#GRAFT

[allcatsconstitutethesamefamily]

Source details and larger version.

My collection of vintage political cartoons.

[cipheramnesia]

Graft

In my rest time between one novel and the next I'm enjoying myself making a little spun sugar story about a cyberpunk pussy heist. It's meandering and heavy on imaginary slang but it's fun for me so here is the first half or third or so of it

First thing DeeDee noticed, her usual morning orgasm, or "morgasm," hadn't gone off.

She was late, and splashers crowded her A/V specs, screaming flashing neon yellow red blue promises, 10 water rat guaranteed each spin, stop here twenty percent off premium-vu, act now to get free oxy-sub, plus about fifteen past due blasters for her leg mods, dayclix, manudex upgrade, face plate, other parts. She could see a narrow sliver of her room through the MAds, and she had a scrips balance lockout from the cockout. Groaning with irritation, clawed her way off the cot to the 12-key hardline, unfolded her tongue socket and jammed the bcomp line in, clattering the set in frustration.

Half the blasters, most of the splashers dipped. She got back audio and waist downs and rolled. "Whoooo turned my hot shots off? Who left the wallEMP off!" Micro drones winged around the room popping ad spray and sonics, a few were clamped on her with other past due notes. "Water ration overdue, water ration exceeded" circled her biomech cat ears. Swatted a two or three, fell on the wall switch to jam on the Flyswatter. DeeDee figured a couple hundred overall went pop, trailed smoke down. Ad dust everywhere from the spray. One was on her face?

"I'm not best pleased!" she said to no one, expressing her displeasure. Swept dust and drone crumbs with her feet to space clear in her studio apartment slash office slash workspace slash bedroom slash kitchen, and crashed on the deskchair, slapping dpatches along her limbs and a compstik into her faceboard. "No hotshot no swatter, noncon facejacked?" She untangled her hair from the ecb-plugs on her face tech and grabbed her digiplate because she was slumming it, pouted while the scrips and drips that got dug into her software and hardware ate the big edit to the sky.

While she was waiting around for the MAds and spamware scan [MAdaSS], she finally got to look over the C-Clamp chastity boot locked to her pelvic slot with optional NoPro (tm) insert for prostate denial. "What's this horseshit, who did I fuck last night?" DeeDee did not know what horses were, she imagined they were a kind of bird. Pinged out for her custom built EX neurosynth neovag and got fuckall, which pissed her because the whole point was fuck all.

One by one her debuggers chirped, hopped onto her palm, drawered em, and slapped her basic as fuck face of the day on. Blessed she was with pristine sight of the world, not a nagnote or payscram in sight, just vext message notes, siggies, and a small alarm bell. "Shit, better get to work!"

Shoved cargo shorts over her cock locked personal pleasure slot, work boots, tanktop ("Asparagus for President" it said, from the infamous three way sudden death vote-off of '76), and jammed her comxcon into a free arm port before she flipped the sign to open at her door. "Gosh that was close, any customers?" She looked, a khakicollar dude held up a laptop plaintive, "My browser won't-" DeeDee slammed the door, "No customers! Another perfect day, hang up." Vext notes blinked aside for serious business now. She threw her shorts off. "Time to get outta this contraptamajig."

One angle grinder, one band saw blow torch, three axes, twelve hammers, and eighteen screwdrivers later DeeDee fucked her way through one after the other, even tried to plink the code. All this pouding and plethora of penetrarive pelvic parts frustrated her to rolling her bedsheets into her crotch and grinding on the best metal chastity could buy. She drooled all over her aching synthezized nerve spots, "fuck me I can't even cum, what's wrong with the world these days?"

Vexts, vexts, she clicked the note up it said: ANSWER YOUR CALLS and >:( >:( >:( >:(

The incoming piddy was the UNKNOWN ID scrap, she dropped a spam cage on it and replied 8===D~~~ GFYS and binned it mid-[... is typing]

Fuck fuckity fuck work, DeeDee needed some downtown deep sea diving. She climbed out the window, being more reliable than stairs or elevator. Nothing worked in the damn building except gravity.

