#HIRE FOR MERITS

[justbeingnamaste]

The complete incompetence of the ladies of the Secret Service are on full display. One of the agents can’t properly holster her sidearm while another fiddles around with her sunglasses trying to look cool for the crowd.

An assassination attempt was made on former US President Donald Trump at a rally in Pennsylvania. It happened when Donald Trump was leading a public meeting before the elections. The bullet grazed past the upper part of Trump’s right ear. Recalling this incident, he said that he heard a whizzing sound and shots and immediately felt the bullet ripping through his skin. The FBI (Federal Bureau of Investigation) announced that Thomas Mattew Crook is the individual identified in the assassination attempt of the former President.

After this, the security formed a human chain around him and exited the area, but the video caught the panicking situation of the women security of Secret Services deployed in the area. One of the security personnel was panicking and failed to put her gun in the holster while Trump was sitting in his car.

“Imagine if the sh**ter hadn’t been this kid but [someone] well-trained? Our enemies are looking at us thinking we can take [him] or anyone out now without a problem.”

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Aaron Sibarium

Published: Jan 23, 2023

Connecticut Democrats are working to lower the physical fitness requirements for female firefighters, saying that less onerous standards will make fire departments "more diverse."

A law introduced earlier this month in the Connecticut State Assembly would let women skip the Candidate Physical Ability Test, a timed gauntlet used by fire departments across the country. The test, which only 10 to 15 percent of women pass, requires candidates to complete intense physical tasks while wearing a 50 pound vest. It’s designed to simulate the experience of navigating a fire in heavy gear—and to weed out those unable to do so.

The law, introduced by five Democratic lawmakers, would offer women an alternative test based on "revised physical standards," with the goal of ensuring that "additional female candidates" qualify for firefighter positions, text from the bill states.

But some firefighters, including women, who have climbed the ranks of their departments without workarounds, say the bill will set merit-based hiring ablaze and potentially endanger Connecticut residents. "If you can’t handle a 50 pound vest, you’re not going to be able to rescue a child from a burning building," said Leah DiNapoli, a retired firefighter in New Haven, Conn.

"A citizen in need of rescue doesn’t care if a firefighter is white, black, Hispanic, male, or female," said Frank Ricci, a retired firefighter who served as the president of the New Haven firefighters union. "They care that they can do the job. This attempt to socially engineer public safety positions will only serve to endanger the public."

Unlike in the military, where uniforms and equipment vary by gender, all firefighters wear the same gear, which weighs at least 59 pounds—9 more than the vest used for the physical assessment. That’s not including the weight of ladders, hoses, or other firemen, who must sometimes carry incapacitated colleagues on their shoulders. While a few pieces of protective gear now come tailored for women, most of the essential tools do not.

"They don’t make lighter saws or ladders," DiNapoli said. "When I was there, they didn’t even make female-sized boots."

The law, she added, is "absolutely insane. Either you can do the job or you can’t."

The bill has been referred to the state legislature’s "committee on public safety," which has not yet scheduled hearings on the law. Neither the bill’s sponsors nor Connecticut governor Ned Lamont responded to requests for comment.

Beyond putting lives at risk, critics say the law will exacerbate the suspicion, common among male firefighters, that women simply aren’t up for the job. Fire departments have always been an "old boys club," DiNapoli said, and around 91 percent of firefighters are men. In this testosterone-fueled environment, sex-blind tests often serve as a stopgap against stereotypes, providing an objective assurance of physical competence.

"It’s already tough for women in the fire service, because you constantly have to prove your worth," a retired female firefighter from Chicago said. "How are you going to prove yourself if you don’t take the same test as the men?"

Danny Stratton, a recently retired fire captain from Camden, New Jersey, drew a parallel to affirmative action. "When you lower standards for minorities, people assume they got the job because of the color of their skin," Stratton said. "Lowering standards for women creates the same kind of stereotypes."

Such suspicions are especially dangerous in the fire service, where trust and teamwork can mean the difference between life and death. "The guys I’m working with need to know that I can get them out of a bad situation," DiNapoli said. "If a woman can’t pass the test, men won’t want her on their shift."

This is not the first culture war between firefighters and government officials in Connecticut, where fire stations have been ground zero for diversity-related feuds. In 2003, the New Haven fire department threw out the results of a written exam after none of the African Americans who took it scored high enough for a promotion. Ricci, the former union president, who would have been promoted based on his results, sued the department, arguing that he and other non-black firefighters had been denied professional opportunities because of their race. The Supreme Court agreed, ruling 5-4 that New Haven had violated anti-discrimination law.

