#Cement Mixer Machine

[bestchinaconstructionmachiner]

Mini Portable Electric Cement Concrete Mixer Machine

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[chaoticace2005]

You guys asked for it…

Why Lilith might have left Lucifer:

1. She lost interest. Simple at that. 10,000 years of the same routine…

2. She found out where Eve was and ran to her long lost love.

3. A deal was made with Alastor and she had to flee for her nefarious plans.

4a. Lucifer was bad in bed.

4b. He wouldn’t let her take off his hat while having sex.

5. Lucifer was good in bed and she was getting addicted, so for her own sake she left.

6. She had to get milk.

7. She took a look at hell after all her years of working, saw how fucked up humans are and said “nah.”

8. Donald Trump became president so she fled the country but forgot to take her family with her.

9. She could no longer deal with Lucifer’s ~autistic swag~

10. She got a coupon for an expense-paid trip to the Bahamas.

11. Lucifer wasn’t doing the DAMN DISHES.

12. Lucifer kept asking her to “quack” in bed.

13. There weren’t any good marriage counselors in hell. So she read drama books to fix her marriage and thought this was the best solution.

14. Lucifer got a sleep apnea machine and she couldn’t handle it anymore.

15. She bonked her head and completely forgot who she was. That’s why she scowls when Lute says “Lilith” at the end- because she has no idea who “Lilith” is.

16. Seven years ago Alastor killed Lilith. To cover his tracks he put on a wig and visibly left the cast as “her.”

17. SOMEBODY wasn’t putting the damn seat down. Do you think they have to deal with this in Heaven?

18. There was a silent uprising and assassination plot. She dealt with it all while Charlie and Lucifer remained oblivious, but is now being hunted.

19. Faked her death. Lucifer is somehow unaware that his wife even “died.”

20. Niffty blackmailed her into leaving.

21. They ran out of blond dye at the Hellmart and she couldn’t handle being the only one in the family without blond hair.

22. She felt the need to leave her family, build a luxurious pirate ship, hire random pirates, and sail the seas until she had a homoerotic relationship with a competing pirate and retired.

23. She too borrowed 50 grand from loan sharks, stole a car, and crashed it into a loan shark’s girlfriend (but that bitch had it coming!)

24. She went down in an airplane.

25. Fried getting suntanned.

26. Fell in a cement mixer full of quicksand.

27. Her feather allergy kept getting worse and she had to leave for her health.

28. Lucifer kept saying he was “magic in bed” and then would do magic tricks despite being a LITERAL ANGEL.

29. Susan.

30. Committed tax fraud and had to flee the country.

31. She was going to get bottom surgery after Lucifer’s top surgery and is still recovering. (Hell doctors SUCK okay??)

32. Lucifer wouldn’t admit that water is wet.

33. Lucifer was putting ketchup on his pancakes.

34. Lucifer wasn’t vibing with her BFF-girlboss-malewife-bestie Alastor. She couldn’t deal with the ~drama~

35. He wouldn’t stop talking about his Fantasy Sports team.

36. Needed to find some artistic inspiration because the whole “I’m in hell” thing is SO overdone.

37. Not a fan of the circus or clowns.

38. Mental health break. She’ll come back when she’s ready. Sometimes it takes a while.

39. She was KIDNAPPED.

40. Lilith is dead. That’s not Lilith. That’s a shadow version of Lilith made by Alastor who works for her killer (Eve?) That’s why she wears sunglasses. So we can’t see her eyes and the empty void behind them.

[tim-official]

people lump NFTs / the cryptocurrency craze of 2021 in with AI as "just another thing that tech grifters are excited about," and people love posting gifs of people cheering under news stories about OpenAI hemorrhaging money. this is a naive read on the situation, i think NFTs didn't work and never could. a ponzi scheme by definition cannot last. chatGPT, DALL·E, etc are things that sometimes work, and which work marginally better every month. this is infinitely more useful than NFTs, which are useless to everyone. as a result, some people actually want them - or, at least, people with capital think people will want them, which is just as good. also unlike NFTs, there is nothing about AI that means it inherently has to take huge amounts of electricity and clean water. the environmental cost of NFTs effectively gave them value; meanwhile, there are thousands of papers published and thousands of careers laser-focused on reducing the compute cost of machine learning. this is good, but keep in mind they're doing it because they want to put machine learning crap in all the fridges they crammed WiFi into five years ago, not because they care that much if the oceans boil

The people making NFTs were no-names trying to give everyone else FOMO for a quick buck. OpenAI is pouring cement mixers of Microsoft money into trying to generate a new market, and judging by the sheer number of people who have incorporated ChatGPT into their everyday routines, they are succeeding, and attracting insane amounts of investment in the process. When you have as much capital and market share as Microsoft you are freed from the obligation to ever make anything profitable. this is late capitalism: "supply" and "demand" are completely uncoupled, society is organized around production solely based on fictions and superstitions in the heads of private equity goons anyway. this is not an "AI is evil" or "AI is good" post. just don't compare the situation to NFTs or crypto and assume it's all the work of "techbros" or whatever. it's not comparable, by orders of magnitude

[girlballs]

Cement mixer machine girl putting in sidewalks by…

No, I shan’t say

every sidewalk tile is just a slab of cum

[leahsfiction]

last night i couldn't sleep after a 7pm devil's nap, so i started the Jeeves novel The Mating Season (the one with Corky and Catsmeat, and the five aunts of Deverill Hall)

some of my fav quotes so far:

‘He crawls to his aunts, does he?’ ‘Yes, the worm.’

