#Election Humor Shirt

[noisycowboyglitter]

Excuse Me, I’m Speaking: Elevate Your Speaking Skills Today

"Excuse Me, I'm Speaking" is a powerful phrase that has gained prominence in recent years, particularly in the context of gender dynamics and professional discourse. It encapsulates the struggle many individuals, especially women, face when trying to be heard in various settings.

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This phrase serves as a firm yet polite assertion of one's right to complete a thought or argument without interruption. It highlights the common occurrence of people, often women or minorities, being talked over, dismissed, or having their ideas appropriated in conversations, meetings, or public forums.

The statement gained widespread attention during the 2020 U.S. Vice Presidential debate when then-candidate Kamala Harris used it to reclaim her speaking time. This moment resonated with many who have experienced similar situations, sparking discussions about respect, equality, and communication etiquette in professional and personal spheres.

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Beyond its literal meaning, "Excuse Me, I'm Speaking" has become a rallying cry for those advocating for equal representation and respect in various fields. It encourages individuals to stand up for themselves and demand the space to express their thoughts fully.

The phrase also invites reflection on conversation dynamics, urging listeners to be more aware of their behavior and to practice active listening. It challenges societal norms that often allow for the interruption or dismissal of certain voices.

The phrase "Funny Kamala Harris Joe Biden Trump" evokes a complex political landscape filled with moments of unintentional comedy and satirical commentary. It refers to the often-humorous interactions, gaffes, and rivalries between these prominent American political figures.

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Vice President Kamala Harris, known for her occasional awkward laughter, President Joe Biden with his tendency for verbal slip-ups, and former President Donald Trump with his unique speaking style and Twitter habits, have all provided ample material for comedians, memes, and political satire.

Their contrasting personalities and communication styles have led to numerous memorable and sometimes absurd moments in American politics. From debate stage confrontations to social media mishaps, these figures have become central characters in the ongoing political theater that often blurs the line between serious policy discussions and unintentional comedy.

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This keyword encapsulates the lighter, more entertaining side of recent U.S. political history, reflecting the public's appetite for humor in the often tense world of politics.

[toruandmidori]

34 counts. 2 words.

Grab the only shirt you need this US election season. 

Available online here.

[grannyandgrandpascreations]

More Jobs No Jobs Blow Jobs Republican hilarious offensive political T-shirt.

More Jobs No Jobs Blow Jobs Republican hilarious offensive political T-shirt. This hilarious, funny, offensive political t-shirt is perfect for and Republican for everyday wear! Shop our funny humorous t-shirts they make great gifts or perfect t-shirts for any anyone or everyday wear! High quality, affordable, just your everyday comfy tee to impress friends and family.

Get comfortable with our 100% cotton crew neck t-shirts. Made of 100% soft cotton for a smooth, breathable fit. Pre-shrunk cotton tees are perfect for layering or wearing alone. Lightweight fabric keeps you cool and dry so you can look great and feel great all day. The perfect tee shirt for a modern casual look. Not too long so you can wear these untucked with a pair of jeans or chinos. Looks great under a casual blazer and jeans for a relaxed Friday style. Stylish and versatile everyday crew neck tees are a wardrobe staple.

Care instructions: Turn item inside out, machine wash cold, no bleach, no softener. Do not dry clean. Do not iron. Tumble dry low.

Due to different light settings the actual color might vary a bit from the pictures.

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More Jobs No Jobs Blow Jobs Unisex T-shirt.

If your desired writing color is not shown and/or the color of the t-shirt, please reach out to us at grannyscustomcreations@gmail.com, as we would like to be able to accommodate your desired t-shirt color and writing color to the design. Writing colors do vary

Get comfortable with our 100% cotton crew neck t-shirts. Made of 100% soft cotton for a smooth, breathable fit. Pre-shrunk cotton tees are perfect for layering or wearing alone. Lightweight fabric keeps you cool and dry so you can look great and feel great all day.

The perfect tee shirt for a modern casual look. Not too long so you can wear these untucked with a pair of jeans or chinos. Looks great under a casual blazer and jeans for a relaxed Friday style. Stylish and versatile everyday crew neck tees are a wardrobe staple.

Care instructions: Turn item inside out, machine wash cold, no bleach, no softener. Do not dry clean. Do not iron. Tumble dry low.

[everest-is-dead-now]

Little Monster - Terzomega

2.8k words ~ smut

Terzo asks Omega for another night together. Omega can’t stand his guts.

[warning: terzo is struggling and omega has no sympathy. this fic is pretty angsty and dark, so don’t read if you’re expecting comfort]

i decided to post this one.. i just couldn’t stop thinking about it.

[parts:] next

—

Omega stood idly in the back of the cathedral, listening to Secondo’s sermon. While was not obliged to be there, he liked the atmosphere of being in mass. Human-watching. Studying how they interacted with one another and the worship. Feeling their moods shift from listening to praying. If he just focused on one person praying, he could almost know their thoughts completely based on how their emotions shifted. Sad, hopeful, angered, desperate. He found the art of studying humans an interesting one, such complicated yet simple creatures.

“Enjoying yourself, Omega ghoul?”

Omega shut his eyes in annoyance. He should have sensed him coming.

“Can I help you, cardinal?”

Terzo stood by his side facing forward, but tilted his head at him. “You tease when you call me that. I missed you.” His voice dripped with the alcohol he abused. He smelled sweetly of wine.

“Not now.”

Terzo looked out at the congregation, avidly engaged with Secondo. “No one is looking, carissimo.”

“No.”

In all senses of the word, Omega hated Terzo. He wanted power but avoided responsibility. He was sloppy, useless, and did not have a strong loyalty to the Ministry. He often heard him spreading rumors among the siblings about his slightly older brother, Secondo. Talking to him was a chore in itself, though Omega was obliged to humor him.

“Secondo talks as loud as a garbage truck. They will not hear us, mostriciatto.”

“No.”

Omega suddenly felt his hand on his ass. He disciplined himself to stay still. Even staring straight ahead, he could see Terzo’s mischievous smirk in his mind’s eye. He gave him a decent squeeze.

Though Omega wished to kill him most days, they had been engaged in a secret, sexual tryst that Terzo often liked to invoke. That was what led Terzo to drag his sorry ass out of his quarters to beg Omega for attention.

“Let go,” he growled through grit fangs.

“Make me.”

“You’ll regret this.”

“Will I? Are you threatening your cardinal, mostriciatto?” Terzo teased.

Omega boiled with anger. “It’s not a threat if I do it.”

Terzo slyly moved his hand into his pocket, just barely able to feel the outline of Omega’s dick with the tip of his finger.

Omega seethed.

Terzo said, “Why do you not just come with me? Must you stay here?”

Omega was as silent as stone.

“Do not be like that, you are like a kitty who did not get his food.”

He was committed to his silence. Terzo tried to get his attention again, but Omega elected to walk away. He came towards the other side of the pews, partway to the front of the church where there were witnesses, and Terzo just stared at him from the back of the room. After a few minutes, he disappeared out the door.

Omega blew out a slow breath. Terzo was nasty when he was drunk, which was always.

What they had was circumstantial at best; a cardinal who took too much of a liking to a ghoul, finally convincing him one day to sleep with him. Like a dog fed scraps, he kept coming back with his needy eyes, begging for more. Omega saw little harm in indulging himself, especially when he could take out his anger and abhorrence of the cardinal on him. That was, as long as their affair could be concealed.

After mass, instead of mindlessly following Secondo around for the rest of the night, Omega surrendered to his lust and found himself standing outside the cardinal’s quarters, still in his uniform and mask. He knocked softly, looking carefully down the hallways, before stepping inside.

Terzo was on the ground in front of his couch, his head propped up on the side like he had slid off it. He wore a black suit, his dress shirt unbuttoned halfway, one sleeve rolled up, and his belt undone. He nursed a glass of red wine. Lying next to him was a spilled bottle.

“Omega ghoul,” Terzo murmured, staring at the glass in his hand. “My wine is on the floor.”

Omega, unphased by his intoxication, crossed the room and squatted over him. He grabbed Terzo’s throat, which made him look up.

“Clean it, then.”

His command was clear. The pathetic cardinal swallowed, and Omega roughly let go. Terzo took a drink, set his glass on the ground, and began licking the wine off the floor. Omega grabbed his head, pushing his nose into the hardwood. Terzo released a weak whimper, breathing harshly against the floor.

“Mostriciatto…”

Omega pulled him up by the hair, tilting his head to the side to look at him. He waited expectantly, watching stray red drops run down his cheek.

“You will not kiss me if I keep drinking the floor.”

“I don’t want to kiss you.”

He dropped his head roughly back to the ground. He whimpered.

“Keep cleaning,” Omega grunted.

Terzo’s pink tongue flicked from his lips again.

Terzo irritated Omega. Scum made better company than the drunk bastard skulking around the halls of the ministry. His intoxication made him hard for Omega to read, which annoyed him more that he could not glean his intentions. All he knew was he was oft horny, always drinking, and indignant of his position as cardinal—but only because he said as much.

Terzo started panting. Omega noticed he was shallowly grinding against the floor, clearly desperate for friction. Omega changed his position to kneeling next to him and used his other hand to slam his ass down, gripping tightly and keeping his hips still. His fingers dug into the fabric as hard as they could. Terzo groaned. He tried to thrust himself upwards, but Omega’s grip was strong, and tightened on his hair. He heard him gasp.

“Omega— Please— Let me go—“ Terzo gasped.

Reluctantly he did, realizing Terzo was choking. He rolled on his back and coughed harshly. The outline of his dick was clearly visible in his pants. Even while he gasped for air, he stared at Omega pleadingly. When he had settled, his hand subtly reached down to play with his own bulge.

Omega did nothing, just watched. Terzo got bolder, unbuttoning his pants, pulling them down just below his hips. Before he could reach the prize, though, Omega hoisted him up, carried him to the bed, and threw him on the mattress.

