Mudslinging Quotes

Before cruelly vilifying them from a great height, the mudslingers at newspapers and journals should bear in mind that all artistic endeavors were by and large a mixture of effort and imagination, the embodiment of a solitary endeavor, of a sometimes long-nurtured dream, when they were not a desperate bid to give life meaning.

For every summons to a shining city on the hill or a promise of change we can believe in, we are presented with hundreds of examples of mudslinging and appeals to mob mentality. Rudeness is recast as honesty, greed is presented as ambition, and lines in the sand blur and move.

Such was Frémont’s fame that, in 1856, he was nominated as the Republican Party’s first presidential candidate. The ensuing campaign was “one of the nastiest in the nation’s history.” Indulging in the kind of unbridled calumny that makes modern-day mudslinging seem like the height of civility, Frémont’s adversaries branded him “a secret papist” (a harsh accusation in an era of virulent anti-Catholic bigotry), a bastard, an adulterer, a native-born Frenchman, and the son of a prostitute.

No trial, no sensational headlines, no mud-slinging just to sell newspapers without the slightest regard for truth or fair play or for the feelings of innocent people.

The world of politics is so corrupt that it automatically weeds out the well-intentioned, and anyone sincere will be subjected to pestilent mud-slinging

I think there has never been a more misunderstood phrase than drama is conflict, conflict is drama. Instead of thinking of conflict, I like to think of dialectic, a need for opposites that undermine each other. Or, I think about the need for contrast in painting. Paintings don't need large family fights and mudslinging, but they do need contrasts of color and shade. Of course, watching people insulting other people is entertaining, as are arm wrestling, bearbaiting, and the like. But I'm not sure that it's necessary to the drama, for drama is also a spectacle, A thing of interesrt, a thing happening , an event eventing, which us not necessarily a thing fighting. Though fighting can certainly be dramatic, it is not a necessary precondition to the dramatic.

You can never trust the deceptive, manipulative and abusive financial solicitors/beggars of political funds of handsome putschists who commit defamation, calumny, polemics mongering, gossip-mongering, mob lynching, group bullying, cyber libel, threats, blackmail, digital aggression, character assassination, mudslinging and Machiavellian manipulators who habitually commit various crimes: forgery, fraud, libel, slander, identity theft, racketeering, and malversation of funds. ~ Angelica Hopes, an excerpt from Sfidatopia Book 2, Stronzata Trilogy Genre: Inspirational, political literary novel © Ana Angelica Abaya van Doorn

When Rachel was 5, her parents got a divorce; the kind that involved bitter mudslinging, hidden bank accounts, and cans of paint splashed on the driveway at midnight. A week later, Rachel told her mother that her daddy used to stick his finger inside her vagina. She has told me that one time, she was wearing a Little Mermaid nightgown and eating Froot Loops at the kitchen table. The second time, she was wearing a pink Cinderella nightgown and watching a Franklin video in her parents' bedroom. Rachel's mother, Miriam, has verified that her daughter had a Little Mermaid nightgown and a Cinderella nightgown, the summer she was 3 years old. She remembers borrowing the Franklin video from her sister-in-law. Back then, she and her husband were still living together. Back then, there were times she left her husband alone with their little girl.