-

I am told by those who know that there are six varieties of hangover – the Broken Compass, the Sewing Machine, the Comet, the Atomic, the Cement Mixer and the Gremlin Boogie, and his manner suggested that he had got them all.

-

‘So, Jeeves!’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘What do you mean, “Yes, sir”?’ ‘I was endeavouring to convey my appreciation of the fact that your position is in many respects somewhat difficult, sir. But I wonder if I might call your attention to an observation of the Emperor Marcus Aurelius. He said: “Does aught befall you? It is good. It is part of the destiny of the Universe ordained for you from the beginning. All that befalls you is part of the great web.”’

-

In the circles in which I move it is pretty generally recognized that I am a resilient sort of bimbo, and in circumstances where others might crack beneath the strain, may frequently be seen rising on stepping-stones of my dead self to higher things.

[ihhfhonao3]

Dude. Something serious just happened.

I literally was just chilling right. Hanging out. And then fuck- I get my heart ripped out, torn to bits, run over with a bike, grinded up in a lawnmower, blended in a food processor and dumped into a cement mixer. All because of this one GUY.

(I finished good omens season 2)

(spoilers under the cut)

Okay but like NOW I UNDERSTAND why everyone has been hyper analyzing the kiss scene. Like ohhhhhh my god that scene was LOADED. Like the solid last 20 minutes I was just shouting at my tv “don’t do it!! It’s not what you want!!” And “aziraphale no!!! Don’t fall victim to heaven’s propaganda!!!” Like duuuuude. Toxic doomed yaoi when one wants one thing but the other wants another and they physically cannot have both… would you lose your freedom if it meant you could be with the one you loved… how do you fully understand the inner workings of someone who goes against the system… are you a bad person for feeding a machine that is destined to be corrupt… holy fucking shit

WAIT FUCK I THINK I UNDERSTAND THE INEFFABLE DIVORCE TAG. YALL. YALL? YALL.

[flatoutin-eaurouge]

Loneliness and Disputes

Part 2 of Clotted blood and Damp Tears

Pairing: Mika Häkkinen x Michael Schumacher

The pounding in his head was unbearable. It was as if his skull was repeatedly beaten by a hammer, and as if his brain was being ground by a cement mixer. The sudden jolts of excruciating pain and the throbbing sound of blood pumping through his arteries made Mika burst into tears. "Vittu!" It was an automatic reaction, fueled by the constant acumulating exhaustion. There was nothing he could do to stop those traitorous tears from coming.

Mika squinted his eyes shut and covered his ears, but it only made things worse. The throbbing sound intensified tenfold, echoing against the cupping shape of his hands that worked like resonance boxes. Make it stop! Please! Then the memories of his crash were flooding his mind, overwhelming him and forcing him to breathe faster and faster till he could barely breathe. All he could feel was pain. All he could think about was how to get rid of it. He searched agitatedly for his morphine pump as big tears rolled down his cheeks. Please not another night like this!

He pressed the button on the morphine pump and closed his eyes, waiting for the morphine to take effect. He shook violently under the sheets. His face wet with tears and his pajama shirt damp with sweat. He tried very hard to get his breathing under control, forcing his diaphragm to regulate his air intake. Since his crash he had developed the unhealthy habit of gasping for air when he panicked. As if he still had to compensate for the oxygen deficit, which had almost killed him after his crash.

Mika cried soundlessly as his hands twisted in the bedlinen. He was alone. Even when he turned on a light to look around his room - just to be sure - no one was there. Not his parents, not his sister. No one. During nights like this, he even started to miss the presence of Ron Dennis. His Team Boss wasn't usually a person people would associate with empathy, but to Mika he had been nothing but kind and caring. To be honest, Mika would allow anyone in his room if it meant an end to the silence. Unfortunately, the delirium plaguing Mika during his illness made him forget things. He couldn't even remember something as important as Michael Schumacher visiting him yesterday, nor Michael's promise to stay with him for another day. And as luck would have it, Michael was outside Mika's room just as the Finn had his early morning breakdown.

Mika pressed his morphine pump again, and again, and again, until the machine wouldn't let him anymore. He sagged into the pillows and stared at the ceiling with a frustrated frown on his face. It was getting lighter in his room. Thank God this night was almost over! Soon there would be nurses in his room to whom he could complain about the stupid limiter on his morphine pump. But minutes continued to pass, seeming like hours, and no one opened the door to Mika's room.

