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spacelazarwolf · 1 year ago

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in honor of that anon who said jews have done nothing for the world, here’s a non exhaustive list of things we’ve done for the world:

arts, fashion, and lifestyle:

jeans - levi strauss

modern bras - ida rosenthal

sewing machines - isaac merritt singer

modern film industry - carl laemmle (universal pictures), adolph zukor (paramount pictures), william fox (fox film forporation), louis b. mayer (mgm - metro-goldwyn-mayer), harry, sam, albert, and jack warners (warner bros.), steven spielberg, mel brooks, marx brothers

operetta - jacques offenbach

comic books - stan lee

graphic novels - will eisner

teddy bears - morris and rose michtom

influential musicians - irving berlin, stephen sondheim, benny goodman, george gershwin, paul simon, itzhak perlman, leonard bernstein, bob dylan, leonard cohen

artists - mark rothko

actors - elizabeth taylor, jerry lewis, barbara streisand

comedians - lenny bruce, joan rivers, jerry seinfeld

authors - judy blume, tony kushner, allen ginsberg, walter mosley

culture:

esperanto - ludwik lazar zamenhof

feminism - betty friedan, gloria steinem, ruth bader ginsberg

queer and trans rights - larry kramer, harvey milk, leslie feinberg, abby stein, kate bornstein, frank kameny, judith butler

international women's day - clara zetkin

principles of journalizm, statue of liberty, and pulitzer prize - joseph pulitzer

"the new colossus" - emma lazarus

universal declaration of human rights - rene samuel cassin

holocaust remembrance and human rights activism - elie wiesel

workers rights - louis brandeis, rose schneiderman

public health care, women's rights, and children's rights - lillian wald

racial equity - rabbi abraham joshua heschel, julius rosenwald, andrew goodman, michael schwerner

political theory - hannah arendt

disability rights - judith heumann

black lives matter slogan and movement - alicia garza

#metoo movement - jodi kantor

institute of sexology - magnus hirschfeld

technology:

word processing computers - evelyn berezin

facebook - mark zuckerberg

console video game system - ralph henry baer

cell phones - amos edward joel jr., martin cooper

3d - leonard lipton

telephone - philipp reis

fax machines - arthur korn

microphone - emile berliner

gramophone - emile berliner

television - boris rosing

barcodes - norman joseph woodland and bernard silver

secret communication system, which is the foundation of the technology used for wifi - hedy lamarr

three laws of robotics - isaac asimov

cybernetics - norbert wiener

helicopters - emile berliner

BASIC (programming language) - john george kemeny

google - sergey mikhaylovich brin and larry page

VCR - jerome lemelson

fax machine - jerome lemelson

telegraph - samuel finley breese morse

morse code - samuel finley breese morse

bulletproof glass - edouard benedictus

electric motor and electroplating - boris semyonovich jacobi

nuclear powered submarine - hyman george rickover

the internet - paul baran

icq instant messenger - arik vardi, yair goldfinger,, sefi vigiser, amnon amir

color photography - leopold godowsky and leopold mannes

world's first computer - herman goldstine

modern computer architecture - john von neumann

bittorrent - bram cohen

voip internet telephony - alon cohen

data archiving - phil katz, eugene roshal, abraham lempel, jacob ziv

nemeth code - abraham nemeth

holography - dennis gabor

laser - theodor maiman

instant photo sharing online - philippe kahn

first automobile - siegfried samuel marcus

electrical maglev road - boris petrovich weinberg

drip irrigation - simcha blass

ballpoint pen and automatic gearbox - laszlo biro

photo booth - anatol marco josepho

medicine:

pacemakers and defibrillators - louise robinovitch

defibrillators - bernard lown

anti-plague and anti-cholera vaccines - vladimir aronovich khavkin

polio vaccine - jonas salk

test for diagnosis of syphilis - august paul von wasserman

test for typhoid fever - ferdinand widal

penicillin - ernst boris chain

pregnancy test - barnhard zondek

antiretroviral drug to treat aids and fight rejection in organ transplants - gertrude elion