Kato’s expression shifts into something I could almost call a smile for the first time since I found him. He plucks the chordsagain in the beginnings of a tune I recognize, a ballad popular in southern Sinta. His fingers move with skill and subtlety over the strings. I had no idea he was musical. “Maybe we’re not meant to kill it.” He keeps playing. “Doesn’t music soothe the beast? I’ll play, you sing.” “I sound like a strangled Satyr when I sing.” He smiles. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” “There’s no need for mudslinging,” I say with a huff. He chuckles softly. “I can carry a tune.” “Great!” I pat his arm. “That’ll be your job. I’ll stand back—waaaaay back—while you calm the beast. I’m confident you’ll sound as good as you look.” His chest puffs out. “How do I look?” “Terrible.” I grin. “You needed a bath, a shave, and a comb before we even set foot on the Ice Plains. Now, I can just barely make out your eyes and your nose. The rest is all”—I flap my hands around—“hair.” His chest deflates. He eyes me wryly. “I could say the same about you.” I gasp. “I grew a beard? Do you think Griffin will like it? I’ve been trying to keep it neat, but I may have picked up an eel.” Kato laughs outright, and he really is unbearably handsome. Some of the grimness evaporates from his eyes. “I was talking about this.” He gives one of my tousled waves a light tug. I once saw Griffin do that to Kaia. It’s brotherly. Affectionate. My heart squeezes in my chest. My love for Griffin is completely different, but Kato has a piece of me that no man ever had, not even Aetos. Kato sees me, and accepts. In that moment, I realize he’s slipped inside my soul right next to Eleni. They’re a blond-haired, blue-eyed, sunny pair—my light in the dark. Clearing my throat doesn’t drive away the thick lump in it, or dispel the sudden tightness, so I make a show of smoothing down my hair—a lost cause at this point. “Ah, that. It’s getting to the stage where it deserves a name. The Knotted Nest? The Twisted Tresses?” “What about the Terrible Tangle?” I nod. “That has serious possibilities.” “The Matted Mess?” he suggests. My jaw drops. “It’s not that bad!” Grinning, Kato pats my head. “Let’s get out of here.” Yes, please! “I have your clothes. They’re even dry, thanks to your Eternal Fires of the Underworld Cloak.” He quirks an eyebrow, taking the things I hand him. “That gets a name, too?” “I should think so,” I answer loftily.

Taken all together, 1952 is recalled as one of the bitterest campaigns of the twentieth century, and the one that featured the most mudslinging.

Mudslinging often begets counter-mudslinging, initiating spiraling mudslinging arms races (consider, for instance, the sorry state of political discourse in many modern nations). Nevertheless, in spite of the risks, mudslinging and name-calling often give a memeplex an advantage.

Your delinquency inverse gets decimated only when you do not debauch yourself through iron-handed and undemolished energy in your output. It is not raving your functional style. Today the world is becoming dilapidated and abase to nature and this climate, which has a direct effect in depolarizing and unbracing the life of man. To put it plainly, man is ferocious, vitriolic, devilish, and stoneyhearted. This is happening, and nature is depreciating, rotting, and perishing. This is an unusable, barbarous, grisly, and spiteful comprehension. This is an exceptional aspersion for this environment; this is your own debacle. If you do not want eradication, then you will have to do everything benign, placable, and mild in a conviction state. In the detraction method, there is a heteroclite of things that calumniate anyone's socialist moves by which people take out-turns of malediction and mudslinging in actions. If there is slander in the power of subjects, then it triggers an exclusionary state of concentration where fierce denigration is fixed in functionality, where there is a gathering of dire, satanic, and highhanded and cruel people with extirpation. Here lives have neither amiable nor placid mentality without healing of wellness; there is only collision of competition, which gives adverse and splash dilemmas in unconventional states.

Yet the Church must remain vigilant with regard to the overturning of values, which leads to confusion between good and evil; in our relativistic societies, good becomes what pleases the individual and is convenient to him. Hence the Church’s moral teaching is misunderstood or despised and rejected as the emanation from a false good. The media often do their part deliberately to discredit the Church’s position, to distort it, or to silence it. The prevailing narrative constantly seeks to present the idea of an outmoded, medieval Church—what ignorance of the Middle Ages!—that refuses to adapt to the development of the world, is hostile to scientific discoveries and anxious about old ideals. Given this mudslinging, we must be firm and clear, not naïve, yet beyond reproach; we must pray and stay in union with God. The attacks will pass if they are unfair. How

There was no more idealistic, righteous, and misinformed mudslinger than a university undergraduate.