Terzo rolled to his stomach, steadying himself on his knees so that his ass was raised in the air, his pants falling around his thighs. His hand slipped between his legs, his fingers pressing against his asshole. He looked at Omega, his head lying against the bed, with hazy and needy eyes.

He was desperate.

Omega growled, “If you wanted to jerk off by yourself, you shouldn’t have teased me.”

Omega pushed him over, forcing him on his back. He yanked down his own pants and climbed over him. He dangled his dick over Terzo’s face, holding himself over him in what was almost a push-up. Terzo knew what to do, taking it in his mouth obediently. Omega rolled his hips and started fucking his mouth.

Terzo took it well. His hands exploded Omega’s lower half, his fingers slipping around his balls, thighs, and ass. The extra stimulation added to his grunts and moans.

Even as his chest rose more shallowly, as his fingers gripped more tightly, Omega did not let up. The human’s warm, wet mouth was doing wonders to satiate the risen passion burning within him. He knew Terzo had seduced him for his own desires, his need to be treated like shit. Strangers could not mistreat him as well as the hellish fury who he knew already hated him. It was a wonder why Omega bothered to keep coming at all. Perhaps he loved to torture Terzo. It was more vindicating than glaring at him behind the mask silently.

Terzo gripped his thighs, breathing harshly, clearly wanting relief. But Omega was close and he did not want to let up. His throat was a perfect and tight hole for his cock, even if it was choking him. Listening to Terzo struggling to breathe was getting Omega off even more. The more he gasped, the tighter he was.

How he despised him. Enough to cum down his already constricted throat.

Omega lifted himself up with a grunt, standing next to the bed and pulling his pants up. Meanwhile Terzo was doubled over spitting up cum on his bedsheets. He gagged as spit dripped from his mouth, retching like he was close to vomiting. Omega was indifferent.

It took a decent few minutes for Terzo to pull himself together. He laid on his bed, pants still down, his dick now soft from choking for so long. When he could breathe again, he whispered in a raspy voice, “Mostriciatto, will you give me my wine?”

Omega shook his head. Terzo crawled out of bed towards the couch where he had set his wine glass on the floor. He sat against the couch and took a long drink. When it was empty, Omega watched as he crawled to his coffee table to open another bottle, ass out and dick wagging. Not from a lack of shame, but a lack of awareness. He was wasted.

Omega was disgusted. This was the lowest that humanity had to offer. Terzo looked so pathetic he felt, for once, pity.

“Omega ghoul,” he slurred, crawling to again sit against the couch on the ground and pouring wine in his glass. “Will you touch me now?”

His dick noticeably twitched, growing to a half-on. Omega silently shook his head.

“Please.” He looked up at him, his arm swaying in the air before he took a drink. Omega denied him again, turning towards the door.

A sob. Omega stopped. Where before he had felt little through the veil of wine, now there was a surge of misery emanating from Terzo, so strong it strangled his heart. He turned to look at him again.

“You do not like me?” Terzo wailed. “Am I not handsome enough? Do I not choke down your dick? Mostriciatto, you think I am bad in bed, si? No! I am good, I am sexy!”

There was an anguish that ran much deeper than the superficialities he cried about, a pain that Omega had never sensed in him before. It went beyond his intoxication. It was something he hid. He could feel it twisting around every neuron, lurking behind his thoughts. It was impossible— how did he hide this from a quintessence ghoul?

Terzo continued to break down. He took another drink and began pumping his dick, which was not even hard. “I don’t need you for fun, ghoul! I am il maschio, I can do my own!”

He visibly was not into it, gripping onto himself without rise. He continued crying into his wine glass, and though he obviously could not get himself up, he continued to try.

Omega could not stand it any longer. He turned to leave again.

“Wait!”

Terzo scrambled behind him, his glass audibly clattering to the floor. As Omega reached the door, Terzo threw his body against him.

“Don’t leave, caramissio, don’t leave…”

Terzo’s snot and tears soaked into his shirt, to his annoyance.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Do not leave me.”

The sadness flooding from him was overwhelming, unfortunately triggering his sympathy for him. It must have been lonely to be Terzo. Omega knew the only attention he got was when he was spreading rumors and lies, that otherwise he went unnoticed in Secondo’s shadow. Omega was all he had— and Omega hated him.

He tentatively wrapped his arms around Terzo, who readily clung on to him in return, weeping against his chest. Omega gingerly rubbed his back and allowed him to cry.

After a few minutes, he seemed to calm down. Terzo pulled back slightly, looking up at him, his black eyes and lips smeared to all hell. He suddenly grabbed Omega by the crotch.

Omega’s eyebrows knit together in irritation. “Terzo…”

“Please, I want you, mostrichiatto. Just once tonight, fuck me up the ass.”

Omega felt the loathing return to him. Terzo was just a whore, in the end. But he would oblige, because he felt sorry for the pathetic cardinal.

“Fine.”

Omega lifted his slight frame and brought him back to the bed. Again, Terzo was quick to raise his ass in the air, his asshole puckering at Omega greedily.

Omega once again lowered his pants, gave himself a few strokes, knelt behind him, and shoved inside without prep or lube. Terzo groaned painfully, burying his head in his covers. Omega mercifully paused for his benefit, even reaching beneath him to start yanking on his cock.

Terzo tightened and relaxed around him, moaning. He bit his finger, body relaxing with pleasure. When he began pushing his hips back for friction, Omega began thrusting.

Terzo took up the task of stroking himself off so Omega could grip his love handles as he moved. He whined and panted, peeking at Omega over his shoulder. Even with his bizarre eyes, he looked desperately cute. Omega, feeling aggressive as a result, yanked Terzo’s shirt down around his shoulders and raked his claws down his back, just to see his skin turn red and bleed. Terzo moaned at the contact, his head disappearing into the bed again.

Omega grabbed him by the hair and yanked him upwards so that his back was pressed against his stomach. Holding him around the waist with one hand, touching his chest with the other, thrusting all the while. Omega slid his fingers against his nipples, rubbing and pinching them as Terzo whimpered. Terzo kept jerking off all the meanwhile, steeped in his sexual bliss, likely overstimulating himself just to make his mind go blank.

“Carissimo…”

Omega pushed him down again harshly, the bed bouncing with the force. He planted his elbows on either side of his shoulders and thrust quickly into his tight ass, which would clench with every change of movement. Terzo grabbed his wrist with one hand and let the other return to stroking after he had used it to catch himself.

“Carissimo…” Terzo moaned again. Omega did not like his pet names, said to him as if they were more than they were. He voiced his distaste with a bite to his shoulder, deep enough to draw blood. Terzo screamed in pain. He followed it up with harder thrusts, clapping against his body, almost making him lose the balance in his knees. So strong were his thrusts that Terzo started shouting his moans.

He felt Terzo’s arms quickening and could physically feel his orgasm build up in him. Omega focused, feeling the tense string of his arousal threatening to snap. When his mind had found it, he gripped it tightly, stopping him from his release.

It took the drunken Terzo awhile to realize. He was desperately yelling, mumbling incomprehensibly in Italian. He wanted to finish. Omega could feel it take over every cell in Terzo’s body. He wanted the release. He wanted to think of nothing but the floods of chemicals in his mind.

But he didn’t let him.

“You’ll cum when I’m finished,” Omega grunted between thrusts.

Terzo had neither the words nor the capacity to deny him.

Omega had his way with the little man, biting him once more just to hear his pain. The cardinal was a bitch, but he was his bitch. No matter the strange surge of pain and misery Omega had felt from him, no matter his need to be drunk at almost all times, no matter the way he clung to Omega and begged for his companionship. Terzo was nothing. Omega was just using him; That was all they were. Terzo liked it this way. He liked to be hurt by him.

Right?

Omega came again with another vicious bite, and mercifully released his mind hold on Terzo. Terzo jolted with him, and they came together, dripping in synchrony, sighing as one. Again, Omega was quick to stand and pull up his pants, ready to leave at the first opportunity, even if his legs felt more weak than before. He adjusted his mask, his shirt, righting himself until it looked as if nothing has happened at all.

“Omega ghoul…” Terzo said softly, having collapsed on his stomach. “…Will you stay?”

His back and shoulders looked as if he had survived an encounter with a lion. Perhaps he had.

“No.”

He was steely, silent. Terzo was quiet for a moment.

“May I have my wine?”

Omega, haven given up, grabbed the bottle near the couch and handed it to him. Terzo sat up to drink, his eyelids heavy as he gazed at him.

“Please…?” he murmured slowly.

Omega shook his head. He had already stayed longer than he wanted. Holding Terzo all night was too far for what they were.

Nothing. They were nothing.

He took a swig, shaking his head. “Mostriciatto, you asshole.”

Omega took that as his cue to leave, and this time, Terzo did not stop him. He heard the bottle thunk to the ground as he left. Terzo had passed out. Omega did not turn back.

[parts:] next

buy me a kofi <3

[alphyser]

Random things in my MHA DR about 1-A!

Mineta was originally part of the class, however during the quirk apprehension test at the start, he got the lowest score and that Aizawa noticed him acting creepy so he acted on his threat to expel someone and gave Mineta the boot. That way, it'd also serve as a warning to others.

Mineta was actually hilarious though on first day. Actually made me crack up a lot, especially since I also have a dirty sense of humor. But then he he tried to peek under Yaomomo's skirt and the illusion was shattered. (For a moment I thought he could've been great </3)

I unironically voted for Sero during the class rep elections. Him and Yaomomo had a tie and he dropped out of the nominations saying that Yaoyorozu should be the vice-representative for 1-A over him. (Sero is such a sweet soul in my DR.)

Bakugo Katsuki, despite having fashion designers for parents, only ever dresses in the most basic clothing. Black compression shirts and sweatpants are his go to and when he feels like it he sometimes wears graphic tees and jeans. But he also criticizes others a lot on their fashion sense. (He one time straight up scolded Mina for an hour because she wore a shade of yellow that didn't go with her skin tone.)