discovery of hepatitis c virus - harvey alter

chemotherapy - paul ehrlich

discovery of prions - stanley prusiner

psychoanalysis - sigmund freud

rubber condoms - julius fromm

birth control pill - gregory goodwin pincus

asorbic acid (vitamin c) - tadeusz reichstein

blood groups and rh blood factor - karl landsteiner

acyclovir (treatment for infections caused by herpes virus) - gertrude elion

vitamins - caismir funk

technique for measuring blood insulin levils - rosalyn sussman yalow

antigen for hepatitus - baruch samuel blumberg

a bone fusion technique - gavriil abramovich ilizarov

homeopathy - christian friedrich samuel hahnemann

aspirin - arthur ernst eichengrun

science:

theory of relativity - albert einstein

theory of the electromagnetic field - james maxwell

quantum mechanics - max born, gustav ludwig hertz

quantum theory of gravity - matvei bronstein

microbiology - ferdinand julius cohn

neuropsychology - alexander romanovich luria

counters for x-rays and gamma rays - robert hofstadter

genetic engineering - paul berg

discovery of the antiproton - emilio gino segre

discovery of cosmic microwave background radiation - arno allan penzias

discovery of the accelerating expansion of the universe - adam riess and saul merlmutter

discovery that black hole formation is a robust prediction of the general theory of relativity - roger penrose

discovery of a supermassive compact object at the center of the milky way - andrea ghez

modern cosmology and the big bang theory - alexander alexandrovich friedmann

stainless steel - hans goldschmidt

gas powered vehicles

interferometer - albert abraham michelson

discovery of the source of energy production in stars - hans albrecht bethe

proved poincare conjecture - grigori yakovlevich perelman

biochemistry - otto fritz meyerhof

electron-positron collider - bruno touschek

#jewish #jumblr #am yisrael fucking chai

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wttcsms · 24 days ago

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anatomy of desire, satoru gojo

part i. terminal velocity

with mysterious circumstances centering around a first year med student's "suicide", you do something stupidly noble: reporting to a detective that you saw satoru gojo slipping out the backdoor of the very same building yu haibara supposedly jumped from. in doing so, you start a twisted, sick game of cat-and-mouse with the most powerful and insane student on campus. the only thing keeping you alive? the fact that satoru gojo is apathetic towards everything and everyone, besides you. ( fem!reader )

chapter contains description of dead body word count 3.7k [ next ] [ masterlist ]

There’s an ongoing joke that only those who attend Tokyo Metropolitan College are privy to. It’s posed as a question, serves to make people laugh, but like all things spoken by these students, the intention of the words said are different from what they’re truly asking. It goes like this:

How much was your application fee?

The joke is the idea that any of them would ever actually have to pay something as plebeian as an application fee to attend a college their parents or family have attended for generations. The “joke” has layers to it, though: how much did your parents have to cough up to get you in here? Did they only “donate” a new building? Did they agree to sponsor the next charity event hosted by the university? Or did Mother and Father only have to invite the head of admissions to a dinner party? For children who come from money, social currency holds a significant amount of value in their eyes.

With an acceptance rate lower than most of the Ivies, alumni that consist of the world’s most powerful political leaders, actual royalty, and the most influential celebrities in the public eye, and the prestige that comes from graduating from such a decorated institution, attending Tokyo Metropolitan College should have been impossible for someone like you.

Full ride scholarships to TMC are nearly unheard of and are only extended to the best high school athletes or the brightest minds of the current generation. You’re smart, of course, but not at the caliber Tokyo Metropolitan demands.

With your worn-out bookbag, drugstore makeup routine, and outlet clearance shoes, it’s obvious that you’re a scholarship student. Your classmates might have been willing to ignore your crime of being poor, but not even being able to at least wear last season’s runway designs? Some sins are just unforgivable.

It’s fine by you, of course. You’re nothing but honest, and so if you were to ever be asked the cost of your application fee, you’re not sure how they would react when you confess that it cost a life.