Mika sighed. He wrapped his arms around his aching body and bit his lip. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't read a book or listen to music because it would hurt his head. All he could do was stare at those ugly pristine walls surrounding him. Mika almost began to feel sorry for himself, until all of a sudden his foggy brain remembered the face of a certain German with emerald eyes and a sharp jawline.

Wait a second. Mika looked around frantically. Where's Michael?! The German certainly wasn't in his room. A sudden feeling of panic took the better of him. No way! Michael had promised he would still be here this morning. Mika cursed his emotions when he realised his vision began to blur again. Really, Mika?! Are you really that lonely and in need of conversation?

He kicked the blankets off the bed and started to wander around the hospital room on his wobbly legs, looking for signs that would betray his rival was still there. When Mika couldn't find any, he slumped down on the vacated visitor's chair that Michael was supposed to occupy. Mika started to rub his eyes to prevent the slight blur in his eyes to turn into tears. Even alone in his room, he didn't want to cry. But to be neglected by Michael like this hurt so badly. Would Michael lie to him? Would he lie to him to deliberately upset him? Did Michael secretly hate him because of their rivalry?

Michael quietly opened the door to the hospital room, to make sure he would not wake the patient in case he was still asleep. He wanted to surprise Mika with a tray of fruit and cookies from the shop downstairs. It would mean the world to him if he could just manage to bring the tiniest of smiles to Mika's face.

To his surprise however, said patient sat hunched forward in the visitor's chair, with his hands pulling at his golden locks and his shoulders shaking on the rhythm of his sobs. Oh dear! Poor thing! Michael put the tray with food he was holding gently down, in order not to startle Mika and quietly shuffled into the direction of the Finn. As quietly and gently as he could he put a hand on Mika's shoulder, and whispered a silent "Are you ok?"

His efforts to be quiet were to no avail, because Mika did startle. He jumped off the chair, almost tripping on his unsteady legs, but he just managed to catch himself on the bed frame. Mika looked around with glassy, red-rimmed eyes. Michael thought he looked hurt and on the brim of tears. Ah du lieber Zeit! This time there was no hesitation. He grabbed his rival with both his hands and wrapped his arms tightly around him, keeping the Finn close to his chest. "God, Mika. What got you looking so hurt and scared?"

Mika let the tears he was trying to hold escape. They quickly made their way down his cheeks. There was no reason to detain them any longer. Michael had seen his vulnerability long before he could make up excuses for his red-rimmed eyes. "I thought you had left regardless of your promise to stay." Mika hiccuped through his tears. "I am so lonely and scared and I haven't felt the sun on my skin for weeks!"

Michael's heart shattered in a million pieces. He would never have thought that something like this would hurt him so badly. Apperantly Mika was given medical care, but that was it. No one of the medical staff was sitting down by his bedside for a conversation. No one took the wheelchair to roll Mika into the sunshine. The wheelchair seemed to be only used to wheel Mika to various medical tests. Michael thightened his arms around the Finn and stroked his back gently. "Oh Mika, I will stay here with you for the rest of the day and I will make sure to get you outside. I promise."

Mika cried soundlessly in Michael's sweater, not yet registering what these words meant to him. Everything was hurting, his head, his bones, his sore heart. The migraine was slowly consuming him and Mika squinted his eyes against the pain. He grabbed a hand-full of the fabric of Michael's sweater and pulled to distract himself from his aching brain. "Michael, my head hurts so badly!"

Michael didn't know what to say. His fingers moved up towards Mika's thick blonde hair and started to gently massage his scalp. For Michael this was a great excuse to touch Mika's hair, although he whished it was under different circumstances. The golden locks were soft to the touch, like velvet. "Did they give you your painkillers?"

Mika shook his head. "They are late this morning." His sobs became louder, despite his efforts to muffle the sounds in Michael's sweater. "Michael, it's as if my brain is trying to burst through my skull."

Michael felt the anger currently taking over his body make the blood in his veins boil. They were neglecting this kind and pure boy. He caressed Mika's back gently with one hand and continued to massage Mika's scalp with the other, trying to take away as much of the Finn's pain as he could. "I will get a nurse for you. Are you ok?"

Mika shook his head. "No, it just never stops! This is a twenty-four-seven ordeal! I don't know how much of this I can take!" His hands, still coiled in the fabric of Michael's sweater, were trembling. He was exhausted. Exhausted from coping with the physical and mental pain, which seemed to never end. "Last night was bad, but this morning is worse!"

Michael felt his rival become heavier in his arms. Mika's legs were probably trembling as much as his hands. Michael gently guided Mika to the floor with him. He cradled his precious face between his two hands and used his thumbs to wipe off the tears on his cheekbones. Michael's heart was aching. This Finnish boy was put on earth to smile the stupid smile God gave him and have a good time. This wasn't supposed to happen! It just shouldn't! Angels shouldn't have to suffer this much! What if Mika was actually an angel and the sun would heal him?

He grabbed his rival by the shoulders. "Mika, how can I get you outside? I want to help you! I need to help you."