Fire departments have nonetheless faced pressure to axe both written and physical tests—especially when women do poorly on them. In 2011, the Chicago Fire Department was hit with a class action lawsuit over its physical abilities test, which was even more difficult than the Candidate Physical Ability Test used in Connecticut and other states.

The complaint argued that Chicago’s test discriminated against women because so few of them could pass it. The department eventually settled, offering jobs to many of the women who were rejected under the old standard.

"A lot of men ridiculed those women," recalled the Chicago firefighter, who had passed the original test.

Though some fire service tests have been struck down on disparate impact grounds, the Candidate Physical Ability Test is not one of them. Developed and validated by the International Association of Firefighters, it has survived multiple discrimination lawsuits, mostly from women, and has received the blessing of the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, the agency that enforces civil rights laws in the workplace.

"The idea of the test was to keep politics out of fire service hiring," Stratton said. "Now they’re trying to add politics back in."

==

You can't claim to be "oppressed" when everyone in power is willing to lower standards and sacrifice other people's lives just to "include" you on the team.

[mswyrr]

[nathanialhowe]

prev post is so good but i didnt want to rant in the tags too much anyway the way that i feel abt l4rian opening themselves up for feedback and criticism with respect to their STORY and characters is that it's honestly very ignorant and a bit sleazy imo.

i might be missing information and they may have done this, but if they were Actually Concerned abt their writing for, say, Wyll being insensitive they could have--i dont know--done the thing that many legit writers do and hired a sensitivity reader (or a few) to go over their story beats for him. like it's about due diligence, not just bending the knee to every fan who was able to pay for and play your early access game. or even just run focus groups with Black players and paid them for their time and insight.

[e3khatena]

I almost made a Let's Play channel where I would be in-character as the viewer's cool older sister and it'd be me playing scary/difficult games with diffusing commentary (framed around "this game is too scary/difficult") plus longer sessions of chill games for like bedtime viewing or to just gush about games I like (framed as "I can't sleep" and "Can I watch you play?"). The only thing that stopped this from happening is that people would be hella weird in the comments (and also I can barely manage one channel as-is)

[neofelis----nebulosa]

against my better i ended up seeing some of the clips people are posting from kfp 4 and i actually really like it

[wheelingmoon]

Irony

Those who remove DEI, they exclaim this is progress. We end discrimination by pretending differences do not exist. Everyone is treated equal! How wonderful that will be!

And yet their next words complain of too many queers on tv, or in school. Or too many ‘woke’ representations being shoved down their throats. Someone please tell me if this is really equality?

[clickmartoons]

MT#297r

Hi Martoons fan! Patronage is everywhere – within little tiny organizations all the way up to the huge mega companies, governments and agencies. So take a look at today’s image and think … what if? Would we have a better world? Perhaps it’s worth a try. Cheers, marty west, editor of clickmartoons.com (today’s image originally published on this site June 24, 2018 and – as with most martoons –…

[firstoccupier]

Examining the Truth Behind the Aviation Tragedy and Presidential Response

Recently, a tragic collision occurred near Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, involving a commercial aircraft and a military helicopter. This catastrophic event led to the loss of lives, leaving American families grieving, and brought aviation safety into sharp focus. In response, President Donald J. Trump issued a memorandum addressing the incident and outlining his views on the…

[deanwithscissors]

the way the mob descended on drew when she did nothing wrong besides trying to get her employees back to work🙃

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

[myglassesareinkansas]

What does it hurt my mom for me to be interested in French religious history

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Oliver Willis at Daily Kos:

Donald Trump has a long history of racism, from excusing the actions of Nazis to promoting the racist birther conspiracy theory. Trump also surrounds himself with racist advisers like Stephen Miller, who is currently formulating the administration’s harsh immigration policy. Trump continued this approach in the first few days of his second presidency by issuing a series of executive orders meant to undo past actions by the U.S. government to address the harmful effects of racism. Trump and his fellow Republicans have for years attacked programs meant to counter racism and encourage diversity, attacking diversity, equity, and inclusion efforts. They have falsely claimed that these programs prioritize mediocrity over qualified individuals and decision making. But in reality, the anti-DEI crusade has been a smokescreen for rolling back civil rights.