Sato, without fail, will always have a box of some type of sweets on him. Man is a god send. He brings like this little lunchbag and he has two tupperwares of sweets. One time he had these donuts and each of them were a cool new flavor I've never seen before, like a raspberry donut with candied bacon, it sounds gross but he makes it taste good somehow.

Most Sundays, Aoyama usually goes out to visit this stray kitten in a park near U.A. He feeds all the time too. He has little cat treats in his bag always. He doesn't even like cats that much, but he sees himself in the kitty. Weak and can't do anything about it (Aoyama deserves better.)

Sero makes the MEANEST avocado salads ever. Like actually godsent. It's avocados, tomatoes, red onions, bell peppers, cucumbers, cilantro, parsley, garlic, black beans, jalapeno, lemon juice, olive oil, salt and white pepper, and queso fresco all tossed together. (Yes, I memorized the recipe because I wanted to make it in my CR 😭)

Oddly enough, Koda sleeps really loudly. Like he snores, talks in his sleep, grinds his teeth, even clears his throat sometimes. He fell asleep in the common room once on a sat evening watching Princess and the Frog with Tsu and my god, everyone in the first floor could hear it, even on the second floor only it was a little more muffled.

Iida dresses wrong. Not bad, wrong. He doesn't dress ugly, in fact he's one of the most well dressed in 1-A. The issue is, he never knows what outfit for when so he either always ends up overdressed or underdressed. We went out to get groceries and he was wearing a first date outfit (He looked fine asf but like for groceries?? 😭)

I don't know how it happened but for some reason, Monoma and Yaomomo are friends. Like not frenemies or just acquaintances. Like real actual friends. They hang out sometimes and gossip with Kendo. He even tones down the 1-A hate passion canon in her presence, it's actually amazing to see.

[shih-coulda-had-it]

Since you drew En playing the electric guitar do you have any headcannons for an OFA band AU? Like what user plays/does what?

I love the OFA logo that's on electric guitarist En's shirt btw! 💓

Not only am I going to give you a list of who's doing what, I'm going to give you 1.4k of a ficlet from Bruce's POV because I've been doing everything but my final papers!

THE BAND

Yoichi: Lead vocalist, ex-bass guitar

Kudou: Drummer

Bruce: Band manager, does travel and concert arrangements; ex-electric guitar

Shinomori: Equipment manager, helps with logistics; ex-electric guitar

Banjo: Electric guitar 1, ex-keyboardist, percussionist when necessary

En: Electric guitar 2 + Smoke effects

Nana: Bass guitar, female vocalist when necessary

Toshinori: Nana’s ward, roadie, learning bass guitar

+ Sorahiko: Full-time roadie, electric guitar when necessary

Izuku: Not here yet, but he's probably part of a One for All revival era

OFA Band AU in my hands still has Quirks, and the majority of the group practices vigilantism when they're not playing music. AFO is less demon of the underworld evil, and more capitalist/the guy funding industry plants evil. He's a music executive. He and Yoichi used to play music together, but when AFO went to college to be a business major, Yoichi doubled down on music and was recruited by Kudou and Bruce. OFA developed from there.

Pairings are Trio Holders, FourthFifth, and who knows what's going with Sorahiko. (This is a no Husbando Shimura/no Kotarou AU.)

Read the ficlet below!

//

“Banjo,” Shinomori says with a tone more indulgent than scolding, “stop bullying En with Blackwhip. He’s going to trip and fall on his face mid-performance, and then where will you be?”

“Laughing, probably,” Bruce cuts in before Banjo can say something flirtatious. He needs their equipment manager present and sharp-eyed. Shimura’s friend does a passable job at rounding up stray amps and cords, but only when he’s not herding Toshinori away from chatting up the crowds who want to stalk One for All members backstage. “Pack the instruments in the bus, would you? We’re cutting it close.”

Banjo winks at Shinomori and strums a quick, humorous cue anyway. “Yeah, no problem, Sandaime. We going out after?”

“Depends on Kudou.”

“Ah, gotcha. See you in a bit.” Banjo tips his chin up and obligingly, Shinomori bends his neck and plants a chaste kiss to the carefully maintained stubble on the electric guitarist’s cheek. The roguish grin softens. Bruce manfully restrains himself from being a hypocrite about PDA, and goes to find Shimura.

She’s a little further backstage, and her bass guitar is already locked away. Set beside her bedazzled monstrosity of a case is En’s unassuming one. When Bruce chances upon them, Shimura is in the middle of fussing with her cousin’s jacket. She straightens the high collar, notices Bruce, and says a cheerful hello.

En echoes her, but he adds a respectful, “Sandaime.”

God. Bruce is going to strangle Banjo for starting that up, especially as it’s been picked up by not just the band but also the media. The more impressionable members of the band—En and Toshinori—treat the titles with more respect than a bad joke should get, and the journalists have started using them in place of their names.

“Everyone packed? Where’s Torino and Toshinori?”

“Sorahiko had a phone call,” En volunteers. “I think Toshinori headed back to the bus early because he had homework to finish.”

“What? Did he tell you that? It’s a week to the deadline!” Shimura scoops up her case and En’s, inclines her head at Bruce, and starts booking it. Her decision to apprentice Toshinori still strikes Bruce as a shortsighted one, but it remains one of the few times Bruce actually remembers her performing some kind of paperwork magic to ensure the application was filled to perfection. Usually, Shimura procrastinates to the point of Torino needing to swoop in and forge her signature.

En peers up at Bruce like he’s expecting something.

“What,” says Bruce. The junior electric guitar player shrugs in deliberate carelessness.

“Are we heading out after?”

“Have you been talking to Banjo?” Bruce asks, dry, and shakes his head. “It depends on Kudou. Where’s our illustrious leader?”

“Necking with Nidaime in the dressing room.”

Wordlessly, Bruce digs into his pocket and hands over the carton of candy cigarettes. En isn’t actually capable of eating tobacco, much less real cigarettes, but he has a sweet tooth and a sly sense of humor. Moreover, he is amenable to being bribed.

Clever fingers pop open the carton and slide one white chalky stick of sugar out. En sticks it into his mouth with a pleased hum and chirps a half-garbled, “I’ll get Banjo-senpai to the bus. Is Yondaime driving?”

“Torino knows the city streets better. He’ll get us to the inn, and after that, we’ll figure out carpools back.” Bruce rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “Hey. You did good with the bridge for ‘Residual Mayhem’ tonight. Make sure to do the hand exercises later.”

“Okay!” Thusly flattered, spoiled with sweets, and charged with malicious intent to put a (temporary) damper on Banjo’s evening, En darts off to pester his senior into hurrying the hell up. For his part, Bruce double-checks the area for stray litter, then ventures to the dressing rooms.

He finds a nondescript black sock slipped onto the doorknob. Bruce raps his knuckles against the wood, ignores the muffled “OCCUPIED!”, and uses the skeleton key to break in.

The door gets closed immediately behind him.

“We’re going to be late,” he manages to snap, before his brain fully processes the sight of Kudou’s legs hooked ‘round Yoichi’s skinny hips. The dressing room is equipped with a single chaise longue, and Yoichi has Kudou pressed down against the entire length of the single-armed sofa. Thank god, they’re both still in jeans.

“Mrrmph,” Kudou says, and Yoichi chimes in, “Hi, Bruce!”

“The set wasn’t that horny,” Bruce says, nonplussed.

Yoichi grins. “Well, I know tonight’s a fight night, so I thought I’d give Kudou incentive to not make you guys stay out so late.”

“Really effective,” Kudou reports, sounding dazed. He has clearly been kissed stupid. Is it irresponsible of Bruce to want to trade places with Kudou? For a brief moment, Bruce thinks about Kudou taking the role of band manager. In that projection of an alternate universe, One for All loses all access to professional recording studios, and not only are their songs recorded with a shitty boombox, but their concerts are held at last-minute reservations.

Also, in that universe, Kudou is cursed to never find a replacement drummer he approves of for more than three months. Yes. This is the right timeline.

Bruce approaches the sofa as Yoichi sits up and pulls Kudou upright with him. “You don’t think I need any?”

“You’re way more responsible,” Yoichi asserts, but makes a ‘come here’ gesture with his long slender fingers. Obligingly, Bruce bends at the waist. Yoichi cradles Bruce’s jaw with one hand and kisses him squarely on the mouth, nips his bottom lip, and breaks it off first. He smiles as he says, “Thanks for coming to get us.”

Kudou slips two fingers down the collar of Bruce’s shirt and tugs him in for his own kiss. That too is brief, and sharp, and it’s possible Bruce is going a little kiss-stupid as well, especially when he can hear the rumble of Kudou’s groan building at the base of his throat.

“Wait,” he gasps, “wait, time, time. Our inn’s not taking late check-ins, and Shimura’s going to murder one of us if her ward sleeps overnight in the bus again.”

“Toshinori-kun thinks it’s cool to sleep in the bus,” Yoichi protests. “Did Shimura-kun say that?”

“She implied it,” Bruce says.

“Up we go then,” Kudou says, and manhandles Yoichi off his lap. Bruce straightens up and does a cursory once-over at the dressing room. Any hairbrushes? Hair ties? Stray math homework sheets that Toshinori will swear he lost to Torino’s cutthroat corrections? Distracted, Bruce helps Yoichi to his feet, then Kudou.

“Shinomori got your drumset loaded,” he tells Kudou. “Yoichi, did you take your guitar out for an impromptu vibes session with Toshinori?”

“Still in the bus,” Yoichi answers, and before Bruce can fend him off, Yoichi is fussing with the folds of his headband. Kudou is too busy shrugging into his windbreaker and shaking out the wrinkles in Yoichi’s. “Ah, Bruce, you should really think about hemming this…”

“Ragged edges are punk,” Bruce says blankly.