Short and sweet broke beat sidewalk street, she hit so many concrete cracks, DeeDee figured the local maternity wards had to be a massacre. A couple dozen micros blasted ad spray and sonics, she flipped a bug zapper and swept em. Ads were going old school, nanoswarms warred over wallspace in constant barage of microsensors, hurling rainbow swirls that paced over the odd window and traffic signal promising six months free tubespace per dayclix.

ANSWER YOUR CALLS RIGHT NOW 😡😡😡😡

"Oh fancy fucks spending on the megs per pixel now?" DeeDee spamcanned again (GFYS) and freeloaded on a driverless with a buncha other local goons. "Hey ratbot, you headin to the VFW too?"

"It's a coffee barrr, Draftie," he replied. DeeDee called him ratbot because he was a planned obsolescence warbot with artificial intelligence generated by a rat brain daisy chain, real preschooler level tech these days but cheap and easy at the time and twice as disposable as a human soldier. "And for the last time my name is Wendell. Wendell Crawford."

She still didn't know why he had a Boston accent, the whole city had been totalled in the second Great Mega Pileup Traffic Jam six years before the manufacturer date on his tread guards. He called her Draftie because her legal name was Draft Dodger due to a mistake in one of her prison ID cards. "C'mon, it's Morca's."

"Ignore her, babe," Bobby, ratbot's partner, tugged him a fraction of an inch away on the driverless rooftop. Legally speaking Bobby was Wendell's owner because the corporate manufacture-state that made him refused to recognize his personhood. Morca's owner, SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE, had been helping with their legal battle, but they hadn't made much progress. Total bullshit, DeeDee thought but last big corplex suit against SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE made em keep her in life support parts forever, cleared out all mines from international waters, and her entire species were considered a recognized nation encompassing all oceans on Earth. Did great things for the environment, terrible for the war business.

They hopped at the block, batted some more ad spray and DeeDee knocked some local splashers with the hotshot, enjoyed watching ratbot snap micros in half with his plastic fingers, inhuman accuracy, "Still got it babe," said Bobby, hugging his blocky arms.

They pushed through the big, rocketproofed front doors under a blinking neon "Morcha Latte" sign, inside was all plastic and vulcanized rubber with DV light and fake windows to make the warehouse sized bunker building feel cozy. SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE claimed it was stress tested up to three directs from sunburst corebuster and who was going to argue with a two storey cyborg?

The overheads churned out the latest scrape40, whatever they were listening to at the bottom of the ocean, today DeeDee thought it sounded like angry plinko machines fighting while she caught lyrics she understood in bits and pieces, "Strangle me, strangle all my life, drag us through the silt and kill in the light," or something like that. She was a regular at Morca's because she got SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE all her jailbroken subscription free parts - sourcing and scouring unclocked mods and squids was her gig anyway. She dumped her ass into a rickety old carbon fiber woven chair between the door and the juke wall. A bunch of hipsters had early adopted save to disc memory uploads but went with vinyl to capture the true soul, now they spent all day slotted into the giant juke machine with impulse fed nerve endings bathed in chemically sterilized vats of coffee.

DeeDee unzipped her shorts and capped the chastity blocker. ARE U SEEING THIS? vexted to Portland. They knew all the high mods, probably could crack her case, she thought, right before let's just say a jolt, a singing high note, transported her from crotch to sternum then dropped her cold. Half a sec from climax, she looked around the room her digiplate all 0_0 not finding a shred of note, til the second song struck her off her seat and got her writhing on the rubber. Customers at the other tables lifted cups and rekeyed their MAdaSSes to tune her out.

"Hot pants!" she yelled, "Liar pants, falsehoods and flame!" Real old gen VR heads turned in annoyance as she pirouetted through tables and rattled silverware clung to the espresso countertop. Her legs kicked about in frustration as she got edged up and dropped. "H-hey Velllma, mind if I borrow the steamer a hot sec?"

"Sure DeeDee, you know you only gotta ask hun. Want-want s-some sug- Sorry, still got that old tick." Velma was a self-operated point of sale holodrone who DeeDee had jacked, glassed, and juiced to someone more independent for handling orders at Morca's, and she'd done a recent SRS download to her visual interface.