You fall in love with journalism when you’re ten years old. At the clearance grocery stores, the type of shops whose air conditioning never seems to work and there’s a perpetual leak at one area of the ceiling, there’s a rack of magazines (your mother tells you these are called “tabloids”) by the checkout line. Of course, there’s usually only one cashier working out of the entire store, and you spend most of your time waiting in line than you do actually picking out your groceries.

While your mother shuffled her coupons clipped from last week’s newspaper, you would grab the latest issue of National Enquirer, your eyes eagerly soaking up every last word of the publication. Outlandish headlines, anonymous sources, poorly Photoshopped paparazzi photos — this tabloid is your first taste of journalism. It might not be Pulitzer Prize worthy articles, but it is the spark that ignites your insatiable, burning hunger for a story. A true story.

As you grow older, you swap National Enquirer for National Geographic and Time, going so far as to even grabbing your father’s discarded newspapers from the recycling bin whenever you catch a glimpse of an enticing headline. Everyday, there are hundreds, thousands, millions of stories, all happening at once. Depending on who’s telling the story, the immortalized version of events could very well differ from the truth. And at your young age, when you declare to your entire middle school class that you’re going to be the world’s best investigative journalist who uncovers and reports only the truth, you are met with polite, bored applause.

Looking back, you realize just how silly you were. You used to walk around with a Hello Kitty notepad, one of those jumbo sized book fair pens (the one where it comes with like, five different colors you can pick from), and an annoying habit of never minding your own business. It pays off eventually, though. Your inquisitive (all the adults call it nosy) nature and hunger to get to the bottom of things leads you to find out that your seventh grade homeroom teacher was stealing money from the classroom’s activity funds. You got your picture in the local paper (it still hangs on the kitchen fridge, even after all these years), and the school principal even encourages you to start a school newspaper club.

You fear you’ve peaked in the seventh grade, though. It’s been nearly eight years since that incident, and you haven’t quite uncovered anything else that’s newsworthy. You suppose the hot topic on campus right now could be worth getting to the bottom of: did Mei Mei get a boob job or not? If you figure out the truth behind that, maybe then people will actually start to care about what you have to say.

Good stories don’t just fall into your lap; most journalists don’t spend their time sitting at their desk, typing up their finds. Instead, they’re actually on the ground, actively hunting.

You tell yourself — justifying your eavesdropping, really — that this is just you hunting for a good story. Besides, if the conversation was meant to be so private, why wouldn’t he at least have it in his dorm room?

“Listen, Ken — after tonight, I’ll be set for life.” The hushed whisper immediately catches your attention. You pause, glancing behind you to see if anyone’s coming. They’re not. The Liberal Arts Education building houses the least amount of students here at Tokyo Metropolitan, and everyone’s either already in class or getting lunch off campus. No one even bothers with this outdoor walkway; it’s too cold to justify walking in the shade the overhead supplies, and the vending machines located here never have any of the good snacks — just stale packs of peanuts and the brand of soymilk no one likes.

You don’t make a habit of listening in on people’s phone calls. You have some concept of boundaries. It’s just… The Liberal Arts class is such a small group of fish in an already small pond. You’ve run into everyone who has a reason to be in this building. You were forced to take Public Speaking with at least half of them, and this voice you don’t recognize.

That, and everyone who can afford to spend years at college, stress-free and getting a degree in the arts, don’t need to make hushed phone calls behind unwanted vending machines to discuss how they’re going to be “set for life.” Ninety-nine percent of the student body here already are.

“Just trust me,” the voice mumbles. “I’ve got it all under control.”

You’re really trying your hardest to fight the urge to listen, but you can feel it — that sense in your gut that tells you that this is a story worth pursuing. Who cares about whether or not Mei Mei got a boob job? Whatever this student is up to is certainly of more interest than breast implants.

When he stops talking, you recognize that he must’ve hung up the phone. Trying to remain casual, you continue to walk towards the vending machines, and when he comes into view, walking in the opposite direction of you, you briefly glance at him.

Brushed brown hair, slightly taller than you — kind of cute, actually.