There’s a knock at the door. It creaks open, because even though Bruce kicked it shut the instant he saw his boyfriends making out, he forgot to lock it. Torino pokes his head in warily. “Bus is loaded up,” he reports, eyes cast to the ceiling. “En said I’m driving?”

“Yup,” says Kudou. Finished with his doting, Yoichi gratefully accepts his windbreaker and zips it right up to the top. He combs his bangs back and ties his distinctive white hair into a low ponytail; Kudou fetches a cap and plops it on Yoichi’s head before tugging the hood over. “I’m your co-pilot. Bruce, where’s your jacket?”

“The bus. Torino, we’ll be right out.”

“Gotcha.” The door clicks shut.

“Hey, is the sock on the door yours or Yoichi’s?”

“One of mine,” Yoichi confirms. He hooks his hand at the crook of Bruce’s elbow, leans into him. “Bruce, stop worrying, we haven’t left anything. Kudou, you’d better run ahead before Toshinori-kun gets the idea that he can sit co-pilot again.”

“That kid,” Kudou curses, and bolts out. It’s a reasonable response.

The last time Toshinori had wheedled his way to the front, Shinomori had been at the wheel, and between the both of them—Shinomori, possessed of a sick sense of humor that included entertaining the whims of a preteen, and Toshinori, too proud to admit that he couldn’t understand the traffic navigation app—One for All had wandered off-route and wasted three-quarters of the gas tank just to arrive at a three-star aquarium. Not that Torino would get them lost. 

No, it’s more likely that Torino would reach the limits of his Toshinori Tolerance and put pedal to the metal, and then get caught speeding (in a bus) by a cop.

Yoichi hums the opening lyrics to ‘Daisy Days’, and it sounds too sad on its own, so Bruce obligingly provides the guitar riff as they follow after Kudou.

[westleywithatea]

The eggs are still missing. Let's take a break from the angst with some memes and humor. I'm aware that these memes are from the election arc.

Below are Image IDs.

[Image ID 1: A "Who Would Win?" meme, featuring FoolishGamers in his QSMP elections minecraft skin and Pomme the French egg. Foolish is wearing a green shirt, brown pants, green suspenders, a yellow tie, and sunglasses. Pomme has red and blue marks on her face and wears a black beret. The text under Foolish says "A Living Totem of Undying." The text under Pomme says "A French child with a laser gun." ]

[Image ID 2: A "Who Would Win?" meme, featuring Baghera and Etoiles in their QSMP elections + Mike's haircuts minecraft skins. Baghera is wearing a black suit with black shorts, white shoes, and is sporting short pink hair. Etoiles is wearing a full black suit, sunglasses, and earpiece like a personal bodyguard. He is sporting white hair. The text under Baghera reads "A Swiss duck with a laser gun." The text under Etoiles reads "A cucumber who is boss as security."]

[Image ID 3: A "Who Would Win?" meme, featuring 2 Code monsters and Etoiles in his QSMP elections + Mike's haircuts minecraft skin. Etoiles is wearing a full black suit, sunglasses, and earpiece like a personal bodyguard. He is sporting white hair. The 2 binary entities are floating green numbers in a cylindrical (crooked) shape. The text under Etoiles says "A cucumber who lives for fights." The text under the Codes says "2 strange cylinders made of numbers." ]

[rebelwheelssoapbox]

The Influences Of Ableism in Veganism: A Disabled Vegan Perspective

by Michele Sommerstein

I don't know about you, but for me between the multiple genocides, the rise in COVID cases, the massive COVID denial, the related rise in mask bans, the elections, police violence, the rising threat of fascism, climate change, and so many other issues – for fuck's sake! it's a lot. And so lately, I've been feeling like while I am doing what I can to be part of the collective effort for justice, (for another world is possible), I can't only make protest art. My heart also needs lighter projects.

[image description: a collage. background is a field with a blue sky and white clouds and a field of rows of flowers of various colors. standing in the field is a silhouette of a pig that takes up most of the art. their shape is filled with a photo of from the universe (space) there is a human eye on them that slightly blends in with the space pattern. lastly behind them but towards the right is a pink cosmo flower with an orange center. as if the pig is smelling the flower. ] And so recently I've returned to making vegan content. But not some call for intersectionality, articles discussing inner-movement issues, kill counter references, and environmental stats, as I had done in the past. Just lighter. And perhaps because it has been a while since I have made vegan content, I found myself unexpectedly reflecting on the intersections of my disability and vegan identity. Before my disability identity-themed YouTube show (Rebelwheels NYC), I had a short-lived vegan cooking show called My Easily Amused Kitchen.

[image description: video thumbnail. a screenshot from the video taken in my apartment. a white wall and a purple couch behind me. text reads MEAK ep 1 creamy pea soup of vast fantasticness! my easily amused kitchen. there is olive oil being poured onto a bowl of peas. and I am pointing with my finger up sitting next to a penguin stuffed animal. I have glasses, a black shirt, and longer hair with bangs] And looking back on that time, I realize that I really wasn't being fully authentic in the videos. Of course, it was done in my motorized wheelchair and there was some of my quirky humor, but I remember I often downplayed any kind of physical fatigue even though that is part of my disability.

You see, between my animal rights activism at the time and the vegan content that I watched on YouTube, I was very much familiar with the protein myth. The false idea that if you go vegan, that you will by default, be physically weak due to not being able to get enough protein on a vegan diet. Often I saw other (physically able-bodied) vegans whether in person or via YouTube videos who were very intentional about presenting veganism as part of an energetic lifestyle in an attempt to counteract said misinformation.

And there are many professional athletes who are vegan. I personally knew a guy (not professional) who was vegan, who lifted weights and ran marathons with ease.

[image description: The background is a colorful collage of blue, yellow, and pink. The main text reads pity is not compassion! The vibe is artsy and punk. There is smaller text on top that reads spare us your pity we want our rights! And then towards the lower left-hand corner, it reads intersectional disability solidarity. Lastly underneath the word compassion is the phrase unlearn ableism.]

And then there was me, a disabled vegan, and not Paralympic disabled, disabled with low spoons (slang term for energy), disabled with health problems, disabled where muscle weakness is literally part of my disability. And now I can type that and say “represent” with a sense of disability pride, but back then it almost felt like it was a hindrance to the cause. And to be clear, no one ever said to me “hide parts of your disability for the movement.” It was just the way it was presented that made me feel like I should. And it wasn't just the impression I got from a lot of people in the vegan community. I could sneeze and an omnivore would say “Is that because you're vegan?” (as if they themselves never sneezed?)

As a result, I was very aware of how my disability was somewhat being linked to the protein myth. As if I wouldn't be disabled if I wasn't vegan. As if people aren't born with disabilities. As if disability and veganism were somehow incompatible.

[image description: white background. black typewriter font. "Ableism is... (a form of) discrimination. The false idea that disabled people are by default, inferior. When in truth disability is just another way for a mind and/or body to be." ] And so part of me felt that to show my truth was feeding into that weakened stereotype, thus hurting the movement and thus hurting the animals, which obviously as a vegan and animal rights activist, you don't want to do.

Looking back, it was also a lot of internalized ableism on my part, for I had yet to be aware that ableism was even a word, let alone working to unlearn it, and certainly had not yet found my groove and voice in my disability identity.

That said, I now see how essential it is to have a variety of vegan representation in all areas but in this case, ability and health.

And so, in the name of creating something lighter, and because it just so happened that I needed a new vegan cheese (long story), I filmed a taste test where I was un-apologetically me. Full throttle neurodivergent, processing delays, immensely honest, not downplaying when I was physically fatigued or in pain nor the fact that while there are many vegan cheeses out there, I could not try a lot of them, due to dietary intolerances and ingredient sensitivities.

[image description: tumblr has cropped the video thumbnail. the full thumbnail is as follows. Background gold glitter. Over that rainbow stripes. Purple blue green yellow orange red and dark red. To the left a photo of myself wearing a silence equals death with a watermelon pink triangle symbol on it holding up a piece of vegan cheese. I have oversized black cat eye eyeglasses and my rainbow flower crown hair band is pushing back my dark hair. Next to me is a collage of various vegan cheeses. And over that is the text in a bold black font "disabled and neurodivergent vegan taste test vegan cheese." Every line has a white rectangle behind it and behind that is a black rectangle shadow. In white text with a black rectangle behind it. "Not sponsored. Very honest."] And as a result of being authentic and sharing my truth, I'm starting to come across other disabled vegans like me, chronically ill vegans, neurodivergent vegans, etc. and it's lovely Many years ago, I wrote an article entitled Is Veganism Ableist? A Disabled Vegan Perspective. And in regard to the ideas of veganism, the answer remains no. However, I do think in the wanting and sometimes desperation to do all we can to save the animals (and to a certain degree, the planet as animal agriculture is one of the larger contributors to climate change), a lot of us took action to dispel the protein myth, and while in ways it was good, some of our actions had consequences that also caused harm. It is a reminder that when we take action to fight misinformation, we must make sure that we are also not punching down in the process (whether intentionally or not.) This is something that goes far beyond veganism. In the end, us vegans from marginalized communities must represent with as much realness as possible, not only so people know that vegans vary, but so other marginalized people who are perhaps 'vegan-curious', will know that they too are welcomed in the movement. After all, the animals need as many allies as they can get. (Author's Note: In the past, I have written articles using my birth name Michele Kaplan. However, in the past year, I have decided to use my mother's maiden name, and thus why this article is by Michele Sommerstein, while past articles are by Michele Kaplan. Same person. I didn't get married. This just felt right to me for personal reasons)

[gabriel-xander]

Don't Forget

[Sans x Female!Reader]

1: Welcome to the Underground (How Was the Fall?)