Mika sighed and wiped his tears as he tried to get his bearings. He didn't want to show Michael his stupid wheelchair. The thing confronted him so painfully with his current disabilities, but the prospect of finally going outside was enough to make him ignore his doubts. "Michael," he pointed in the direction of the wheelchair. "That ugly metal abomination in the corner is what I use for longer walks."

Michael eyed the wheelchair. Metal ugly abomination? It was just a wheelchair, nothing peculiar about it. He shrugged and walked into the given direction to fetch the object of Mika's anger. "This one?"

Out in the bright daylight Mika looked even paler than in his room. Michael noticed that he had lost quite a bit of weight. He was sitting in his wheelchair with his light blue linen pyjamas on, eyes closed, soaking up the rays of sunlight that he had been craving for so long. Michael thought he looked handsome despite the state he was in, but he would never admit that to Mika. It would only make his feelings for the Finn more complicated.

"Michael, could you roll me a little further? I can still see those miserable hospital rooms from here."

Michael glanced at Mika, who stared at him expectantly, then at the entrance of the hospital. At this moment, he wanted to do anything that would make the Finn happy. "I don't know, Mika. The nurses told me to stay close. They said you might catch a cold."

Mika looked at Michael as if he was talking bullshit. It was fucking summer in Australia. "This is the Southern hemispere, dumbass. And I am from Finland, I think I can judge better whether it's cold than those nurses."

Michael snorted. Apperantly, Mika had lost nothing of his stubbornness. He looked around one more time and then threw Mika a mischievous grin. "Alright lunatic. Let's break some rules." Although Michael couldn't keep himself from looking into the direction of the hospital one more time before he pushed Mika's wheelchair on the pavement next to the public road. As if he was doing something illegal. Not that Michael ever bothered with rules. He was as reckless as they come, but this wasn't about him. It was about the fragile boy sitting in front of him. What the fuck am I doing! Michael stared at the IV-bag with morphine attached to Mika's wheelchair, and at the way Mika's pale hands lay limply on his lap. This man was in no condition to be far away from the hospital!

He came to a halt.

"Mika what are we doing! You look like a hospital-escapee with that IV-bag and all those tubes and wires. Someone might arrest us!"

Mika hastily shook his head. He had been waiting to go outside for so long. And of all people it was his fiercest rival that cared enough about his feelings to take him outside. Don't chicken out Michael. "No we are not going back! I have been arrested before and it was no big deal."

Michael stared cluesly at the angelic boy in front of him. What the fuck was he talking about? As if anyone would ever arrest someone like Mika. Then he remembered what had happened to his rival at Silverstone a few years ago and smirked. "Mika don't act all cool about the police arresting you at Silverstone three years ago. It was a big communication fuck-up from their side. One of the cops allowed you to drive on the hard shoulder of the road. So don't act all badass. I think we should go back."

Mika didn't know whether Michael was joking or taking the piss. Either way he was not going back to the hospital yet. "Don't talk too much, Michael. It hurts my head."

Michael rolled his eyes. Stupid boy. "I think you should be more careful and responsible so you can return to Formula One faster. Because you will return you know that!"

"I don't want to talk about that," Mika mumbled, the pessimism in his voice clear as the day.

"Mika, the winter break is long. Who knows what will happ-"

"I can barely walk, Michael! My legs are weak, my left eyelid flutters uncontrollably! I look like fucking death warmed over!" Mika blurted out way too harshly for his sore throat. "What do you think will happen, Michael!?" He ended up in a coughing fit, coughing up blood. The crimson liquid dribbled down his chin. He doubled over in pain and splattered his blood all over the grass and his grey slippers. Not again! Mika stared at his clothes and cursed.

Michael gulped. Shock written all over his face. What the hell! "Mika, I am sorry! I am so sorry!" He hurried to tell him as he got a napkin from his back pocket. He wiped the blood off of Mika's lips and stared at the boy's face. The contrast between Mika's pale skin and the crimson blood would probably haunt him forever. "Why does this happen to you all the time? You should get that checked out!"

Mika's eyes snapped shut in an instant, trying to force the tears away. "That's... that's what you get when they push a breathing tube down your throat." His upper lip began to tremble. Goddamnit, this would be the third time he was going to cry in front of Michael! Cut it short, you weakling!

He tried his utter best to keep his tears from falling, but failed miserably. The floodgates opened. His hands balled into fists.

Michael had noticed Mika's eyes turning damp and was quick to grab a hold of his rival again, ready to sooth him. "Let it out, Mika. I know it hurts. Don't feel ashamed of it!" He breathed in the scent of his rival, and felt his heart sink. Mika smelt like blood and disinfectant, not his usual smell - a mixture of champagne and spicy shampoo - which Michael so dearly missed.

They held each other for a long moment.

"Don't you think it would be better to go back to the hospital?" Michael asked carefully, in order not to anger the Finn.

Mika wiped his nose and nodded. "Yes. It seems you were right all along."