In his executive order “Ending Illegal Discrimination and Restoring Merit-Based Opportunity,” the Trump administration made this posture clear. The order explicitly rescinds Executive Order 11246, which President Lyndon Johnson signed in 1965—an order Johnson used to desegregate federal contracting. As the Department of Labor website explains (for now, at least), the Johnson order “reinforced the requirement that federal contractors not discriminate in employment and take affirmative action to ensure equal opportunity based on race, color, religion, and national origin.” The department also notes that the Johnson order—now gone, thanks to Trump’s actions—were a “key landmark in a series of federal actions aimed at ending racial, religious and ethnic discrimination.” Reversing an order meant to attack racism and pro-segregation policies was described by the Trump administration in a release as “protecting civil rights and expanding individual opportunity.”

[...] The administration issued an order instructing the Department of Transportation and the FAA to “immediately stop Biden DEI hiring programs and return to non-discriminatory, merit-based hiring.” The order claimed without evidence that increasing diversity in transportation programs somehow makes travel more dangerous for Americans. As evidence, the administration pointed to a January 2023 FAA outage as “an illustration of the importance of FAA competence.” But in reality, as the FAA determined at the time of the outage, the cause was a corrupted database issue that occurred when files were deleted by mistake by a contractor. That’s not exactly a diversity issue.

Racist-in-Chief kills LBJ’s 1965 EO that desegregated federal contracting as part of his racist quest to end DEI programs.

See Also:

Vox: Trump’s sweeping new order tries to dismantle DEI in government — and the private sector

NCRM: ‘Civil Rights Canon in American Law’: Trump Rescinds Historic LBJ Nondiscrimination Order

[spider-stark]

A BOY'S FIRST PEST

Kaz Brekker x Reader

Summary - Kaz Brekker thinks Per Haskell's daughter is a (very lovely) pest

Warnings - fem!reader, traumatraumatrauma, the woes of troubled youth, light mentions of blood and death, these bitches trauma bonded yo, could deviate some from canon, based more on book!kaz than show, NOT EDITED WE DIE LIKE MEN

Word Count - 2.0k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Everyone knows Kaz Brekker put his own money into fixing up the Slat. 

He hired men to patch the leaky roof (though it still drips during a heavy rain) and put proper insulation in the walls (which keeps the house warm enough, even if it does nothing to muffle the noise of its occupants). He had all the doors fitted with working knobs (but easily picked locks) and ensured the kitchen was capable of making a warm meal (even if seriously doubted any of the Dregs knew how to cook). 

And while he would never admit it aloud, Kaz was also the one who made sure there were always clean linens in every room (albeit the cheapest Ketterdam has to offer) and spare clothes in every closet (sizes ranging from wafer-thin to barrel-chested). In keeping, he also takes it upon himself to keep the bathing room stocked with a steady supply of toiletries (because if someone uses his toothbrush again, he’s going to kill everyone in this place and then himself). 

Because of Kaz Brekker, the Slat was more than just a safe place to hole up. It was a haven, the closest thing many of the Dregs had to a home. 

But it did, of course, have one enduring problem. 

The pests.

Or, namely, the one pest—one that he could never quite exterminate (though the spider privy to the inner-workings of Kaz Brekker’s mind might argue the merit of replacing ‘could never’ with ‘would never’). 

Per Haskell’s very annoying (and very lovely) daughter. 

In the midst of Ketterdam’s hottest season, you find yourself lying sprawled on your back atop the dark sheets, clad in the skimpiest nightclothes you own: a matching set of black silk shorts and flowy, thin-strapped camisole. The air is thick and near stifling in the attic-bedroom, but you don’t mind it. You prefer being hot to cold, if only because the heavy weight of winter clothes makes you feel trapped, eliciting the urge to crawl straight from your skin. 

When the door finally swings open, you eagerly push up onto your elbows. 

Kaz doesn’t so much as spare a glance in your direction. He’s got one hand on his cane, the other shoving the door shut behind him as he limps toward his desk, guided by the bright moonlight spilling in from the muggy window. 

Your shoulders slump, huffing out a breath. “Seriously? You’re not even gonna greet me?” 

With his back turned to you, Kaz removes his hat and places it on the desk. He doesn’t look at you. “You’re in my room.” 

“Yeah—so I was actually thinking something more along the lines of hello,” you drone, lips pursed. “Y’know, that thing normal people say when they see their friends.” 

“We’re not friends.” 