♪───✿⁠(⁠✧◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕✧⁠)✿⁠────♪

All you do is stare up at the small, small circle of light above you. Your breathing is slow and steady, and one of your hands is on your stomach right underneath your titties. The other is resting down on the ground, softly feeling the large, yellow flower petals beneath you that had broken your fall. You honestly don’t know how long you’ve been lying there. You can’t bring yourself to get up either. You feel… so peaceful.

It’s a little chilly here, but not so much that it makes you want to bundle up, but cool enough that it’s pleasant. Honestly, you’re tempted to close your eyes and take a nap right where you are. The only reason that you don’t is because this is not a normal situation you have found yourself in. That, and the throbbing pain of your right leg that is slowly bleeding out onto the gold flowers (though it was not lethal that you had to be seriously concerned).

Well, actually. This is not the weirdest thing you’ve experienced before. There was this one time you got stabbed as a prank when you were seventeen, but you tried not to think about it too hard. Mainly because you also stabbed that punk back but that was six years ago! No use in dwelling in what once was.

Still.

Somehow falling into a dark Chasm at the top of the mountain? That somehow beats that time you fought God (your parole officer) in the Denny’s parking lot. Is this your attempt to repress the seriousness of this situation with humor?

Yes.

Because you don’t fucking know what the hell happened that ended you up in this situation.

──

You fix your dress and scrunch up your nose at your reflection, trying and failing to pose in the comfort of your bedroom inside your apartment. It’s not… typically something you would wear regularly. Still, your friend, Elliot, had gifted it to you for your birthday not too long ago, so you might as well use it now. He’s a friend you made in your second year of University, and you two have been pretty close since.

If you were honest with yourself, you would’ve NEVER thought you could make it to where you are now. You’re currently in your last year at Northern Arizona University, and applying to get accepted into a graduate school. You’re almost done with the last year to get your bachelor's degree in Biology, and the last semester is just around the corner. You went to community college at eighteen for two years but afterward took a year off before attending University for the next two years.

It’s a little unorthodox, but it’s much cheaper and better pacing for yourself. After all, you know that getting your doctorate’s is going to kick your fucking ass. You’re not in a rush for that crap, so no, you have no issue with taking your time. Doing all this just to be a surgeon is a lot of work! If your dad had taught you anything, it is to take a break when things start to get too much. There’s no use in stressing yourself out too much to the point of self-destruction, after all.

Anyway, you met Elliot when taking an elective and were sitting next to each other in class. He was a little shy at first, but when he realized you were just as mentally ill as he was, you two got along great. As you two kept hanging out, naturally you’d adopt certain habits from each other.

For example: his fashion taste.

The dress he picked out for you is more “cozy, mid-autumn weather” core than your usual “I am surviving off of cocaine and ecstasy but I’m trying to look good” core, you know? It’s not bad, by all means. You’re sporting a light and dark brown striped dress that hangs a bit close to your figure with the skirt stopping mid-thigh. The sleeves were very short and only covered your shoulders and the neckline was low and round, so you wore a white, button-up shirt underneath it. You would’ve gone full white woman’s Instagram and put on some panty-hoes as well, but Arizona weather is the fucking worst. You knew that it would get hot later even though it was nearing the end of December (in the year 201X), so you ditched the panty-hose and slipped on black ankle boots.

Look at you, so fucking fancy. University life is turning you into a bad bitch who drinks coffee from Dutch Bros and looks out the window so you can seem mysterious and sexy.

You nod at your reflection, looking around your room for a moment to find your small, crossbody purse. Making sure you have everything you need in that bag, you leave swiftly without looking back.

──────

Elliot… had gone ahead before you!!! You just got off the phone with the guy and he had gone up the mountain while waiting for you!

You’ll admit that you were running late by 30 minutes, but only because you grabbed a drink from the store for you both! Granted you drank both of the cold drinks during the ride because you got lost in thought-

Anyway! It’s not unusual for Elliot to go on ahead of you sometimes whether on purpose or accident. You don’t take it personally, you just need to catch up with him. You put your phone in your purse and sled it on before leaving the car. Your poor, poor car. It’s going to break down eventually, you just know it. It’s been through way too much shit, but she’s still running.

You begin walking up the faded trail, definitely a legal and legitimate trail, and not one that you and Elliot made for yourselves because you guys know a good spot up the mountain that is off-limits. Still, you never actually went up the mountain alone before, it was always with Elliot–you never had to really pay attention to where you were going.

This is not falling in your favor at the moment.

It doesn’t help that the sun was rapidly setting already even though it’s only a little after 5 pm. You swear you’re not dumb, your intelligence is just a fucking roller coaster: sometimes it’s REALLY high, and other times it’s embarrassingly low. Not waiting for Elliot to come back down the mountain so he could walk with you back up the mountain is certainly one of your dumber moves in the book.

Not as dumb as that one time you challenged the bouncer at a club to a dance battle to let you in because you forgot your ID at home and couldn’t prove you were 22. No, no, no. You have a full arsenal of moronic things you’ve done in the past. (Spoilers: you did NOT win that dance battle.)

You don’t know how long you’ve been walking up the mountain. You lost the faint trail a while ago and had pulled out your phone’s flashlight to light your way and not trip and eat shit.

“I fucking hate it here…!” You grumble under your breath, “This is the last time I go out on a school night.”

You raise up your flashlight and stop walking. You’re… You seem to be a lot higher than you originally thought. You’re definitely not where you should be. You’re not a professional hiker, or someone who is knowledgeable in nature and crap. But you’ve learned enough to see signs of anything walking through an area, or man-made tracks via the dirt or on the trees. This place hasn’t been touched in a long time.

You turn on your phone to call Elliot, but you don’t have any bars or a signal. Shit. This might be a good time to go back down, but… Ah, you’re a little excited to see where this adventure takes you! You know the ins and outs of this city, and you rarely explore outside the mountainside you and Elliot frequent. You’re going to feel bad about it, but you’re sure Elliot will be fine waiting for you a little longer as you explore this side.

The air is getting colder now, you must’ve misunderstood the weather for today since it’s not usually this cold at this time. Your legs, your beautiful legs, are beginning to feel the consequences of you not wearing an extra layer of clothes. You don’t know how long you’ve been going up, but it was, surprisingly, not as tiring as you thought it would be. You didn’t realize you’d reached the top until the light from the moon was brighter than your phone. You put it back in your purse, smiling and taking a deep breath.

No, this isn’t the very top of the mountain, but a particular summit on this uncharted trail. You notice a strange, large something a few meters from you, but you decide to keep away from it because you’re not white like that. You still want that break though, so you remove your purse from your person and set it down. You lay down on the green grass, staring up at the beautiful stars.

You start humming to yourself, feeling comfortable enough to do so since there shouldn’t be anyone for miles.

“LA la LA laaa,” You grin to yourself, thinking how awkward it’d be if someone was listening, “LA la LA la… La… la. La LA la. LA… La… laaa.”

You keep repeating the same tune, not musically talented enough to make up your own song other than a simple “la-la-la” tune. It’s so peaceful out here, that you kind of wonder if you’re able to take a quick nap-

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

A thorny vine wraps around your right ankle, spiraling up to your calf and digging into your skin to make you bleed.

You’re being dragged by the leg.

“WHAT THE–NO, NO, NO!!”

You dig your fingers into the dirt and grass, trying to grab anything and everything. You’re trying to pull yourself free and resist, you barely managed to reach the straps of your bag and thwack your bag on the vines. Damn you for leaving your knife in the glove department of your car!

As if taking that personally, the vines thicken and tighten around your leg and TUGS you violently.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

Your grip on your purse weakens and you let it go by accident, and the pain is so sudden that you can’t muster the strength to resist anymore. Apparently, that was all the vines needed to drag you closer to the strange something on the ground that you were purposely trying to stay away from. Now that you’re being forced closer to it, you can see that it’s a hugE FUCKING HOLE!

“NO, NO, NO, NO!! STOP, STOP, STOP!!”

The thorny vines do not listen to you, however, because they are vines.

“PLEASE, I SWEAR I’LL FINALLY GO TO CHURCH!!”

Your desperation grows stronger when you can feel your legs begin to hang off an edge–entering the dark pit of this summit. Your own weight is pulling you down and adrenaline is the only reason why you’re able to clutch to the edge of the crater with all your might to not fall-

The vines YANK your right leg, and you fall, down, down, down into the dark hollow of the mountain.

──

“Haa… Ha…”

Your breathing had only just slowed down, and so did your adrenaline. Your voice is soft and meek as if you’re scared to break the silence.

“Ah… What… What the hell just happened…?”

If you didn’t know any better, you would’ve already thought you were completely, royally, and utterly fucked.

[mr-snailman]

just got back from a free concert at the town hall organized by one of our lovely librarians :) it was a guy playing celtic music and he had an autoharp which I’ve never seen before. really beautiful music. reminded me of my grandad, who used to sing Irish songs… or so the family legend goes, anyway. my aunt called and said she’s got a tape. probably my only chance to hear him sing. but all I’ve got is his old tape deck that voraciously eats every tape I put in it. gotta get another, I suppose. i’ve got his busted tape deck, his old Nova Scotia tartan shirt that’s way too big on me still, and his name. sometimes it feels like the whole family is waiting for me to grow into that shirt, into that sense of humor and intelligence. other times I think maybe I already have. I think about it sometimes— if he’d lived, if we’d be on good terms, if I’d be hiding who I am from him. he died before I figured it out, before the elections in 2016. we’ll never know which way he would have voted. sometimes I think I feel him. I hope to god he’s proud.

[noisycowboyglitter]

Kamala Harris Joke Mugs: Funny Gifts for Republicans

The phrase "Funny Anti Kamala Harris Stupid Joke" refers to a category of political humor targeting Vice President Kamala Harris. This type of content often emerges from opposition to Harris's policies, her role in the Biden administration, or her personal characteristics.

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These jokes typically aim to criticize or mock Harris, often exaggerating her mannerisms, speech patterns, or perceived missteps. They may focus on her laugh, which some critics have described as awkward or forced, or reference moments from her political career that her opponents view as embarrassing or contradictory.