"You're the best Vel." Few seconds later DeeDee steamed her crotch full blast trying to bust herself free or bust herself off.

ANSWER YOUR CALLS NOW OR YOU'LL NEVER CUM AGAIN, BITCH

She slipped off the espresso machine and answered from the floor with her feet still resting against the countertop. "Who are you, and what was the safe word? Last night's a blur."

"No safeword. We have your cunt. Meet at the bench, corner of Morgan Stanley Park Avenue and Kern Holding Street. Alone, one hour."

It was one thing to jailbreak, but DeeDee knew her limits and line trace was one so she snagged and bagged the pins and held a little inside sacrifice to Portland, the premier polymath polycule who surgically interconnected their brains inside a single body to share one another for life. One bit of Portland code gold and she'd be swimming in pussy. "You're on the floor, DeeDee," reminded Velma.

"This is my thinking space, hush up while I ponder the infinite." She could a couple a SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE's legs pacing, shaking the floor, could catch a word back in the beyond warehouse room where a couple cracked up Kilowais were chattering out notation and legal docstacks for Flathead Ford. The Kilowais, KBW trademarked AI, were way old corpsec, patented and trademarked download of a heavy hitter bandsaw from his day, couldn't be pirated off the base personality unless they morally agreed to void their warranty, lots in the circ. Ford was SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE's lawyer, fighting the landslide for ratbot on the orca's tab.

PORTLAND WILL SEE YOU NOW, DeeDee flixed over from the viz to the vurt. "Are you still thinking dear?" Velma asked, pointedly moving her legs to start espresso dripping, DeeDee assumed the obvious silently as penance. "How's it hanging y'all, got any hot new brains to hook into the juice party?" Loaded upside down in the polygon pleather chair, Portland ran clix and adspace in a tasteful wall scroll, kind of an art to the exploit, less brute force than DeeDee's prefs, the smooth outer chassis for Portland said "I'm punching out in a minute."

They were an individualized amalgamation of three physical brains psychosurgically visected into one another, enabled to a custom body and lifetime committed to singulamory. "I'm cock locked out, Port, listen," DeeDee shoved two fingers to her mouth and slathered her togue along them for a sensiosync to the cursed crotch clamp. Portland's digits ghosted through the stats, pulled em and vexted. "What's the damage, how much and how soon?"

"Custom work, charming darling." Portland leaned their trilateral symmetric body back, waved away the middle and spread up DeeDee's alt, nerves and all. "Fused the long way up your spinal cord. Biolocked, meat stuff. Not our forte, darling, and you couldn't afford it if it was." Portland sighed, overcome with vaporous boredom. "Even if we knew the lockout, custom viropicks run more than your last ten years income, pussycat."

"Fuck my life, stay outta my taxes, gimme something at least." DeeDee yanked her slobbered fingers out.

"It's good work, better than you're ever worth, and I'd know - I sourced half your body."

"One third but whatever."

"The good news is, you'll probably not get spinal meningitis from the lockout, just don't leave it too long." DeeDee punched out and heaved a floor heavy sigh. "Guess I really better go make that meet, or I could desperately call everyone I know and owe." After desperately calling everyone she knew, DeeDee said, >:( to the ceiling, "I guess I'm going to the meet with these mysterious pussy theives. I spent good money on that cunt too!"

"How's that search going," Velma stood between DeeDee's legs and frothed artificially thickened protein strings for someone's café au lait.

"Velma... Velma, have I been karmically centered would you say? Have the scales of justice been tipped cruelly against me, the most innocent of girls? Would you walk on me for twenty bucks?"

So Velma kicked off her shoes but not even getting used as a doormat got her off the edge, then SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE looked through her office door.

"Velma, put your shoes on, DeeDee leave your shirt off and pay Velma another twenty." The average AlTrek 4X Infrantry Multiplier AC was rusting out in uninhabitable desert to the beat of radioactive decay, major outliers were in use for specialized valet parking and the life support framework for SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE, approximately 1/3 of an orca left over from an underwater mine in a corpwar trading route blow up.