“Excuse me,” you call out to him. He stops to turn at you, a polite smile stretching across his face.

“Yes?”

“Do you happen to know where room L203 is? I just switched to that Japanese Literature class, but I’m still trying to navigate this building.”

“Hmm.” He takes a second to appear in deep thought. “I’ve never had to take the course, but L203 should be on the second floor, left side.”

“Thanks!” You chirp out, letting him go on his way. A majority of the buildings here are built similarly; the first number always dictates which floor the room is on, and odd numbers go to the left, with even numbers on the right side of the hall. You know damn well where L203 is; you just needed a second to commit this student’s face to memory. That, and you wanted a good look at the embroidery on his black jacket.

It says Tokyo Metropolitan College Zenin School of Medicine.

One thing about medical students is that they (and the college) can never seem to let anyone forget, for even a split second, that they are a medical student.

You immediately head to your dorm, cracking open your 2006 MacBook that begs dearly for you to put it out of its misery every time you power it on, and wait impatiently as the website for the Zenin School of Medicine page to officially load. Every year, the administrative team at the med school makes a big deal out of welcoming the newest incoming class, and you’re hoping that he, whoever he is, has been enrolled within the last three years. You’re not sure your laptop can handle clicking through more than three links in the timespan of five minutes without excessively overheating and then exploding on your dorm room’s desk.

You luck out when you realize he’s from this year’s incoming class. The picture is taken outside, in the familiar quad in front of the med school’s buildings. There’s only about a dozen students entering, and you spot his bright, smiling face. To the untrained eye, he fits in well with the rest of his peers. Nothing about him appears to be different, but three years learning to navigate this world has taught you well: he doesn’t have the same social standing as these students. In a sea of On Clouds (for the active students, you presume) and Dior sneakers, he’s wearing a pair of Skechers.

You squint at the small font of the caption, listing the students from left to right.

Yu Haibara.

When you search his name on the school’s site, another article appears, confirming your suspicions.

Yu Haibara, Latest Recipient of the Zenin Merit Medical Scholarship. Every other year, the Zenin Family provides a scholarship to a promising individual who will “change the medical field for the better.” With his easygoing smile and genuine attempt at being helpful, you can believe it. Yu Haibara seems like a very nice guy.

Which is why, in the glow of the setting sun, you feel a bit guilty for tailing him. No matter what he does, it’s not even like it’s going to be something publishable for the school paper. Putting a first year medical student’s side hustle on blast isn’t anything newsworthy; you know this. The rational part of your mind tells you to go back to your dorm and actually start working on your history paper due next week. You know, something actually productive and beneficial for your future.

But the gut feeling you’ve never been good at ignoring… It tells you that the hunt is on. There’s something here for you to uncover, and even if you have to keep it a secret to yourself, the satisfaction of satiating your curiosity will be enough.

Following Yu isn’t really a hard thing to do. This side of campus is unsurprisingly busier than the side you normally stay on. There are more bodies for you to blend in with, more noises to disguise your footsteps, and Haibara doesn’t even seem to be paying much attention to his surroundings. He walks with his arms swaying by his sides, and he makes casual, fleeting conversation with a few faces you recognize from the class photo on the school’s website. You’re hoping that wherever he’s heading to isn’t his dorm; if it’s secrecy he wants, it would make sense for him to do everything in the privacy of his own residence, but—

“Hey, girl, what’re you doing over here?” Distracted by the greeting, you take your eyes off of Haibara’s back to look at who’s speaking to you. Sakura; you share a good portion of classes with her. You remember her mentioning a boyfriend who’s in medical school. Something about her making an offhand joke about being a future surgeon’s stay-at-home wife. It’s not like working was something she was actively going to do in the future, anyway. Her mother is a hotel heiress, and her dad owns a hefty share of Vogue.

“Sakura, hey!” You smile at her, trying to peek over her shoulder. Haibara makes a left turn, you note. “I wanted to meet with a professor here, actually. To see if he wanted to give an interview on his research. Running out of article ideas for the school paper, honestly.”