A hand flies to your chest, as if struck by his words. “Um, ouch? Rude. For your sake, I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.” 

Kaz tugs off his signature gloves and tosses them next to his hat. “I can always repeat it,” he says, so impassive you can’t tell if it’s a joke. 

Knowing Kaz, you’re pretty sure it’s not. 

You push up the rest of the way, scooting down to sit cross-legged at the end of his bed. It’s so much nicer than yours—the sheets softer, the mattress plusher, the smell so familiar and warm. 

If it were up to you, you’d sleep in here every night. 

And most nights, that’s exactly what you do. 

“Would it kill you to be nice sometimes?” you ask. 

“Not usually, no.” Kaz faces you, his weight leaned back against the desk, his cane propped against it. “But we both know you’re a special case.” 

“Is that a compliment?” 

“Not at all.” 

Your bottom lip juts into a pout. “Has anyone ever told you you’re an asshole?” 

Aside from the subtlest lift of his brows, Kaz’s expression remains vague and disinterested. “Regularly,” he deadpans, looking the image of austere melancholy. 

Your laugh comes so sudden it sounds like a snort. “I should’ve guessed,” you nod, forever unphased by Kaz’s forbidding attitude. 

This is the way things have always been between you. Ever since a surly twelve year old marched head-high into your father’s office to see if the Dregs needed a new grunt, oblivious to the girl beaming up at him from a lonely corner, weaving colorful scraps of thread into bracelets for the friends you’d yet to make. 

Kaz Brekker is dark and foreboding while you’re bright and bubbly; he’s rude and standoffish while you’re sweet and flirtatious. Some may liken your relationship to oil and water, but you prefer thinking of it as a carefully crafted balance—a yin and yang sort of thing. 

Kaz, on the other hand, would simply say you’re a thorn in his side. 

Fortunately for yourself, you’re not an easily offended thorn. 

The rickety floorboards creak as Kaz starts around the desk. His bare fingers trail along the varnished edge for support. His limp is always at its worst by this time of night, so you’re not surprised to see the flicker of relief that slips over him when he finally sinks into the chair. 

“Have you ever considered that maybe you work too hard?” Your voice teeters on the edge of concern, tracing idle shapes against the sheets with your nails. 

His answer is curt, and contradictory to the purple smudges beneath his eyes. “No.” 

Fumbling with his cufflinks—simple, unadorned things—Kaz rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. Afterwards, he flips open the thick ledger laid before him, plucking up a pen and dipping it into an awaiting pot of ink. 

Kaz keeps track of the Dregs expenses in his head—a skill you’ve always found most impressive, since you can hardly do a simple equation without scratch paper. Still, he keeps the physical record for the sake of having something to point to in case someone’s ever stupid enough to claim Dirtyhands flubbed the numbers. 

As he works, boredom quickly becomes a chip on your shoulder. 

Your legs unfurl, bare feet stretching toward the floor as you slip off the edge of the bed. Every step is purposeful, traipsing toward him with a look that’s not so unlike a cat readying to toy with its favorite mouse. 

“Maybe we should take a holiday,” you suggest, your voice a soft trill. 

One part of you expects to be ignored, the other to be shot down. 

He lands somewhere in the middle. 

“And go where? His eyes remain focused on the ledger, dark brows drawn tight in concentration. You envision numbers flashing before him, adding and subtracting at the steady pass of the nib scratching against parchment. 

“I don’t know. Ravka, maybe?” 

“Ravka?” It’s like the word tastes sour on his tongue. “Why?” 

You stop just short of his desk, an answer instantly rapping at your mind. You quickly replace it with one that’s far less tragic. “I wouldn’t mind seeing Nikolai Lantsov with my own eyes,” you drawl. “Nina says he’s quite the looker, y’know.” 

Kaz sits up a little straighter, shoulders pinned with newfound tension. 

“Of course he is.” He seems to press the nib down harder, his disinterested tone bordering close to resentful. “He’s a prince—looking pretty is all they’re good for.” 

Your head tilts. “Well, he’s actually a king now, so…” 

There’s the briefest falter in the smooth motion of his jotting wrist. “I’m not taking you to Ravka so you can seduce the Lantsov bastard.” 

“And why not?” You reach for the tip of his cane, still propped against the desk, skimming a finger over the crow’s head. “You think I can’t do it?” 