No one argues with two tons of whale who already won a fight with the government and the major corptrade conglomerate general council strapped inside another 12 odd tons of mechanized power, DeeDee tucked her shirt behind her head and hoped someone around here appreciated her tits. >:0 "These are pristine, you jackoffs, classic CW models, OEM to spec!" She shoved them in the direction of the tables, no one looked.

"Dee." Flathead beckoned, DeeDee called to the beck and slashed backwards on a metal chair. "You're keyed up to vandal, girl. Listen, need a filter swap for my client. Upgrade the whole box if you can scratch it up, figure me?"

"Square it with me, Ford, my tits still hot?" (*´_`) She leaned way in, specced the side-eye from SCREE Chirt-Chirt ascending EEE through the tanktint windows, right figure whales are mammals too.

Flathead's oily eyes under that heavybrowed custom lawframe job in his skull slid along DeeDee, back to her digital pleading @_@ and shrugged. "You know I don't do organic."

"Fuck! I'm-" She pulled her shirt down. "I'm late, I'll hustle up a nextgen, usual rate."

"Sure sure. Clean it, client says this one makes everything taste like hot dogs."

"How's she know what a hot dog tastes like even where'd she get..." DeeDee vocalled on the downlow out the side office door, left ratbot and Bobby hankin paperwork in whatever new angle Ford was playing at. Color searing eyes blasted the world round her with sound again. Splasher and flasher swarmed the Mocra doors hungrily.

DeeDee swiped onto a delivery drone blowing down the sidewalk, vanished in a cloud of disintegrating adspray and splasher dust. Clix and spinners streaked her A/V edge while she fingerbanged the tamperfree(tm) deep into the loving waiting GPS and flushed it. Kern Holding halved the ad sprays, stuck her on a halfsec blind wait to cycle over the MAdaSS.

Didn't look half priced up over the viz, real park space and algea tanks, plastic green, trueviz rooftop boards and splashers all reigned in. Not many places scratched up enough to pay for gray but Kern and Morgan Stanely did. "Fuck where's this guy." Hustle and crowd pressed close round the bench powerbricks, all these droners worked virtual right on the walkway.

Coats slid up too personal in a curl, this guy has legs on legs and teeth like insect legs, curling open near DeeDee's whimsical cat-ear mods. "Let's private" it skittered those fine metal teeth to her mask glass, and made her go all >.<; with each word. "Whatever." She wrapped digits round multisegment hands and clasped private-public lines, perfect prophylactic for keeping conversing on the hush-hush without a fatal social disease.

"Why the cold brush, kittykat, doncha trust much," it thrummed in silk smooth inside sounds around the wire.

"Don't test my taps, snatcherino," she dropped an icicle hiss down the line. Hand in hand and out for a stroll through the walking workdead and high class bluemaroon adspray of the other side.

"Fair enough kitty, coulda had more playtime." It was wrapped up head to toe other than the segments in her hand and legs slipped in between bandages on its head. "Giving you a hot tip, fresh filter refurb, ex-corp sub and modded for ox, great deal for you. Free and install formatted."

"Real bargain bin I spec."

"No clones, no rebadge. I'll drop the pickup, all you do is courier like a good girl. No messing, no poking the drivers and wares, from your hands to the orca, and forget we talked. That's all." A ripple of excitement went through the walking workdead, furiously chattering through corp trades.

"Figure that filter's plenty safe. Figure that's why all the cloak n bullshit pussy snatching. Pure charity, no?"

"Trust, nothing's on your hands after this and you go back to nightly custom fingerbangs." Twenty insect legs curled around the cuff of its coat and withdrew.

"Might run this up a few contacts first."

"Might drop your filthy cunt in sulfuric acid if you do, clear enough."

"Distilled, fine, hit me with the deets."