She crinkles her nose. She works for the school paper with you, too, but she’s never paid much attention to anything beyond her submissions to the Beauty & Fashion column. “Have fun with that.”

“Definitely will.” You chirp, glad that Sakura’s not the type to care about what some old doctor has to say about cancer. The sidewalk is crowded with students grouping together, discussing where they want to eat out tonight, but as you make a left turn, trying to follow Haibara’s steps, you notice that the lampposts lining the walkway are fewer and farther between. It’s still not dark enough to really need their warm, yellow glow, but you’re certain you’ll need them on the walk back.

There are less students frequenting this area, too. The buildings here are older, less maintained. You doubt any of the major classes are held here, and the only building you can really justify Haibara disappearing into would be the one at the end of this walkway. A three story brick building, whose large sign can be read even at your distance.

OLD KASHIMO LABORATORY.

Old certainly seems fitting. You wonder if the building is even still in use.

Leaves crunch under your sneakers (that are unfortunately not straight from Rick Owens’ latest drop) as you continue to move forward, heading to the lab. It’s a big building, and it seems a shame that it isn’t as well-maintained as the front-facing buildings that make up the medical school. Your legs are practically burning by the time you make it to the steps leading to the front door. If you realized just how far of a walk it is from your dormitory to the complete other side of campus, you would have at least stretched first.

Anything to get down to the truth, though.

Selfishly, you hope whatever Haibara’s up, it’s something scandalous. If it’s boring, and your gut feeling is entirely wrong, you’re going to be so annoyed that you got your daily steps in for no reason.

Pushing through the large oak double-doors of the building takes some effort, but when you do, you realize the lights here, unlike the other buildings you’ve been in, aren’t triggered automatically by movement. At least the windows all over the walls allow the fading light of the setting sun to filter through the massive entrance.

Way down on the other end, you see it. A silhouette of someone else; you see them, but you’re shocked you don’t hear them.

Haibara?

No. Even from this distance, this figure seems taller than the brunet boy you’ve been stalk— following — for the past hour. The figure pays you no attention, but when it opens the backdoor, for a split second, they’re — he’s — bathed in the glow from the nearby lampposts and sunset.

White hair, sharp jawline, broad shoulders, and even at this angle, his sharp, blue eyes that are recognizable anywhere.

Satoru Gojo.

The difference between college and high school is that in high school, it’s pretty common to have a few people designated as “popular.” College is different. Everyone is a grown adult now, whether they like it or not, and concepts as juvenile and irrelevant as “popularity” no longer matter.

At a school like Tokyo Metropolitan, though, social hierarchy is everything. A school this small, this exclusive, this prestigious, thrives because parents send their little heirs and heiresses here in order to network. These kids grew up trading Pokemon cards by utilizing tips from The Art of the Deal.

In a small group where only the wealthy and influential are allowed in, Satoru Gojo comes from the wealthiest and most influential family there is. His father has global politicians trying to cozy up to him, and his mother comes from a family who supposedly made their fortune off of blood diamonds (naturally, the Gojos deny this claim, squashing any speculation about how the wife’s family made their money by spamming the news with nothing but reports of their charitable acts). Instead of pursuing business, Gojo makes headlines by his father announcing how proud he is that his son is choosing the noble path of medicine.

“He’s all about helping people,” the reporter quotes Mr. Gojo.

That must be true; it’s why Gojo’s so known all over campus. It’s not enough that socially, he’s better than all of them, which makes being his friend all the more appealing. It’s the fact that he’s just a good guy. You remember how last year, the school paper did an article on how Gojo funded the entire extravagant retirement party for a beloved professor at the school. You heard a rumor that the one and only time he was late to class (by three minutes) was because he was helping a student get her kitten out of a tree. During his undergrad, he was captain of the basketball team and took them to the championships every year. He does all of this while remaining absolutely humble, kind, and top of his class.

You wonder if there’s a story there. If maybe Satoru Gojo, who is too perfect to be real, isn’t real. Maybe his parents figured out where to get their hands on an ultra-realistic robot, something that poses as the perfect son. That would explain his eyes, you think.