It's important to note that humor targeting political figures can be controversial. While some view such jokes as harmless political satire, others may see them as disrespectful, potentially sexist or racist, given Harris's groundbreaking position as the first woman, first Black person, and first person of South Asian descent to become U.S. Vice President.

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The term "stupid" in this context might refer to the nature of the jokes themselves, suggesting they are overly simplistic or lacking in sophisticated humor. Alternatively, it could be part of the criticism aimed at Harris, implying the jokes mock perceived incompetence.

Political humor, including that directed at Harris, often spreads rapidly through social media, memes, and conservative-leaning comedy shows or podcasts. While some find this content entertaining, it's crucial to approach such material critically, considering potential biases and the broader impact of political discourse.

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Ultimately, the prevalence and reception of such jokes reflect the polarized nature of contemporary American politics and the ongoing debates surrounding Harris's role and performance as Vice President.

"American Flag USA Humor" refers to a genre of comedy that playfully engages with American patriotism, culture, and national symbols, particularly the Stars and Stripes. This type of humor often involves witty observations, jokes, or memes that use the American flag as a central theme or visual element.

Such comedy might poke fun at excessive displays of patriotism, American stereotypes, or the country's quirks and contradictions. It can range from gentle ribbing to more pointed satire, reflecting on various aspects of American life and politics.

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Examples might include humorous T-shirt designs featuring distorted flag imagery, jokes about flag etiquette taken to absurd extremes, or memes that juxtapose the flag with unexpected elements of pop culture.

While some may view this humor as irreverent, others see it as a celebration of American values like free speech and the ability to laugh at oneself. As with all political humor, it can be both entertaining and controversial, depending on the audience and context.

[toruandmidori]

We’re midway through the stupidest election of our lives (so far). 

Hide from the noise and disappear into comfy cotton spun nostalgia for what might have been with our iconic range of retro replica presidential campaign logo t-shirts.

Featuring vintage political slogans from historical candidates such as Shirley Chisholm, Joan Jett Blakk and Jesse Jackson.

Great gifts for the political junkie in your life! 

Shop the full range here, individual links below: 

SHIRLEY CHISHOLM FOR PRESIDENT

JOAN JETT BLAKK WANTS YOU!

JESSE JACKSON FOR PRESIDENT

[xtruss]

The Plight of the Political Satirist

How Ruben Bolling, of “Tom the Dancing Bug,” Finds the Humor in a Volatile News Cycle.

— By Sarah Larson | August 29, 2024

Art Works Courtesy Ruben Bolling

Ruben Bolling, who has drawn and written his intricate, incisive, shape-shifting weekly cartoon “Tom the Dancing Bug” for more than three decades, works best under the pressure of a deadline. “Years ago, I decided to lean into it,” he told me recently. Monday is deadline day. On the Saturday just before the R.N.C., where Donald Trump accepted the Republican Party’s nomination for President, Bolling was working on that week’s cartoon: a riff on the Busytown illustrations by the great children’s-book author Richard Scarry, titled “A Busy, Busy Day at the Republican National Convention.” There, instead of townsfolk like Huckle Cat and the gang doing jobs labelled “carpenter,” “street cleaner,” and such, their doppelgängers were in a convention space doing other kinds of work: a fox pushing a wheelbarrow full of cash (“Supreme Court Justice briber”); a reporter (“normalizing media member”) interviewing a cat in a polo shirt and red hat (“actual Nazi”). Later that day, Bolling learned that Trump had been shot at during a rally in Pennsylvania. He took stock of the national mood for a few hours, then revised, adding an N.R.A. booth (“ask me how to get guns”), staffed by a smartly dressed pig with a friendly smile. He’s labelled “political violence preventer.”

Bolling, who has been a Pulitzer Prize finalist twice in the past five years, makes these characters “as cute as possible while they’re doing horrible things,” he said. He’s parodied Scarry before, and the results are reliably sweet and chilling—even as we catalogue the horrors of our times, via cartoon pig and rhino and cat, it’s hard not to feel buoyed by the pleasures of Scarry’s gentle world view. “It’s very typical of a lot of what I do, which is taking older, nostalgic, innocent pieces of art and defiling them by bringing them into the darkest parts of our world,” Bolling said. “I find it’s very effective. And it can be very upsetting to me.”

“Tom the Dancing Bug,” which Bolling began publishing widely in 1990, has always been free-form and vaudevillian from week to week—original characters, recurring parodies and satires, one-offs, a terrific long-running meta-funny-pages gag. His illustration style tends toward a tidy clean-line aesthetic, à la “Tintin,” but it morphs to suit whatever he’s up to: hatched and shaded portrait-style depictions of celebrities and politicians; imitations of other artists; fake ads, posters, and informational broadsides. Early on, Bolling had “Saturday Night Live,” Mad magazine, and “Mr. Show” in mind as inspirations. The strip has become more political over time, especially in recent years, though the past few weeks of U.S. election news—an assassination attempt in one party, the passing of the candidacy torch in the other—has been atypical in its intensity. Like all satirists of our era, Bolling has learned to adapt.

For a long time, he did “the old satirist’s trick of exaggerating what happens and what politicians say and what their policies are,” Bolling told me. “But that didn’t work with Trump, because he was better at it than I was. I couldn’t compete with him in creating his own satire.” Instead, Bolling tends to recontextualize Trump, putting his language into the mouths of comic-strip characters, on propaganda posters, and so on, providing the reader with a fresh jolt of amusement and alarm. In strips from 2020, Bolling, via black-and-white newsreel-style images, juxtaposes the Trumpian response to the pandemic with the bombing of Pearl Harbor, in 1941. “Why should I join up just because a few thousand Americans died in Hawaii?” a potential G.I. asks. “How many Americans die every day in ironing board accidents?” F.D.R., downplaying the crisis, responds to enemy invasions of New York and California with “This is only in two states! I like those numbers! In a couple of days it will be zero!”

Bolling has published several collections of his work; his latest, “ ‘It’s the Great Storm, Tom the Dancing Bug!,’ ” which includes strips published from 2020 to 2023, came out this month. The cover—the U.S. Capitol, a pumpkin patch, silhouettes of rioters under a night sky—references his series “Q-Nuts,” which plays on “Peanuts” and “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.” Bolling tries to resist being cruel to beloved childhood characters, “but my favorite, Linus, I turned into a QAnon nut,” he said. “And that hurt.” In “Peanuts,” Linus faithfully waits each Halloween for the Great Pumpkin, a mythical, unseen figure who delivers candy to believers. “It never happens,” Bolling said. “And he always makes excuses. I realized that’s QAnon.” It was one of his most popular cartoons ever. So was the series “Donald and John: A Boy President and His Imaginary Publicist,” with boy Trump as Calvin and John Barron, the imaginary publicist, as Hobbes. Bill Watterson’s original characters—Calvin, enthusiastic young fantasist and joyful megalomaniac, and Hobbes, slightly more reasonable sidekick—fit beautifully into Bolling’s satirical framework. (In a recent entry, a giant Calvin, outfitted with toy crown, stomps around a ravaged D.C., exclaiming, “It’s good to have immunity!”) Coming up with ideas can be gruelling work, Bolling said, but when he did a daily “Donald and John” online, in 2016, it “was like walking down the path picking blueberries. Every day I was, like, ‘Oh, that’s like when he pretends he’s a dinosaur.’ Everything fell into place.”

Bolling’s Strip Began Publishing in newspapers in the nineties, growing in syndication during the heyday of alt-weekly comics, alongside strips by artists such as Matt Groening, Lynda Barry, Alison Bechdel, and Tony Millionaire. He still publishes in print, though his main readership is now online, and he maintains a robust Patreon community called the Inner Hive.

“Tom the Dancing Bug” originated, somewhat startlingly, in 1986, at Harvard Law School. Bolling had grown up in Short Hills, New Jersey, with his two brothers and his parents. “There was a lot of competing for attention,” he said. He was a stutterer, and wasn’t comfortable telling jokes, but he started drawing comics, filling spiral notebooks with them. He didn’t publish any until after college, when he was attending Harvard Law, and he saw a “cartoonist wanted” ad for the law-school paper. Without that, he said, “I don’t know if I’d be a cartoonist today. The first comic I did was basically exactly what I do now. It was ‘Tom the Dancing Bug.’ I somehow cracked the code immediately.” He collected the strips in a booklet, which he photocopied, stapled, and sold at the Harvard Coop. “They would sell out,” he said. “I kept on going to the copy store and making more. That was gratifying.” He sold his first comic to National Lampoon, whose cartoon editor was Sam Gross, the late and beloved longtime New Yorker cartoonist. (“Sam called me into his office, and he starts yelling at me: ‘What are you doing? There’s three ideas in this comic. Go home, make it three different comics, and I’ll buy all three.’ ”) While working as an attorney, Bolling began self-syndicating the comic, and a few years later, by then working in financial services, he signed a deal with Andrews McMeel, which has syndicated the strip ever since. For many years, he had a double life as a white-collar professional and a cartoonist. (He also has two names: his cartooning pen name and his real name, Ken Fisher.) He lives in Manhattan with his wife, they have three grown children, and, these days, he is just a cartoonist.

In the nineties, “Tom the Dancing Bug” felt like a quietly thrilling revelation, beloved by many but never a household name. Bolling seemed to tease all of pop culture, much of human nature, and comics history at once, always with sensitivity and an eye for the subtly absurd. (See Shluff, the giant, fuzzy alien who visits Earth to nap.) Alongside recurring characters like God-Man, the Superhero with Omnipotent Powers, and Louis Maltby, boy introvert, there was “The Adventures of Sam Roland, the Detective Who Dies,” in which our trenchcoated private eye would get an exciting assignment, like “The Case of the Fuchsia Parrot,” run into trouble, such as a scheming butler (“In one minute, water will come flowing into this chamber, drowning you like a rat!”), try to make a heroic escape (“If I can just loosen these ropes!”), fail, and die. (“Another case left unsolved by Sam Roland, the Detective Who Dies!”) The endlessly brilliant and enjoyable “Super Fun-Pak Comix,” then and now, parodies specific genres (“Marital Mirth,” “Beltway Banalities”), genre conventions (“Too Many Panels Comics”), and whatever else Bolling feels like laughing about (“Tom Cruise & Xenu,” “Percival Dunwoody, Idiot Time Traveler from 1909”).