Deet dusted, connect busted, DeeDee blew bowed kisses with fuck off finger flourishes while she walk backwards up an exec driverless, scuffing up the ten cent gloss on a two cent primer dip. Rolled with the high rollers through the Red Riser strip. She cut through the Whipping Whirlpool, high stakes operator she cut some autonomics for - head/body gamblers all got off on taking a chance on having their bodies wired in to fuck off enough debt to reattach their heads, double or nothing down to win a brand new model. Not a sale or soul DeeDee made, her personal opinion but no judgment. Slipped out the back door after a little slap and tickle pass through.

The back alley cut between WW and topline exec condoslugs, custom body stim tubes for a full home holistic virtual life, and the whole alley was packed with nimbyronment sentiels. Rained here so no one else got wet, wastecycle rats and sewer filters crowded up and down the black wet brick. DeeDee stepped live around the hyperaggro antipestation roachhives then out to the big blaze - adcolor burst wide round her as she hit the main road looking for drones and anthills.

No broker worth a salt shake missed out on bread crumbs and sugar crystals, and DeeDee doled em from her cargo pants pocket. Can't do acquisitions and void warranties without a big juiced net, a dropin with Guts was neg, hadda go pre-analog here full on prehistoric. Dime blaster swarmed each scrap, cheap motion sensitive, to small for spray. Rats bright and ready for fission snagged, but the bait made do and the march of Colony made its unerring path a bead of tiny black dots to DeeDee.

"Sweet sWeet sweEt bread Gluten carbo yeaSt verY Good sweet swEet yes." Couple hundred ants jeweled DeeDee's ears pretty as you please and twice as small. Colony sees all, knows all, lives everywhere, that singularly focused consciousness inside immeasurable ants. It all farmed belowground, and DeeDee got in the know when her mini-fridge busted.

No dropin, no line out, no unlink or download - just neko a horminga and her lips to Colony's ears.

[why-i-love-comics]

Superman #10 - "Into the West" (2024)

written by Joshua Williamson art by Bruno Redondo, Caio Filipe, & Adriano Lucas

[tomorrowusa]

Self-made billionaires are self-generated illusions. Donald Trump is a prime example.

Trump is a nepo baby who got into college and obtained a military deferment through graft and ended up with a huge bundle from Daddy Fred. He squandered his wealth on projects which showed poor judgement.

It was TV producer Mark Burnett who rescued Trump by making him the star of The Apprentice. More importantly, Trump's part in the series and offshoot gave tens of millions of viewers the false impression that he was actually a savvy genius businessman rather than a loser who declared bankruptcy six times in real life.

Enormous wealth isn't an indicator of virtue or genius. More often than not it is a sign that you are a good con (wo)man or that you were very good at choosing your parents.

Poor people who idolize the filthy rich often end up as victims in scams which only make the rich richer. *cough* Trump University *cough*

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Mike Luckovich

* * * *

A self-limiting virus

December 7, 2024

Robert B. Hubbell

We are stuck in a news cycle in which Trump is making mind-numbing nominations, and his henchmen are making ludicrous proposals to eliminate $2 trillion from the budget. This state of affairs will stretch into early January. It is not a good place to be because we are in a partial state of suspended animation, experiencing unrelenting bad news with little room for resistance and action. That will change after the 119th Congress begins on January 6, 2025, and confirmation hearings begin.

As painful as the nomination process has been and will continue to be, it provides a clear view of how Democrats will reclaim Congress and the presidency over the next four years. In short, Trump's nominations and budget proclamations are so outrageously bad that they will act as self-limiting viruses on the future electoral prospects of the GOP.

To be clear, I am not saying that we can sit back and wait for the GOP to implode. I am saying that we should be ready for the implosion and should do everything in our power to accelerate it.

Trump ran on a populist agenda that was filled with lies from start to finish. But many supported Trump because they were fooled by claims he would magically reduce inflation, protect Social Security and Medicare, cut taxes for the middle class, and deport 10 million immigrants in his first year in office—all while reducing federal expenditures by 30%.

Trump supporters who are paying attention to his post-election actions should be experiencing the sinking feeling that they were the “mark” in Trump's con game. They are suddenly hearing proposals to cut Social Security and Medicare, cut veterans’ healthcare, eliminate tax credits for childcare and dependents, allow pharma companies to raise the prices of prescription drugs, and extend tax cuts for the rich while imposing tariffs on tens of thousands of everyday consumer items.