Given the obvious “will to power” (as Friedrich Nietzsche called it) of the human race, the enormous energy put into its expression, the early emergence of hierarchies among children, and the childlike devastation of grown men who tumble from the top, I’m puzzled by the taboo with which our society surrounds this issue. Most psychology textbooks do not even mention power and dominance, except in relation to abusive relationships. Everyone seems in denial. In one study on the power motive, corporate managers were asked about their relationship with power. They did acknowledge the existence of a lust for power, but never applied it to themselves. They rather enjoyed responsibility, prestige, and authority. The power grabbers were other men. Political candidates are equally reluctant. They sell themselves as public servants, only in it to fix the economy or improve education. Have you ever heard a candidate admit he wants power? Obviously, the word “servant” is doublespeak: does anyone believe that it’s only for our sake that they join the mudslinging of modern democracy? Do the candidates themselves believe this? What an unusual sacrifice that would be. It’s refreshing to work with chimpanzees: they are the honest politicians we all long for. When political philosopher Thomas Hobbes postulated an insuppressible power drive, he was right on target for both humans and apes. Observing how blatantly chimpanzees jockey for position, one will look in vain for ulterior motives and expedient promises. I was not prepared for this when, as a young student, I began to follow the dramas among the Arnhem chimpanzees from an observation window overlooking their island. In those days, students were supposed to be antiestablishment, and my shoulder-long hair proved it. We considered power evil and ambition ridiculous. Yet my observations of the apes forced me to open my mind to seeing power relations not as something bad but as something ingrained. Perhaps inequality was not to be dismissed as simply the product of capitalism. It seemed to go deeper than that. Nowadays, this may seem banal, but in the 1970s human behavior was seen as totally flexible: not natural but cultural. If we really wanted to, people believed, we could rid ourselves of archaic tendencies like sexual jealousy, gender roles, material ownership, and, yes, the desire to dominate. Unaware of this revolutionary call, my chimpanzees demonstrated the same archaic tendencies, but without a trace of cognitive dissonance. They were jealous, sexist, and possessive, plain and simple. I didn’t know then that I’d be working with them for the rest of my life or that I would never again have the luxury of sitting on a wooden stool and watching them for thousands of hours. It was the most revelatory time of my life. I became so engrossed that I began trying to imagine what made my apes decide on this or that action. I started dreaming of them at night and, most significant, I started seeing the people around me in a different light.

Among Shakespeare scholars, the Shakespeare authorship question—the theory that William Shakespeare might not have written the works published under his name—does not exist; that is, it is not permitted. As a consequence, it has become the most horrible, vexed, unspeakable subject in the history of English literature. In literary circles, even the phrase “Shakespeare authorship question” elicits contempt—eye-rolling, name-calling, mudslinging. If you raise it casually in a social setting, someone might chastise you as though you’ve uttered a deeply offensive profanity. Someone else might get up and leave the room. Tears may be shed. A whip may be produced. You will be punished, which is to say, educated.

How do we know who to vote against?” asked Mathro. “Everyone has their own methods. The candidates spend months making up lies about one another. That’s a dangerous game, though. Some people prefer to vote against the obvious liar, while others enjoy the spectacle so much they vote against whomever’s stories are the least salacious. Some people vote against the candidate who presents the most harmful policies, and of course that itself is a point of contention, while others vote against the candidate who keeps bringing up boring talk of policy rather than a proper mudslinging. Rather than governing, seated representatives spend most of their time creating traps for their political adversaries in order to swing votes against them in the next election. It’s a system born of deceit and propaganda, and ultimately you have to admit that the information you’ve received is so unreliable that you may as well flip a coin.” Diani raised her hand, and Wicksap nodded to her. “My father says he voted against Hefstus two years ago because Elder Rodity said that Hefstus once dug a canal through a graveyard just so he could attach a waterwheel to his house to turn a fan by his bed.” “Which was demonstrably false!” said Wicksap with a smile. “Hefstus invited people for tours of his home to disprove the story, but Rodity repeated it loudly enough and with such conviction that he handily won the election. People voted against the man accused of desecrating a graveyard to afford himself a minor comfort, not the man who spread lies.” Diani’s hand shot up again. “But now they’re saying that Rodity filled the canal with rocks and that’s why Hefstus died of stale air over the winter.” “That’s exactly the method, my girl. Hefstus is both alive and running against Rodity this fall, and now he has to prove to the people that he’s not an impostor, a zombie, or any of a dozen undead creatures that Rodity could accuse him of being. That’s an odipublic in action!

No man, Aisimides, who bows to the mud-slinging mob has ever been capable of profound pleasures.

People might deserve a derogatory epithet, but it showed the mudslinger in just as bad a light.