The pen keeps on scratching, accented by the dull hum of the Slat’s perpetual motion—doors slamming, voices cackling. Your ego grows larger for every second Kaz stays silent, your satisfaction settling into a feline smirk. 

Simply, yet firmly, Kaz eventually maintains, “We’re not going to Ravka.” 

Your exhale is something over dramatic, laden with feigned disappointment as you huff, “Fine!” Kaz never looks up, continuing with the ledger. 

Abandoning the crow’s head, you swipe one of Kaz’s abandoned gloves off the desk, fiddling with the smooth leather. Still recovering from their civil war, you imagine Ravka isn’t an ideal travel spot right now, anyway. Not unless someone has a morbid desire to tour the sites where Saints met their often-grisly ends, that is… Besides, for all Nina’s praise of the Lantsov king, you’ve never actually had a thing for blondes. 

And yet— 

“I really would like to go someday.” Your voice is hardly a whisper. Your other answer—tragic and rapping—crawls up your throat in a hoarse admission, “My mother was Ravkan.” 

That persistent scratching finally comes to a sudden halt. 

For the first time since he entered the room, Kaz looks up. There’s not a hint of pity in his eyes, though they gleam with solemn understanding. Your lips thin, pressing his glove tight to your chest. 

In the winter of your fourteen birthday, you snuck into your father’s office and stole a full bottle of kvas. Dressed in clothes too light for the frigid weather, you sped up the crooked stairs to Kaz’s attic-bedroom, pleading until he begrudgingly agreed to join you on the moonlit roof. For a boy who claimed such an aversion to you, he was always doing things you asked—even if he’d griped the whole time. You both gagged after the first sip of hard liquor. After an hour or so, the full bottle had dwindled to just a drop, your tongues seeming to move with more freedom. 

Neither of you had been prepared for the way the carbonated joy in your chests fizzled to something stagnant. 

I don’t like being alone, you told him, fiddling with the frayed strings tied around your wrist, the friendship bracelets no one ever wanted. If I’m alone, it means I’m thinking, and if I’m thinking, it means my mother won’t stop dying. 

You told him of the endless montage in your head. How at six years old, a walk along the Stave in your favorite winter coat ended with getting crushed beneath the weight of your mother’s last act of devotion, shielded by a body crumpled and crimson, shorn in the crossfire of unexpected gang violence. When you fell silent, Kaz drained the last drop of kvas and told you about a coffee shop near the Exchange. About a sickboat and a boy named Jordie, about a frosty harbor and an impossible swim that left him unable to bear the touch of another’s skin. 

When neither of you had any soul left to bear, Kaz chucked the bottle off the roof. You don’t remember hearing it shatter, and maybe it never did. Maybe it hit some hapless pigeon and fractured his skull. Maybe it ceased to exist the moment it went over the edge. The bottle didn’t matter. Not to you. Not when Kaz Brekker reached for your wrist, leather-clad fingers gently tugging the bracelets off your wrist. 

Don’t make a thing of this, he told you, stuffing them in his pocket. You’re still a pest.

But it was a thing. A strange, beautiful thing—and both of you knew it. 

“Fine.” Kaz’s voice—the rasp of stone on stone—drags you back to the present. He sits the pen down beside the ledger, a strand of black hair swaying with the subtle shake of his head. “We’ll go to Ravka. You’ll seduce some sorry prince and live happily ever after in a gaudy palace. I’ll make my fortune snagging the Lantsov Emerald and use it to hire a proper bookkeeper. Deal?” 

Your lips twitch, still hugging his glove to your chest. “King,” you correct him. 

His eyes roll, but a flicker of something warm betrays his affection. “Pest,” he calls you, though it doesn’t sound like much of an insult. 

“I imagine the Grand Palace has fine exterminators,” you muse. 

“Then I suppose your marriage will be short-lived.” 

“Will you save me, then?” Your heart leaps with the question, how it slips from your tongue before you can grasp it. 

Kaz hesitates. Then—remarkably—smiles. 

“Maybe.”

a/n - you know what they say. a bottle of kvas is never just a bottle of kvas, amirite

(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞

anyways, i was procrastinating an essay and thought "lets write something with a somewhat ambiguous ending!" and voila, a boy's first pest is the product. now everyone say: lainie, go work on your original writing and stop writing so much fan fiction! (but i'm already thinking of a kaz smut drabble so) anyways, comments and reblogs much appreciated, i cry with joy every time someone actively interacts with my work so THANK YOU