Even if Trump's supporters haven’t started to get that sinking feeling yet, they will—and soon. The painful epiphany that they have been duped is inevitable. Trump's delusional belief that he has a “mandate” is encouraging him to swing for the fences in the ballpark of depravity.

As I wrote yesterday, we must distinguish between what Trump says he will do and what he can actually accomplish. While the damage inflicted will be bad, it won’t be as bad as his outlandish promises. Our job is to make Trump and the GOP choke on every ridiculous, mean-spirited, half-baked, greedy, out-of-touch, oligarchical proposal designed to enrich Trump and his already-rich pals—regardless of whether he is able to deliver on them.

One post-mortem criticism about the 2024 campaign with which I agree is that Democrats were “too nice.” While we should always honor the truth, the truth about Trump is much uglier than portrayed in Democratic campaign ads. We can’t repeat that mistake.

The good and bad news is that Trump will make it nearly impossible for us to repeat that mistake in 2026 and 2028. Yesterday, I discussed his obscene proposals to decimate the social safety net and agencies critical to the protection of the health, safety, financial security, and national security of all Americans. Today, the media is highlighting the fact that Trump is intent on creating an oligarchy financed, populated, and run by billionaire donors.

Reporting by the NYTimes this week disclosed that Elon Musk donated a quarter billion dollars to help Trump win. See MSNBC, Here’s how much money Elon Musk spent to help Trump win the election. That staggering amount does not include the combined heft of Musk’s Trump-friendly algorithms and bots that boosted pro-Trump posts and suppressed posts for and by Democrats.

Having his campaign financed by a handful of billionaires has resulted in a cabinet that can only be described as a haven for billionaires (actual and aspiring). See Axios, Trump's billionaires set to take government by storm.

Other nominees of substantial wealth are omitted from the above list because they have effectively concealed their net worth.

One downside of having a government of oligarchs is that they have no conception of the daily struggle faced by most Americans. For example, eliminating Head Start may seem trivial—even virtuous—to a billionaire who will never know food insecurity. However, for hundreds of thousands of children, Head Start provides 50% of their daily intake of calories. Kids can’t learn while they are hungry and undernourished. Musk and Ramaswamy have proposed entirely eliminating Head Start, apparently oblivious to the fact that they are denying a vital source of daily sustenance to hundreds of thousands of children.

The twin aims of the second Trump term seem to be revenge and greed. His nominees have been selected to advance those aims on the backs of the working-class that Trump duped into voting for him. They will eventually figure out that Trump has lied to them—especially if we remind them of that fact in words of one syllable every chance we get.

Concluding Thoughts

We are enduring the painful part of the cycle as Trump announces nominations designed to destroy the federal government while enriching his wealthy friends. We must remember that Trump is sowing the seeds of the GOP’s defeat with every outrageous nomination and ludicrous pronouncement. If we can hold that thought, we can make it through the next few months. Don’t cringe and cower; remember and prepare. The 2026 midterms have already started—and Trump is undermining his party every day. Let’s do everything in our power to leverage Trump’s depravity to our advantage.

[Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter]

[trump666traitor]

[misssskinzzzz]

can y’all give me tips for real 💁‍♀️

[evilhorse]

Superman #11

[star-farer]

The Graft AU

After a mission gone wrong on Kaller (not following canon), Hunter believes he’s lost his entire squad. He wakes up in Nala Se’s private lab to be told as much. Nala Se tells him the Republic has been reorganized into the Galactic Empire, and things are going to go steadily downhill from here on out for Kamino and the clones. She tells him to flee with Omega. Nala Se gives him all the essentials and a shuttle, and he flees to make a life on some Outer Rim planet, supporting himself and his daughter while he grieves over his loss.