You’ve always tried to see the appeal in Gojo. He’s handsome, yes. He’s nice, no doubt about it. You don’t think you could find anyone with a single bad thing to say about him. But during your freshman year at this school, you think about the moment where you had to fill in for the school’s photographer. You had to photograph Gojo accepting an award for being MVP on the basketball team (once again), and while Gojo was charming everyone, from the coach to the dean of the school to the girls in the crowd cheering him on, there was your gut feeling telling you that something was just off.

“You’re not the usual photographer, are ya?” He peers down at you, hands in his pockets, a big grin on his face. He’s not teasing you, at least, not in a rude way. He just has a light-hearted inflection on all his words that makes everything he says seem… warmer? Like, he’s trying to put you at ease.

You’re fiddling with the settings on the camera, unused to the tech. “Um, yeah. I’m a freshman, but I’m just subbing in for my senior who got sick.”

“Really? That’s neat!” He says it, and it sounds so sincere, that you nod along. Yeah, maybe it is neat.

(Gojo’s good at that. Putting people at ease, getting them to see things from his point of view.)

“Try your best to make me look good, and I’ll do my best to make sure whatever shot you get is fine! Deal?” He’s still smiling at you, and all you can do is nod. Even at this point in time, a fresh-faced baby to this school, you’re aware of Gojo’s power. When you’re looking at him through the lens of the camera, you think it’d be impossible to get a bad photo of Gojo.

The uneasy feeling you get around him gets chalked up to nothing more than nerves. You’re a writer, not a photographer. Gojo is a legend amongst men, and being in such close proximity to him would make anyone nervous.

But when you look back at the photo once the article gets published, you know why you felt so weird around him.

When Satoru Gojo smiles, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

You’re not sure why Gojo is — or, more accurately, was — in this building, but it’s none of your business. You’re here for Haibara, and whatever weird ass, secretive but lucrative side hustle he’s got going on. Probably dropshipping. Or, maybe he’s selling old test banks?

Chances are, it’s nothing special or noteworthy. The reason why you haven’t gotten a good story lately might simply be because your senses, your so-called reliable gut instinct, has just gone dull. Maybe you’ve never even had a good instinct to begin with. Or, maybe losing it is just the karma you deserve for everything you’ve done to get to where you are now. It would serve you right, wouldn’t it? The universe must have a taste for poetic justice sometimes.

You’re hungry. Your legs are sore. It’s getting late. Whatever Haibara has going on, you don’t care anymore. You’ve got a paper due, and a protein bar somewhere in the bottom of your book bag that will serve as dinner for tonight because you don’t have enough funds to get anything halfway decent at the dining hall, and what a waste of time today was.

You’re opening the doors of the building, letting the cool evening breeze hit you in the face as you exit. You still need something to write for the school paper; the lie you told to Sakura might actually be the only valid idea you have, and—

“Holy fucking shit! Is he dead?!”

You look to your right. There’s a trio of students gathered around a lump on the ground. Someone’s screaming, then they’re all screaming. More students are flooding out of nearby buildings, and despite the protest of your limbs, you turn and head right where the screams are coming from.

Bringing your hand to your mouth, you barely manage to hold back your own scream.

Lying on the concrete walkway is Yu Haibara, with his neck and body at two different odd angles, his head cracked open and spilling blood that leaks onto the manicured grass of the campus.

#satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #yandere jjk #series: anatomy of desire

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deme-real-life · 1 year ago

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im so fucking tired of people praising will navidson as if he's some huge hero. like sure he won a pulitzer prize or whatever but that was for his photographs of PEOPLE ABOUT TO DIE. why are we enabling this guy? like he could've saved those god damn people he keeps taking photos of but NOOO he values his career over basic human fucking life. well it turns out he's moved to virginia a few months ago (or maine? idk maybe he's just there on vacation) and that's where i'm located rn (my parents are here on our monthly vacay) and so ive decided to protest in front of his house. gonna be doing some great activism y'all

#house of leaves

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theconstitutionisgayculture · 25 days ago

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I don't have a comics "take" to offer up necessarily--but I want to see a Superman run where Clark Kent is essentially J. Jonah Jameson. Constantly finding reasons to just shit on Superman and belittle all of his efforts. Superman is of course just as heroic as usual, but I want to see him having fun writing a bunch of tabloid bullshit about himself.

