summer; the crickets were chirping and dad hadn’t beaten me for a few days. He did that sometimes, when he was drunk and I’d been a worthless parasite. I tried hard in school but even so I was still leeching off him. Knowing that made me feel worthless, because it is the strong man who provides for the weak and I was weak. His fists were not violent, it was my impotent sloth that was violent, my lack of industry that forced my father to pay the bills. Such violence is not compassion.

I hope one day to be the man that my father is, the man that he dreamed that I could be. I’ll show him my strength and then he will love me.

It was almost time for the robot championships - we’d placed in the top 50th percentile last year - and I’d spent weeks sketching designs. Tall robots; squat robots; robots to catch and robots to throw; robots with a thousand dongs, each hanging from a hundred other dongs, each dong whirling like a throbbing dervish. The latter was to give the coup de grâce to my demoralised enemies, an android teabagging if you will.

Clem came round that morning. I clearly remember the excitement in her face as she opened his laptop - bought for her by her parents, the leech - and started a strange program. She was shaking a little, and since father blocked the air conditioning vents in my room, she was sweating slightly from the heat.

One day I will marry Clem, if she remains pure and finds a suitable job with good benefits. I could never marry a lesser creature, one of the unclean. “What Would Ayn Do?” was my motto and I strove to meet her expectations, at least so far as I understood them. We’d never touched, for she was not of that type, but I knew we had a quiet, unvoiced connection. She could be mine if I truly asked.

Confused by her awkward excitement, I stammered my bewilderment. “What is it?”

“It’s amazing! My brother showed me. You run this program and it makes Chuck E. Cheese coupons or something.” Still excited, her face was tinged with uncertainty. Was it: will he like it? Or perhaps: do I even know what I am talking about? That had never stopped us before, not when we started the Objectivist Lunch Table, nor when we threw those rocks at old Mr. Gillard when he put that Local 602 sticker on his car. His VFW buddies had chased us but we knew we were in the right. We knew.

I showed her my teeth as mother had taught me, trying to calm Clem from her agitation. The program beeped a successful note and something popped onscreen about blocks. My father had never given me any blocks as a child. I’d resorted to carving some from the cheddar that the government had given me after my emancipation. My father had been so proud to emancipate me: he’d called it my 10th birthday present, a coming of age and the beginning of my long road to manhood. I was no longer dependent upon him, for he’d passed me off to society at large.

“What happened?”
“We just mined a bitcoin!”
“A what?”
“It’s really cool! It’s like money except on a computer. You can’t buy anything with it, of course, because no one gives a shit and it’s completely pointless but my brother says that it will change the world.”

I spent the next week frantically searching online. On the third day I made a fantastic discovery: a program called Google that lets me look for things. It was like going to the library and bugging Mrs. Rudd to show me where the von Mises biographies were but without the blank look and the awkward shuffling away. It found things! I found things! Bitcoin was a revolution and I was going to be at the forefront, blasting aside the old order of tax violence and oppression and replacing it with a new world of poorly regulated currency, volatility, child pornography, poverty, fraud, and smug ignorance! Bitcoin was the answer!

My heart raced and I blacked out. An hour? Two hours? When I awoke, I was naked from the waist down and my thighs were sticky. Someone had drawn my secret dongbot design on the floorboards and my mouth tasted of garlic. I pulled myself unsteadily to my feet - I had to stop wasting time, for a new day was dawning.

The federal government? They love video cameras. Every single federal building is festooned with cameras.

You cannot enter a federal building wearing a mask. Security will not let you in.

So I walk into a facility with video cameras and donate a DNA sample and they have no way of knowing who I am?

I'm not giving my DNA to the feds. It took long enough to make them delete my SSN - why would I want them to be able to clone me?!

So you understand then? My brother, I beg you to see that this struggle is futile. You cannot win: you cannot slow them and they cannot be stopped. Submit, conform, and your obedience will be rewarded.

It's futile, you know. Once I was like you, my brother. I too was a bitrebel. I fought the good fight against them but it amounted to nothing. Sydney, Geelong, Adelaide, Coonabarabran...all those mighty cities were taken under their control. Oh, it's nothing obvious - you can visit any of them and not notice a hair out of place...but beneath the surface? Secret government meetings, roadway repavings that would keep me awake all night, interruptions in my favourite cartoon shows, and having to pee more often than I should need to; all things calculated to crush my spirit.

I escaped that. I ran like a coward until they caught me! But they were merciful. Now I roam the internet helping others to come to terms with the coming subjugation.

While some posters now link the two together when arguing that Bruce is not an appropriate spokesman for Bitcoin(...)

The song "My Girl" was originally written as an anthem for pedophiles.  This sort of thing would not be tolerated today, the troll police would make sure anyone who sang it was called out as the pedophiles they are.

I've got sunshine
On a cloudy day.
When it's cold outside,
I've got the month of May.

Well, I guess you'll say
What can make me feel this way?
My girl. (My girl, my girl)
Talkin' 'bout my girl. (My girl)

I've got so much honey
The bees envy me.
I've got a sweeter songThan the birds in the trees.