Unbeknownst to him, his brothers are alive, but their chips have been modified to work perfectly. They’ve been told just about the same thing — that Hunter was killed in action, that Omega has been decommissioned. Crosshair picks up the role of Sergeant, and it’s all the sniper-turned-CO can do but fight to keep his now tiny family and squad alive and together (technically, Echo as ARC Corporal ought to be in charge, but I'm using the fact that he's not a Clone Commando to make Crosshair the Sergeant instead). They’re broken, but they’re together. Their grief outweighs the changing galaxy, even Echo barely cares for the sudden shift in loyalties (plus they reintegrate his chip).

Lore:

The Batch (including Echo) discover tubie Omega about a year or so before Order 66. When Hunter flees with her, she hasn’t even learned to speak yet.

Nala Se doesn’t tell Hunter about the inhibitor chips, or that she took his malfunctioning chip out when he was recovering.

I'm planning on including a lot of other clones, but I'm still not too familiar with the regs (read as a deeply affectionate nickname), so for now, I'll be steering clear of this AU. Just wanted to drop the link to the one work I've written in it.

Writing

the truth will out — It is easier to forget, it is easier to forget.

[dndtreasury]

Magical Tatto Graft by Critical Crafting

[ausetkmt]

Tonight John Oliver set the supreme court on fire

John Oliver offered Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas A contract paying him one million dollars a year until he died or John dies.

In addition to that, he will give him a brand new Prevost motorcoach, which is worth 2 and a 1/2 million dollars.

All he wants in return is for justice thomas to leave the supreme court

He has 30 days to respond to John Oliver.

quite frankly, I can hardly wait to see what's going to happen Because I don't think Justice Thomas is going to respond. But I do think he's going to think about it

Great work, John. We've been waiting on you to get back and this is what we expected And more.

CHECK IT OUT

[carefulchaotic]

did anyone ever figure out what graft is?? bc i've seen this ad multiple times a day, everyday, for months and i have no clue if graft even means anything at this point.

[cipheramnesia]

I finally got the first thousand words for my Cyberpunk Pussy Heist short story written and I'm pretty jazzed about it, because Tumblr seemed pretty psyched for it. It's been knocking around getting the outline tuned, but I needed a good first line to set the tone. And I needed a way give it some of the frenetic feel of the original idea. Got the first line okay, got the idea for how to set the feeling (the entire world is drowning in bright colorful advertisements), then decoded how to convey that in writing to my satisfaction. So I did all that and it feels good, plus since it's short fiction it'll end up finished much sooner than Parasite Heart. It's very fun and I decided to name the protagonist Draft Dodger and the story is called "Graft."

[why-i-love-comics]

Superman #12 - "Lex's Truth" (2024)

written by Joshua Williamson art by David Baldeon, Norm Rapmund, & Rex Lokus

[tomorrowusa]

The current GOP is not your grandmother's Republican Party. Dwight Eisenhower or Gerald Ford would be horrified by how the 2024 Republican presidential nominee is leading a full scale assault on democracy while the rest of the party either cheers him on or pretends not to notice anything.

Trump wants to shut down all media which doesn't heap praise upon him. He basically wants to be an orange Kim Jong-un.

Trump's connections to the autocratic régime in Saudi Arabia have gotten surprisingly little attention. The Saudis have essentially gifted Jared Kushner, Trump's slumlord son-in-law, with $2 billion. Trump himself inked a deal to link his name to a new skyscraper in Saudi Arabia. And Saudi state TV just conducted an interview with Trump which could pass as an infomercial for the Trump campaign.

While Kamala Harris and Tim Walz are doing normal campaign things, Trump talks about Arnold Palmer's penis and shuts down a McDonald's so he can pretend to be a worker for 20 minutes – but in a less sanitary way than a normal worker there.

I mentioned President Gerald Ford in the first paragraph of this post. The late president's daughter has endorsed Kamala Harris.

Gerald Ford’s daughter endorses Harris

Vice President Harris and I likely disagree on some policy matters, but her integrity and commitment to those same principles that guided Dad have led me to conclude that Kamala Harris should be elected 47th President of the United States.

This is an election where chaos, autocracy, and corruption are competing againsr normalcy and democracy. For rational people, this is a no-brainer.

[teoft]

Project: Heart of Tyrant Subject: Graft Executor: Harpe Vaile (OC of @merlint) Commissioned by [REDACTED]