Bolling says that 9/11 was a turning point for the strip. “It was almost, like, ‘Can anything ever be funny ever again? Is this real?’ ” He landed on the idea of a “Super Fun-Pak Comix” in which each punch line, no matter the jokey setup, was “Terrorists destroyed the World Trade Center, killing thousands.” “I was crying when I was drawing it,” Bolling said. In the long march of grim news that followed, Bolling’s work continued to reflect political reality, and found humor and pathos everywhere. Nate the Neoconservative came along, as did Lucky Ducky, “the Poor Little Duck Who’s Rich in Luck,” who enrages his wealthy nemesis by being poor and getting all the breaks, and Chagrin Falls, where life is getting a little worse each day for the average American. Bolling’s Scarry cartoons, though, in their perfect blend of innocence, humor, and pain—see “Richard Scarry’s Busy, Busy 21st Century Classroom”—may hit the hardest. “I still get very affected by this,” Bolling said. “My job is to appear cavalier and above it, but when I’m writing and I’m drawing, I’m definitely not. It’s very difficult.”

I asked Bolling why the comic is called “Tom the Dancing Bug.” One day in class at law school, he said, “my friend had gotten a bug on his pen, and he was swivelling the pen. The bug was moving its legs to stay on top, back and forth. And I said, ‘That’s Tom the Dancing Bug.’ ” That night, he submitted his first strip to the paper. A purist, he didn’t want it to have a title—it would be wholly different each week—but the paper insisted. “So I thought of the stupidest name I could think of, and I named it ‘Tom the Dancing Bug,’ in retaliation,” he said. “But I remember riding my bike home afterward thinking, I actually like that.”

“This is horrible, but I feel like we’re all kind of Tom the Dancing Bug, trying to stay on the pen when some unseen force is trying to shake us off,” I said.

“An existentialist way of looking at it,” he said. “I didn’t think that deeply.” He’d seen himself as the bug: “trying my hardest and sweating, dancing for your amusement.” ♦

[queerstuffonscreen]

Queer as Folk US (2000-2005)

Episode length: 44-58 min.

Country: USA

Genre: Drama

Language: English

Brash humor and genuine emotion make up this series revolving around the lives, loves, ambitions, careers and friendships of a group of gay men and women living on Liberty Avenue in contemporary Pittsburgh, PA.

Season 1

Episode 1: Premiere

Episode 2: Queer, There and Everywhere

Episode 3: No Bris, No Shirt, No Service

Episode 4: Ted's Not Dead

Episode 5: Now Approaching… The Line

Episode 6: The Art of Desperation

Episode 7: Smells Like Codependence

Episode 8: Babylon Boomerang

Episode 9: Daddy Dearest (Sonny Boy)

Episode 10: Queens of the Road

Episode 11: Surprise!

Episode 12: Move It or Lose It

Episode 13: Very Stupid People

Episode 14: A Change of Heart

Episode 15: The Ties That Bind

Episode 16: French Fried

Episode 17: Solution (How TLFKAM Got Her Name Back)

Episode 18: Surprise Kill

Episode 19: Good Grief!

Episode 20: The King of Babylon

Episode 21: Running to Stand Still

Episode 22: Full Circle

Season 2

Episode 1: Home is Where the Ass Is

Episode 2: All Better Now

Episode 3: Hypocrisy: Don't Do It

Episode 4: Pride

Episode 5: …Wherever That Dream May Lead You

Episode 6: Mixed Blessings

Episode 7: The Leper (Hath the Babe Not Eyes?)

Episode 8: Love for Sale

Episode 9: Accentuate the Positive

Episode 10: Priorities, Please! (Beat the Time)

Episode 11: The Wedding

Episode 12: One Degree of Brian Kinney

Episode 13: It's Because I'm Gay, Right?

Episode 14: The Dangers of Sex and Drugs

Episode 15: Rage Against This Machine

Episode 16: You Say it's Your Birthday! I Couldn't Care Less!

Episode 17: You Can Leda Girl to Pussy

Episode 18: Sick, Sick, Sick

Episode 19: Bowling for Equality

Episode 20: Out With a Whimper

Season 3

Episode 1: Mad Dog Kinney

Episode 2: House Full of Children

Episode 3: Doctors of Dickology

Episode 4: Brat-Sitting

Episode 5: There's Nothing Noble about Being Poor

Episode 6: One Ring to Rule Them All

Episode 7: Stop Hurting Us

Episode 8: Hunt(er) For Love

Episode 9: Big Fucking Mouth

Episode 10: Uncle Ben

Episode 11: Poster May Lead to the Truth

Episode 12: Drugs, Sex and Lies

Episode 13: Tweaked-Out, Fucked-Out Crystal Queen

Episode 14: The Election

Season 4

Episode 1: Just a Little Help

Episode 2: Stand Up for Ourselves

Episode 3: Starting a Whole New Life

Episode 4: Escalating Violence

Episode 5: How Far You Can Go

Episode 6: Death in the Family

Episode 7: Preponderance of Death

Episode 8: Two Kinds of Lies

Episode 9: Have Some Balls

Episode 10: The Snake in Paradise

Episode 11: Gay or Straight? That's the Question

Episode 12: Irritation and Separation

Episode 13: Proposal of Two Kinds

Episode 14: Liberty Ride

Season 5

Episode 1: Move and Leave

Episode 2: Back in Business

Episode 3: Fags are No Different than People

Episode 4: Hard Decisions

Episode 5: Excluding and Abstemiousness

Episode 6: Bored Out of Ya Fucking Mind

Episode 7: Hope Against Hope

Episode 8: Honest to Yourself

Episode 9: Anything in Common

Episode 10: I Love You

Episode 11: Fuckin' Revenge

Episode 12: Mr. Right (Never Broke a Promise)

Episode 13: We Will Survive!

Watch on FuboTV

[the-hinky-panda]

The Florist: Part III

The Florist: Part III

@seltsamkind​ come and get your man. He’s being a distraction. 

You have been in love with your neighbor from the first day you laid eyes on him. 

Your mother had been recovering from a sprained ankle and you were bringing by a clipping of a caladium to add to the growing collection of plants on the back patio. Your mother was spending more and more time out there since she couldn’t spend her time in the garden so you were trying to make the space as comfortable as possible for her. She was touching the delicate white leaves of the plant when she asked the question that changed your life. 

“Have you met the new neighbors down the street?” 

“Not yet, Mama. Are they nice?” 

“Very. The wife, Ana, stopped by with some empanadas and cookies. How she had time to make them is beyond me with a one year old and another on the way.” 

You had tried to not take the comment personally. Your mother was very traditional and believed you should have been at least married by now, tending to a husband and not orchids, nurturing children and not roses. “What does her husband do?” 

“He works for the government, I’m not sure exactly.” She sighs. “He’s very quiet.” 

You had laughed lightly as you sprayed down the ferns hanging in the corner of the sunroom. “A quiet politician. We could use more of those.” 

Your mother had clucked her tongue in disapproval at your comment. But as you were leaving, you promised to return the dishes that had been used for the empanadas and cookies. It was César who answered the door and your life had never been the same. As unbelievable as it sounded, it was like being struck by lightning: a flash of light so blinding and an immense amount of energy being shoved into your veins. His chocolate eyes were sharp, intelligent, but kind. There was a cheeky sense of humor in the small twist of his smile and you had never felt the urge to kiss someone so strongly before. 

Then your common sense returned. He was married with one child and a pregnant wife. He was a politician or at least was aspiring to be one and that life was too public for your private personality. But that didn’t stop you from trying to commit his slender frame, the roll of his shirt sleeves over his forearms, and the soft look of his thick black hair to memory. 

Over the next year, you frequently ran into the Gaviria family when you came to visit your parents. Ana asked for help with drooping plants and where was the best spot to put bougainvillea in the backyard. César would, on occasion, come out of his office with a book in his hand and you would discuss literature. You never considered yourself a “baby person” but holding the rapidly growing little boy and then the newly arrived baby girl never seemed like a forced effort. They truly were a lovely family. 

It was two years later, Holy Week was approaching and the floral shop was getting ready to close for the long weekend. It was that Wednesday when César stopped in for an Easter bouquet to take home. He looked tired but excited so you had asked him about his job. He had leaned over the counter, whispering a secret that even Ana didn’t know yet: Galán had asked him to be his campaign manager for the Presidential election. 

Despite your inventory being extremely low from all the other Easter arrangements that had been made, you went out to the back of the shop and cut fresh flowers from your personal source in honor of the occasion. You made the arrangement yourself: white lilies, pale pink roses, green tinged hydrangeas, with sprigs of blue thistle. Since it was the end of the day, you didn’t charge him, saying it was just a gift for a kind neighbor on this special holiday. He in turn invited you and your parents over for dinner on Good Friday. 

That was how it started, the four year long painful friendship you and César now share. He was like a thorn that you kept pricking your fingers on, drawing blood and tears at times. You were convinced though that he saw you as just a friend, a companion, with shared interests in books and quiet solitude. You never once thought that his feelings carried the same underlying heat that yours did. That perhaps, when he looked at your face, he wanted to kiss that slight upcurl of a smirk from your lips. 

You never allowed yourself to think about that until the night he fell asleep against you. He had been so relaxed, taking deep full breaths as he slept. You remembered the way his fingers curled against your sides when you ran your fingers through his hair. You could feel the desperation of just wanting to be close to someone, to feel safe with another person. It is the same thing you want. And despite having met multiple potential suitors over the years, none gave you that knife’s edge balance of thrill and calm that César provided. 