[ralfmaximus]

List of annoying/impractical time travel devices, in no particular order

gotta get it up to 88 mph, but it's a cement mixer

can only go backwards in time 20 minutes; takes 20 minutes to recharge

has a roulette wheel to set the destination time and you have no idea what it is until you press GO

time machine that can only transport living material, so you always arrive naked

time machine that can only transport living, sexually aroused material, so you always arrive naked & horny

time machine built from a school bus, and every seat must be occupied before it works, and everybody must agree on the destination first

time machine that screams I AM AN ARRIVING TIME TRAVELLER FROM THE YEAR xxxx upon success

time machine that transports you in time, but not space (think about it)

every trip is a success, but you acquire a time clone of yourself that is 5 seconds out of sync

coin-operated time machine that only accepts 1964 canadian quarters

self-aware robot time machine that is absolutely obsessed with the Jurassic era and won't shut up about it no matter where you go

AI driven time machine that isn't actually a time machine but simply jumps you to an AI-generated dimension that looks sorta like your requested time coordinates but is weirdly off

time machine that requires a pint of blood from its passenger for every jump

no matter the destination, it places you in mortal peril, as a means of pre-emptively protecting the timeline

it only works if you don't watch (quantum observer effect)

all of the above, randomly shuffled

[latenightsuburbansprinklersystem]

what the fuck is going on today man literally everyone on earth is acting completely insane. really cannot stress to you how deeply immensely up since 8pm Saturday night I currently am animated solely by my nefarious concoction (so many caffeine pills I start sweating and dry heaving sometimes) which I explained to my boss the second he came in this morning expecting him to let me go but instead he decided I specifically needed to be the one to recount every minute detail of the clusterfuck hell on earth weekend we had while he was on vacation even though i only had a cursory relationship to every big problem that occured specifically because he "trusts my assement of things" which like. normally I love being a victim of my own effortless competency and hotel god swag but not today. and then for my entire drive home I got stuck behind a box truck and a cement mixer who were straight up beefing in busy morning rush hour freeway traffic with their 87000 ton death machines. like one would repeatedly break check the other (and consequently me because I was right behind them) until the other would find an opening to pass and the roles would reverse. and for whatever reason not letting anyone else pass was an integral part of this experience for both of them because every time I or anyone else would get over and start to pass they would literally swerve and try to run us into the median unless we slammed on our breaks and let them over instead. and then while all this was happening I saw a woman hiking down the shoulder of the washington 512 dressed in a literal parka and snowpants in 78 degree weather and was so transfixed mostly on account of the sleep deprivation fugue state I'm in that I came the closest I genuinely ever have to an almost certainly fatal accident becausw I forgot I needed to be paying constant attention to the psychopaths in heavy industrial machinery repeatedly slamming on their breaks in front of me. and THEN I get home to find that my insane neighbor has chosen today of all days to be insane again for the first time in a couple months which I'm not even gonna get into because this post is already so long. someone please tell me what is happening why is the world like this today. what dark magician weaves this world

[jakemyboy]

Well guess who left the block for a second day in a row!! Yes this boy! Another fifty minute walk. Around our block then out into the world beyond and over to his favorite street. I'd much rather walk to the park but I'm not going to push for it. He was not scared of very loud machines within twelve feet of him digging up the street or the sidewalk, or a cement mixer whirling and about to dump cement right next to the sidewalk. Or the garbage truck picking up cans. Whatever sets him off is not necessarily a loud, scary kind of sound. It can be a small dog barking inside a house, combined with a person simply coming out of their house and getting in their car. Or a person sneezing. I still believe the original trigger for his issues was a person whistling, as if to call a dog to come home. That was early October last year, he's made good progress but I know any day he can be triggered by something seemingly innocuous.

[lasenbyphoenix]

Unshakable Faith (2023)

Episode 18 Breakdown

Officer Tongbin interrogates the messenger but he admits to only passing letters for money and isn't a spy. Security Captain Li threatens Lai Guangrun now that he is exposed, and is told that his sweetheart is a spy and that there was never going to be money or passports arranged for him, but when Security Captain Li threatens to destroy his paintings, Lai Guangrun offers up his own hidden money and fake ID from the temple on Dongshan mountain. 

Lai Guangrun tells Dr Bai that Security Captain Li will be at the temple and to kill him as a final test from Snow Wolf. Dr Bai dismisses him, but reconsiders after he is reminded of the target on Nurse Bai. On Dongshan mountain Dr Bai watches as Officer Hongmei and the police team get to the temple first and exchange fire with Security Captain Li. After running out of bullets and fleeing from the back door, he eventually surrenders after Officer Hongmei confirms that the sweetheart he is trying to save is the spy she met in Hong Kong.

On the morning of the pool construction,  Expert Chief Chu is given his medicine that Nurse Bai makes, but soon after taking it he collapses and is rushed to the hospital. Awake but weak, he appoints Ji Danyang as temporary Commander in Chief for the pool construction.

At the construction site the experts and labourers gather as Factory Chief Han and Ji Danyang rally their spirits and order the construction to begin. In the middle of mixing the concrete, Master Welder Niu brings it to their attention that it's setting too quickly, and it is soon revealed that a silicate has been added to the current concrete mix. Ji Danyang gives the order to start over and calls in more cement to be delivered from town to make sure they have enough for the pool. Lai Guangrun comes in on one of the trucks delivering concrete, but just observes.