He is the single least popular editor the Daily Planet has ever had, but it's the age of clickbait and engagement farming, so he's also the most successful. His most famous editorial rant is the one where he claims that Superman must have destroyed Krypton himself, since it's veeeeeery suspicious that somehow a baby just happened to survive while no one else did. Very suspicious indeed. And all these Kryptonian expats that keep coming to Earth to fight Superman must be looking for revenge for their murdered homeworld. If the forces of Earth would just stand back and let these freedom fighters take the filthy alien off their hands, it would save countless lives. They might even stop trying to conquer Earth. No more precious human lives lost on account of an alien!

(Lois reads this in utter disbelief. "Clark...are you appealing to racism to keep people from getting hurt during your fights?"

"Why not? Nothing else has worked. And the term is super xenophobia.")

Aside from Lois, who hates what Clark is doing but loves the free reign he gives her to investigate any story she wants, and Ma, who doesn't read the paper anyway, the only non-hero who knows what Clark's doing is Lex Luthor. He sussed it out the first time he tried taunting Superman with a Kent editorial and Superman merely floated there looking pleased with himself. It took Lex about three seconds to really look at Kent's byline photo and realize he was Superman all this time! Lex is pissed, of course. How dare this alien take over humanity's free press and use it to spread his false propaganda! Compromised newspapers pushing a biased agenda? That's just unamerican! Lex immediately buys the failing Huffington Post, renames it the Lexington Times, makes himself Editor in Chief, and turns the editorial section into a daily rebuttal of every article Clark Kent posts. Lex's elegant arguments against Kent's "shortsighted xenophobia" and "reckless crusade against Superman" garner national acclaim. LexCorp stock is breaking records daily. And Superman's reputation has never polled so high! Lex isn't exactly pleased with the latter, but when you add the former to the fact that he's finally succeeding in thwarting Superman's schemes, he decides that he's come out ahead anyway. All is right in Lexworld-- no, in Lextopia!

Two weeks later he's named the Grand Marshall of Metropolis's annual Superman Day Parade and he realizes that he might have fucked up. Superman and Lex Luthor are linked so tightly in the public consciousness that not only can he never risk attacking the alien again lest his stock plummet, but shareholders are actually expecting him to support Superman. Overtly! His own board won't shut up about destroying their Kryptonite stockpiles and dismantling the anti-alien missiles. Even worse, they want R&D to start working on anti-Kryptonite armor that will make the damned alien even more powerful! Lex never should have bought the Lexington Times. No! He never should have went public! Worst mistake he ever made. LexCorp should have stayed a family company.

He is, of course, placed right next to Superman during the mayor's Superman Day commencement speech. The entire time he's standing there, a rictus smile on his face, he's muttering "I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you" under his breath while he and Superman link arms and wave to the crowd.

Lois gets a great shot of Superman giving a surprised and bright red Lex Luthor a grateful hug, the American flag proudly flying high above their heads.

It wins her her first Pulitzer Prize for Featured Photography.

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misterlemonztenth · 5 months ago

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| entitled The Kiss of Life, this Pulitzer Prize-winning photo captured mouth-to-mouth resuscitation was captured by Jacksonville, Fla., photojournalist Rocco Morabito in 1967. Misterlemonztenth.tumblr.com/archive

#misterlemonztenth #popular #original post #male model #photo journalism #black and white #the kiss of life #telephone linemen #lifesaving procedure #mouth-t-mouth

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the-garbanzo-annex-jr · 5 months ago

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Reuters’ Ethics and Standards editor told HonestReporting on Tuesday that the wire service “disputes” our “claim” that its journalists had “decorate[d] their office with terror symbols.”