So you continued with your life, trying to learn to be content with friendship and nothing more. To just enjoy the conversations you shared post holiday meals about the books you’ve read. But then he became President and moved out of the neighborhood just a year after you lost your parents and moved into their house. You would frequently find yourself staring at the darkened windows and locked doors of the Gaviria home forlornly. What if he never came back? You just couldn’t bear that thought. You would rather harbor this secret love and maintain his friendship than not have him at all in your life. 

Then the explosion happened. A gas leak, the news is reporting. But it doesn’t matter what the cause, the result is the same. The shop is lost. Your family’s legacy is buried under dust, ash, and rubble. And just when you think you can manage the thought of the rebuild, César walks through your hospital room door. It’s just a different kind of knife twist in your heart. He offers comfort, slips his hand into yours and it just becomes too much. You want to crawl into his arms, curl up against his chest, tuck your head his chin and never move again. But you can’t. You can only put on a brave face, crack a joke instead of your facade, and keep repeating the mantra that you have had for the last four years. 

He’s not yours to have. 

***

César Gaviria is a man of his word. 

When you are helped out of the medical transport vehicle, he makes sure you are greeted by Eduardo Sandoval and himself. The driver and nurse are so stunned at your elite welcome committee that they almost forget to assist you up the front steps. He doesn't blame them in the least as even you’re a little surprised to see the President and Vice Minister of Justice waiting on your front porch. 

Eduardo takes the bag of bandages and medications while César takes your arm. Even that simple touch gives him some grounding, some balance to his topsy-turvy world. He makes sure to keep his hands on your arms, remembering the massive blanket of gauze that covered your back in the hospital. He doesn’t want to add to your pain even if all he wants to do is hold you close, protect you. 

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. 

His reason for showing up is two-fold. One, he said he would be here. His second reason is less straightforward. Ana’s question had plagued him ever since the words had left her mouth. How long have you been in love with her?  Despite a few restless nights, he is no closer to an answer. But he wants one, he wants to know when friendship crossed into new, more dangerous, territory. 

You hand the key to Eduardo, who opens the front door for you and César to pass through. The home hasn’t changed hardly at all since he was last there almost two years ago. Bright sunlight filters through the large front windows into an office on the left and a sitting room on the right. It’s when he passes through the kitchen that the answer to his question hits him square in the face. 

Two years. 

He’s been in love with you for two years. 

The day had been long. The outpouring of grief, immense. Your parents were well loved and respected in the community and the community made sure you knew that. But with a crowd that size, came a long line of mourners parading through your home to pay their respects. 

It had been a senseless accident. A drunk driver speeding through a red light and two pillars of Bogota killed instantly. It was so unnecessary. César watched you the entire day, stoic and in shock. It had been almost ten at night, a full twelve hours after the burial, and people were still saying their condolences to you. Ana had taken the two kids back to their house to put them to bed while he stayed to make sure everything was locked and safe after the last mourner left.  

It was after midnight when the last person exited and he locked the door behind them. He was closing the curtains in the front parlor when he heard a crash from the kitchen. By the time he made it there, you were kneeling on the floor, trying to pick up a smashed dish with bloodied hands, tears staining your cheeks. 

“Stop,” he reached out and tried to grab your hands. You were still gripping shards of the broken plate and he gently shook your wrists until the pieces dropped back to the floor. “Here, come here.” 

You allowed yourself to be led over to the sink as he turned on the water to run over your hands. The red disappeared quickly and he found the culprit was just a minor cut to your thumb. He patted the cut dry and wrapped the dish towel around the cut. Your eyes cut back to the broken dish.

“That was my mother’s favorite dish.” 

Fresh tears started to fall, the pressure of grief and exhaustion too much for you. When you moved back towards the broken plate, he didn’t even think about what to do. It was a moment that was ruled completely by instinct. He wrapped his arms around you, pulled you close to him and held you as tight as he could. Sobs wracked your small frame as you buried your face against his neck. He just held you close until you calmed, slumped against him, worn out by the emotions. 

At that moment, the oddest thing happened. It was like reality bent and he had a glimpse into a future, possibly his future. It was no longer your kitchen but his as well. His kids weren’t two houses down, just one floor above him. That was when he realized, on some level, that this was where he belonged. 

He belonged with you. 

He can’t believe it’s taken him this long to realize who the love of his life happens to be. That things like a love of a lifetime even exist. That this friendship that he has treasured for so long has been much more than just platonic. He watches as Eduardo shows you all the plants that had been salvaged from the shop, watches you touch each leaf and blossom with whisper soft glances of your fingertips. How have you survived so much loss, so much pain, and still move forward? 

How can he pile another weight onto your already wounded shoulders? 

Before he can change his mind, Eduardo guides you to a chair, makes you comfortable and practically pushes him into the chair next to yours before excusing himself and disappearing back into the house. This is the plan that had been decided on before your arrival home. César now has exactly thirty minutes to confess this new found realization to you and see how you react. It’s quite possible that you don’t even feel anything other than friendship towards him. This could all be in his head, a complete misunderstanding-

“César?” 

His head snaps up and over to you. “Yes?” 

“Are you alright?” 

He smiles nervously. “I should be asking you that.” 

You start to lean back against the wicker chair but then change your mind, leaning into the side of it. “I really appreciate you and Vice Minister Sandoval coming to welcome me home.” 

“I told you I would be here.” 

You nod once, almost solemnly, before staring down at your shoes. “How is Ana?” 

He’s a politician and picks up on the unasked question that underlies your actual one. Why is she not here? Why is it Eduardo and not her in your home? He couldn’t ask for a better opening but fear causes him to fumble for his words. “Ana is fine. She is…” 

You sigh heavily. “She’s angry at me. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not you that she's angry with.” It hadn’t been true a few days ago. Ana had been angry, first at him, then at you, and then at him again. But something had changed in the last twenty-four hours. She had come to some sort of acceptance that the situation had been out of her control, out of yours and his control as well. Something had reminded her that no one has the power to choose who they fall in love with. And after a few days of contemplating and re-examining the past, she had come to the conclusion that César had reiterated to her: nothing had actually happened between you and him. That knowledge had opened up the door for the discussion of how to move forward. 

You groan softly and drop your head into your hand. “Oh God. I am so sorry-” 

“No, you do not apologize for anything.” He reaches over and pulls your hand away from your face, keeping a tight grip on your fingers. “Ana is…mostly past the anger stage now.” 

Your eyes are laser focused on your entwined hands. “And you? Are you angry at me?” 

At first he thinks you’re making a joke but he sees the serious set to your jaw, the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. “Why would I be angry at you?” He takes a deep breath. “I love you.” 

“You’re making fun of me.” You stand up and try to pull your hand away from him but he stands too and he holds firm. 

“Why would I do that?” He pulls you closer to him, cupping the side of your face and using his thumb to wipe away a stray tear. “Why would I risk showing up to your home just to poke fun at you? When have you known me to be capable of such a thing?”  

When you finally look at him, your eyes are so full of cautious hope it makes his heart physically hurt in his chest. “You really do…you really do love me?” 

“I do.” 

“This isn’t just some pain pill induced dream I’m having?” 

“No, this is very real.” 

“Maybe I died in the explosion.” 

“You are very much alive.” 

For the briefest of moments, you smile with such an amount of joy it’s almost blinding but worry quickly takes over your countenance. “Wait, what does this mean? You’re married. You're the president of the entire country. We can’t…” Defeat comes back over you. “We can’t.” 

He runs his fingers over the ridge of your cheekbones, the curve of your jaw, the line of your nose and you don’t shy away from him. If anything, you lean slightly into his touch. All of this new territory to learn that is now available to him. But you’ve made a good point, a point that Ana made as well when she finally discussed the outcome of the situation with him. “No, we can’t. Not yet, anyway.” 

“But what about Ana?” 

You’re swaying on your feet, still tired from the healing process, so he maneuvers you back into your chair. He drags the other chair closer to you so he can still keep hold of your hand. These quiet, private moments are going to be few and very far between so he wants to make the most of it. He tries to recap the hours-long conversation he and Ana had the previous night into the bare necessities. “Ana wants to be, is very good at being, a politician’s wife. And once my term is over, I don’t want to be a politician anymore. She’s looking into going back to the United States to get a degree in political science, maybe become a politician herself. But no matter what she decides to do, our paths are going to diverge from each other in three years.” 

“And what do you want to be?” 

Had you asked him that a few days ago, he wouldn’t have an answer. Now he does. “At peace.” He motions to the plants that surround you both. “And I find peace here, with you. I’ve always been able to breathe when I’m around you. Whenever I feel the need to find my center in the chaos, this is where I want to come.”

“Plants have that effect on you.” 

“You have that effect on me.”  

You duck your head, trying to hide the pleased smile that crosses your face. “I always feel like I’m home when you’re around, like I finally belong in whatever space I find myself in, as long as you’re there.” You squeeze his hand.  “I do love you too.” 

He doesn’t get his hopes up just yet. The hardest part of the conversation hasn’t been done. “Here’s the issue we face right now though. The media, the news, anyone who is looking to discredit my presidency, will not hesitate to drag you into the spotlight. They won’t care if what they’re reporting is right or wrong. We can’t do anything, be seen together, until my term is over in three years.” 

You nod in agreement. “Three years. Okay.” 

You agree to it so quickly, he feels the need to make sure you understand the situation. “You can wait three years? For me? For this to be over?” 

You smile knowingly at him. “I've been waiting for you for four years without any hope of you even noticing me. I think I can wait for three years with hope now.”

[loiutui]

Official This Is My Christmas Penn State Nittany Lions 2024 T Shirt

Here’s a description for the Make Christmas Great Again Funny Santa Trump 2024 Election Design Shirt with the link included:

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