When a fire breaks out in one of the machines at the power station, all power to the site shuts off and their cement mixers stop, and it will take too long to get generators up and running so they rally to finish mixing the last of the concrete by hand.

Factory Chief Han and Ji Danyang announce the successful completion of the pool and the experts and all construction workers celebrate while Nurse Bai rushes to tend to their injuries. 

The police team now have Lai Guangrun's full identity but miss catching him at the construction site, so follow him into town. He stops to see Dr Bai who confirms that Security Captain Li was taken away by the police. Even knowing that he's been compromised, Lai Guangrun still doesn't reveal to Dr Bai who Snow Wolf is. The police team eventually corner him at the art gallery in front of his painting.

........................................................

I always feel like Lai Guangrun is talking out of his butt whenever he mentions instructions from Snow Wolf because we've never seen him recieve any and they always seem to be self-serving requests.

Uh oh, who messed with the Chief's medicine to implicate Nurse Bai??? because come on, everyone knows that she's been making that medicine so she'd be stupid to sabotage it herself.

I had actually thought a couple of episodes ago that whatever they were planning on doing to sabotage the pool, the discreetest way would be to mess with the concrete proportions, because how do you track that many bags of concrete mix? And that's is exactly what they did!

Our math man proves that he can keep his cool under pressure and leads the team to success, that'll look good on his resume. I really like the dark blue lab coats the experts have. I do find it amusing how big and glorious the music is for what is just the pouring of concrete, but hey, it makes it entertaining.

And some more queering of the AI subtitles, featuring the arrested messenger.

[vocokidstv]

Big Construction: space rocket. Cartoons for kids. kids Rocket Puzzle And Make fun on Animation vibs

Another Big Construction for Kids cartoon! Learn to build a Space Rocket! Do you like BIG and small cars, trucks, helicopters, hydroplanes, airplanes, aircraft, spaceships, trucks, cement mixers & other vehicles & transport? Then watch our NEW construction cartoons! We'll show you the most thrilling fun ever on our English channel for children! Learn to Build series! Do you like Trains, Cars, Trucks, Helicopters, Hydroplanes, Airplanes, Aircraft, Spaceships, Cement mixers & other vehicles & transport? Then watch our NEW construction cartoons! Educational Video Cartoon Animation for children, toddlers, babies & kids! kidsfirst,kids construction,machines,big trucks,haul truck,fire truck,lessons,education,for children,for kids,childrens toys,kids toys,toy cars,puzzles,cartoons,childrens videos,lego,kids build,kids,火车之旅,水泥车,车直升机,汽车生日蛋糕,时钟时间,颜色的车,拖拉机,飞艇,直升机,space rocket,educational videos,3d videos,3d animation,learn about machines,learn about spacecraft,kids vidoes,learn about space,spacecraft construction,building for children,rockets,space rockets kindergarten ,jj ,toddler ,kids videos ,preschool ,kid songs ,kids animation ,baby songs ,kids education ,abckidtv ,sing-along ,nursery rhymes ,sing-along songs ,kids entertainment ,children songs ,cocomelon voco kids tv At voco kids tv, our primary goal has always been to engage families with entertaining and educational content that makes universally-relatable preschool moments fun. Our beautiful 3D animation and toe-tapping songs create a world that centers on the everyday experiences of young children. In addition to helping preschoolers learn letters, numbers, animal sounds, colors, and more, the videos impart prosocial life lessons, providing parents with an opportunity to teach and play with their children as they watch together. voco kids tv. Where kids can be happy and smart! #voco#kids#tv#vocokidstv#animationvoco#kidstv

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Where kids can be happy and smart! voco kids tv 3D animation and songs create a world that centers on the everyday experiences of young children. In addition to helping preschoolers learn letters, numbers, animal sounds, colors, and more, the videos impart prosocial life lessons, providing parents with an opportunity to teach and play with their children as they watch together.

[dailyanarchistposts]

Rue Gay-Lussac

Sunday 12 May

The rue Gay-Lussac still carries the scars of the ‘night of the barricades’. Burnt out cars line the pavement, their carcasses a dirty grey under the missing paint. The cobbles, cleared from the middle of the road, lie in huge mounds on either side. A vague smell of tear gas still lingers in the air.

At the junction with the rue des Ursulines lies a building site, its wire mesh fence breached in several places. From here came material for at least a dozen barricades: planks, wheelbarrows, metal drums, steel girders, cement mixers, blocks of stone. The site also yielded a pneumatic drill. The students couldn’t use it, of course — not until a passing building worker showed them how, perhaps the first worker actively to support the student revolt. Once broken. the road surface provided cobbles, soon put to a variety of uses. All that is already history.