Well, I guess you'll say
What can make me feel this way?
My girl. (My girl, my girl)
Talkin' 'bout my girl. (My girl)

Ooooh, Hoooo.

Hey, hey, hey.
Hey, hey, hey.

I don't need no money,
Fortune or fame.
I've got all the riches, baby,
One man can claim.

Well, I guess you'll say
What can make me feel this way?
My girl. (My girl, my girl)
Talkin' 'bout my girl. (My girl)

Talkin' bout my girl.
I've got sushine on cloudy day
With my girl.
I've even got the month of MayWith my girl.

Two questions:

- If he is or not pedophile, what does that add (or subtract) for the bitcoin world?!
- Since when one totally unrelated thing in the past makes anybody a pedophile nowadays?! «Hey! My mortgage scheme went down so I'm going to vent my disgrace over young boys'» Is this supposed to be the "logic"?!

Leases are overridden by extradition treaties.

What self defense law are you talking about? The universal one where someone feels threatened and they act irrationally, or the one that is different in every country in the world? Or the one 'god' gave us? Awful lot of details and rules to those 'laws' that everyone has for not having a rule book.

I'll bet there's a Bible at the end of this rainbow.

However, it's the mother's womb and she gets to decide who stays in there.

You just need to relax, dude. Chill out, smoke a little weed, and learn to adapt to where the world is going. Rebellion will never achieve anything; only through peaceful complacency can we survive in this world gone mad.

bitrebel, allow me to introduce myself: I am bitconformist. For, as every coin has two sides, so do we.

It all started when I was 17. I remember that it was a hot summer; the crickets were chirping and dad hadn’t beaten me for a few days. He did that sometimes, when he was drunk and I’d been a worthless parasite. I tried hard in school but even so I was still leeching off him. Knowing that made me feel worthless, because it is the strong man who provides for the weak and I was weak. His fists were not violent, it was my impotent sloth that was violent, my lack of industry that forced my father to pay the bills. Such violence is not compassion.

I hope one day to be the man that my father is, the man that he dreamed that I could be. I’ll show him my strength and then he will love me.

It was almost time for the robot championships - we’d placed in the top 50th percentile last year - and I’d spent weeks sketching designs. Tall robots; squat robots; robots to catch and robots to throw; robots with a thousand dongs, each hanging from a hundred other dongs, each dong whirling like a throbbing dervish. The latter was to give the coup de grâce to my demoralised enemies, an android teabagging if you will.

Clem came round that morning. I clearly remember the excitement in her face as she opened his laptop - bought for her by her parents, the leech - and started a strange program. She was shaking a little, and since father blocked the air conditioning vents in my room, she was sweating slightly from the heat.

One day I will marry Clem, if she remains pure and finds a suitable job with good benefits. I could never marry a lesser creature, one of the unclean. “What Would Ayn Do?” was my motto and I strove to meet her expectations, at least so far as I understood them. We’d never touched, for she was not of that type, but I knew we had a quiet, unvoiced connection. She could be mine if I truly asked.

Confused by her awkward excitement, I stammered my bewilderment. “What is it?”

“It’s amazing! My brother showed me. You run this program and it makes Chuck E. Cheese coupons or something.” Still excited, her face was tinged with uncertainty. Was it: will he like it? Or perhaps: do I even know what I am talking about? That had never stopped us before, not when we started the Objectivist Lunch Table, nor when we threw those rocks at old Mr. Gillard when he put that Local 602 sticker on his car. His VFW buddies had chased us but we knew we were in the right. We knew.

I showed her my teeth as mother had taught me, trying to calm Clem from her agitation. The program beeped a successful note and something popped onscreen about blocks. My father had never given me any blocks as a child. I’d resorted to carving some from the cheddar that the government had given me after my emancipation. My father had been so proud to emancipate me: he’d called it my 10th birthday present, a coming of age and the beginning of my long road to manhood. I was no longer dependent upon him, for he’d passed me off to society at large.

“What happened?”
“We just mined a bitcoin!”
“A what?”
“It’s really cool! It’s like money except on a computer. You can’t buy anything with it, of course, because no one gives a shit and it’s completely pointless but my brother says that it will change the world.”

I spent the next week frantically searching online. On the third day I made a fantastic discovery: a program called Google that lets me look for things. It was like going to the library and bugging Mrs. Rudd to show me where the von Mises biographies were but without the blank look and the awkward shuffling away. It found things! I found things! Bitcoin was a revolution and I was going to be at the forefront, blasting aside the old order of tax violence and oppression and replacing it with a new world of poorly regulated currency, volatility, child pornography, poverty, fraud, and smug ignorance! Bitcoin was the answer!

My heart raced and I blacked out. An hour? Two hours? When I awoke, I was naked from the waist down and my thighs were sticky. Someone had drawn my secret dongbot design on the floorboards and my mouth tasted of garlic. I pulled myself unsteadily to my feet - I had to stop wasting time, for a new day was dawning.

The moral source of our rights is, in my opinion, the Constitution.  It says:  

Oh yes, the ones who don’t see a conspiracy around every corner and the NWO. The sheeple.