People are walking up and down the street, as if trying to convince themselves that it really happened. They aren’t students. The students themselves know what happened and why it happened. They aren’t local inhabitants either, The local inhabitants saw what happened, the viciousness of the CRS charges, the assaults on the wounded, the attacks on innocent bystanders, the unleashed fury of the state machine against those who had challenged it. The people in the streets are the ordinary people of Paris, people from neighbouring districts, horrified at what they have heard over the radio or read in their papers and who have come for a walk on a fine Sunday morning to see for themselves. They are talking in small clusters with the inhabitants of the rue Gay-Lussac. The Revolution, having for a week held the university and the streets of the Latin Quarter, is beginning to take hold of the minds of men.

On Friday 3 May the CRS had paid their historic visit to the forborne. They had been invited in by Paul Roche, Hector of Paris University. The Rector had almost certainly acted in connivance with Alain Peyrefitte, Minister of Education, if not with the Elysee itself. Many students had been arrested, beaten up, and several were summarily convicted.

The unbelievable — yet thoroughly predictable — ineptitude of this bureaucratic ‘solution’ to the ‘problem’ of student discontent triggered off a chain reaction. It provided the pent-up anger, resentment and frustration of tens of thousands of young people with both a reason for further action and with an attainable objective. The students, evicted from the university, took to the street, demanding the liberation of their comrades, the reopening of their faculties, the withdrawal of the cops.

Layers upon layers of new people were soon drawn into the struggle. The student union (UNEF) and the union representing university teaching staff (SNESUP) called for an unlimited strike. For a week the students held their ground, in ever bigger and more militant street demonstrations. On Tuesday 7 May 50,000 students and teachers marched through the streets behind a single banner: ‘Vive La Commune’, and sang the Internationals at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, at the Arc de Triomphe. On Friday 10 May students and teachers decided to occupy the Latin Quarter en masse. They felt they had more right to be there than the police, for whom barracks were provided elsewhere. The cohesion and sense of purpose of the demonstrators terrified the Establishment. Power couldn’t be allowed to lie with this rabble, who had even had the audacity to erect barricades.

Another inept gesture was needed. Another administrative reflex duly materialised. Fouchet (Minister Of the interior) and Joxe (Deputy Prime Minister) ordered Grimaud (Superintendent of the Paris police) to clear the streets. The order was confirmed in writing, doubtless to be preserved for posterity as an example of what not to do in certain situations. The CRS charged...clearing the rue Gay-Lussac and opening the doors to the second phase of the Revolution.

In the rue Gay-Lussac and in adjoining streets, the battle-scarred wails carry a dual message. They bear testimony to the incredible courage of those who held the area for several hours against a deluge of tear gas, phosphorous grenades and repeated charges of club-swinging CRS. But they also show something of what the defenders were striving for...

Mural propaganda is an integral part of the revolutionary Paris of May 1968. It has become a mass activity, part and parcel of the Revolution’s method of. self-expression. The walls of, the Latin Quarter are the depository of a new rationality, no longer confined to books, but democratically displayed at street level and made available to all. The trivial and the profound, the traditional and the esoteric, rub shoulders in this new fraternity, rapidly breaking down the rigid barriers and compartments in people’s minds. ‘Désobéir d’abord: alors écris sur les murs (Loi du 10 Mai 1968)’ reads an obviously recent inscription, clearly setting the tone. ‘Si tout le people faisait comme nous’ (if everybody acted like us...) wistfully dreams another in joyful anticipation, l think, rather than in any spirit of self-satisfied substitutionary. Most of the slogans are straightforward, correct and fairly orthodox: ‘Libérez nos camarades’ ; ‘Fouchet, Grimaud, démission’; ‘A bàs l’Etat policier’; ‘Grève Générale fundi’; ‘Travailleurs, étudiants, soldaires’; ‘Vive les Conseils Ouvriers’. Other slogans reflect the new concerns: ‘La publicity te manipule’; ‘Examens = hiérarchie’; ‘L’art est mort, ne consommes pas son cadavre’; ‘A bàs la society de consummation” ‘Debout les damnes de Nanterre . The slogan ‘Baisses-toi et broute’(Bend your head and chew the cud) is obviously aimed at those whose minds are still full of traditional preoccupations. ‘Centre Ia fermentation groupusculaire’ moans a large scarlet inscription. This one is really out of touch. For everywhere there is a profusion of pasted up posters and journals; V’oix Ouvrière, Avant-Garde and Revoltes (for the Trotskyisls), Servir Ie Peuple and Humanity Nouvelle (for the devotees of Chairman Mao), Le Libertaire (for the Anarchists), Tribune Socialiste (for the PSU), Even odd copies of l’Humanité are pasted up. It is difficult to read them, so covered are they with critical comments.

On a hoarding, I see a large advertisement for a new brand of cheese; a child biting into an enormous sandwich. ‘C’est bon Ie fromage So-and-so’ runs the patter. Someone has covered the last few words with red paint. The poster reads ‘C’est bon la Revolution’. People pass by, look, and smile.

I talk to my companion, a man of about 45, an ‘old’ revolutionary. We discuss the tremendous possibilities now opening up. He suddenly turns towards me and comes out with a memorable phrase:“To think one had to have kids and wait 20 years to see all this...” We talk to others in the street, to young and old, to the ‘political’ and the ‘unpolitical’, to people at all levels of understanding and commitment. Everyone is prepared to talk — in fact everyone wants to. They all seem remarkably articulate. We find no-one prepared to defend the actions of the administration. The ‘critics’ fall into two main groups’.

The ‘progressive’ university teachers, the Communists, and a number of students see the main root of the student ‘crisis’ in the backwardness of the university in relation to society’s current needs, in the quantitative inadequacy of the tuition provided, in the semi-feudal attitudes of some professors, and in the general insufficiency of job opportunities. They see the University as unadapted to the modern world. The remedy for them is adaptation: a modernising reform which would sweep away the cobwebs, provide more teachers, better lecture theatres, a bigger educational budget, perhaps a more liberal attitude on the campus and, at the end of it all, an assured job.

The rebels (which include some but by no means all of the ‘old’ revolutionaries) see this concern with adapting the university to modern society as something of a diversion. For it is modern society itself which they reject. They consider bourgeois life trivial and mediocre, repressive and repressed. They have no yearning (but only contempt) for the administrative and managerial careers it holds out for them. They are not seeking integration into adult society. On the contrary, they are seeking a chance radically to contest its adulteration. The driving force of their revolt is their own alienation, the meaninglessness of life under modern bureaucratic capitalism. It is certainly not a purely economic deterioration in their standard of living.

It is no accident that the ‘revolution’ started in the Nanterre faculties of Sociology and Psychology. The students saw that the sociology they were being taught was a means of controlling and manipulating society, not a means of understanding it in order to change it. In the process they’ discovered revolutionary sociology. They rejected the niche allocated to them in the great bureaucratic pyramid, that of ‘experts’ in the service of a technocratic Establishment, specialists of the ‘human factor’ in the modern industrial equation. In the process they discovered the importance of the working class. The amazing thing is that, at least among the active layers of the students, these ‘sectarians’ suddenly seem to have become the majority’, surely the best definition of any revolution.

The two types of ‘criticism’ of the modern French educational system do not neutralism one another. On the contrary, each creates its own kind of problems for the University authorities and for the officials at the Ministry of Education. The real point is that one kind of criticism what one might call the quantitative one — could in time be coped with by modern bourgeois society’. The other — the qualitative one — never. This is what gives it its revolutionary potential. The ‘trouble with the University’, for the powers that be, isn’t that money can’t be found for more teachers. It can. The ‘trouble’ is that the University is full of students — and that the heads of the students are full of revolutionary ideas.

Among those we speak to there is a deep awareness that the problem cannot be solved in the Latin Quarter, that isolation of the revolt in a student ‘ghetto’ (even an ‘autonomous’ one) would spell defeat. They realise that the salvation of the movement lies in its extension to other sectors of the population. But here wide differences appear. When some talk of the importance of the working class it is as a substitute for getting on with any kind of struggle themselves, an excuse for denigrating the students’ struggle and ‘adventurist’. Yet it is precisely because of its unparalleled militancy that the students’ action has established that direct Action works, has begun to influence the younger workers and to rattle the established organizations. Other students realise the relationship of these struggles more clearly. We will find them later at Censier (see page 31 ), animating the ‘worker-student’ action committees, But enough, for the time being, about the Latin Quarter. The movement has already spread beyond its narrow confines.

[kazsartcorner]

ABM-11 Mallet

Developed as a method of providing reliable battlefield support, the Mallet was made with engineering duties in mind, usually digging trenches or creating simple barricades, the Mallet also keeps a large storage unit for storing scrap components pulled off of enemy machines.

Due to the large amount of spare parts Mallet's lug about and the suite of tools integrated into their large cement mixer like arms, a Mallet pilot can often patch up allies in the heat of battle, however ballistics and explosives are known to hamper salvaging operations, so most Mallet operators are known to simply wade into combat before bringing a colossal entrenching to down on a hostile.

The hunched image of a Mallet with a downed mech impaled on its pickaxe is a fearsome sight, as scanners noisily whirr and hum, searching for more prey.

[jiskblr]

The phrase doesn’t have one particular origin, nor does it represent one particular metaphor. Instead, it seems to have evolved from a sense of yard meaning a vague quantity of something. Later, the words full or whole were attached to it, and even later it was quantified by the numbers six and nine, with the whole nine yards eventually winning out and becoming the canonical form. Use of the full phrase was for a long time restricted to the American Midwest, in particular to the region around the Kentucky-Indiana border, before breaking out into general American parlance in the middle of the twentieth century. [...] So regardless of what someone else has told you, the whole nine yards does not refer to the length of a belt of WWII machine-gun ammunition, the amount of material needed to make a Scottish kilt or a sari, the number of spars on a sailing ship, the amount of concrete a cement mixer holds, or anything else.

The whole nine yards

Yards are the timber spars running at right angles to the masts, supporting square sails. (On either side of the mast, the yard is called a yardarm).

HMS Surprise sailing at sea under full sail, by Alex

A fully rigged three masted ship generally had three major sails upon each mast. If all nine sails wer being used, the whole nine yards were working - she was at maximum capacity.