This despite photo evidence we exposed last week showing scarves with terror groups insignias decorating what used to be Reuters office in Gaza in 2013:

The man in the photo is Reuters current Head of Visuals for Gaza, Suhaib Jadallah Salem. The photo still appears on his Facebook page.

Like the Nazi Swastika, the emblems on the scarves are of genocidal groups — Hamas, Islamic Jihad, al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigades — that call for the killing of Jews/Israelis (like some of Suhaib’s colleagues in Reuters).

There are only two bad explanations to Reuters’ disturbing response: ” Either it doesn’t view these proscribed terror groups as such, or it is denying indisputable evidence.

The rest of Reuters Ethics and Standards editor Brian Moss’s official response did not address our exposure of its journalists in Gaza receiving awards from senior Hamas officials.

Instead, it said: “On the basis of a close review by the Reuters Ethics and Standards department, we dispute the distorted evidence and insinuations of bias in the HonestReporting September 5th article. We stand by our coverage of Gaza and our team, who operate within the Thomson Reuters Trust Principles…Further, we dispute any claim that our journalists received ‘de-facto bribes from terrorists.'”

But here are the facts, which HonestReporting stands behind:

Our review of Palestinian media revealed that since 2015, the proscribed terror group has hosted annual ceremonies to honor Gazan journalists who had won prestigious international awards, including photographers from Reuters.

This cozy relationship between Gaza’s terror groups and the journalists tasked with covering them objectively is ethically flawed. It exposes the disturbing entanglement between terrorists and the media, shaping a distorted global narrative about Gaza.

Honored by Terrorists

In 2017, Hamas held a commendation event for international award-winning journalists in Gaza, where it honored Reuters photographer Suhaib Jadallah Salem — the agency’s current head of visuals for Gaza (who was photographed in Reuters office in front of the terror groups’ scarves.)

One of the photos from the event shows Suhaib’s brother Mohammed Jadallah Salem, a Reuters photographer who recently won the Pulitzer prize and the World Press Photo award, receiving Suhaib’s commendation plaque on his behalf. Two senior Hamas officials are granting the plaque: Khalil al-Hayya and Mushir al-Masri:

Al-Hayya has publicly called for a fight against Israel as “the head of the serpent,” and al-Masri has vowed to “uproot The Zionists With Our Axes, Knives, Guns.”

Receiving commendation from such terrorists is a mark of Cain. It should get any journalist disciplined by any respectable media outlet.

Yet Reuters journalists — knowing perhaps that their bosses won’t find out or even care — had no qualms getting into bed with Hamas. Another photo from the event shows other Reuters journalists around a table not too far from al-Hayya: Reuters Senior Gaza correspondent Nidal al-Mughrabi is sitting near Suhaib’s brother Mohammed and photographer Ashraf Amra (who was also honored at the event and exposed by HonestReporting for endorsing infiltration into Israel on October 7). Beside them is Belal Jadallah, who headed the allegedly “independent” Gaza Press House:

Suhaib himself attended a separate Hamas commendation event for journalists later in 2017. This time, he was honored for performing the Muslim pilgrimage to Mecca:

Suhaib received the commendation from al-Masri and Hamas spokesperson Fawzi Barhoum (who have often been interviewed by Reuters), along with the movement’s media officials.

It’s worth noting that four of the Jadallah brothers work for Reuters, in Gaza and Dubai. And the links of the Jadallah family to Hamas go back years. One of the brothers of Suhaib and Mohammed, Sallah, was among the terrorists who kidnapped and killed Israeli soldier Nahshon Waxman in 1994.

The mastermind behind that operation was Moahmmed Deif, who was recently eliminated by Israel. As Hamas’ military chief, Deif was also one of the masterminds behind the October 7 massacre in southern Israel.

If Suhaib and Mohammed were professional journalists, such background wouldn’t necessarily matter. But if they have been hosted and honored by Hamas, it’s alarming.

Unethical Nexus

Top news editors probably know it’s impossible to be a journalist in Gaza without links to Hamas, which controls the information flow. In other words, professional journalism in Gaza is impossible, and news outlets should admit it to their audience.

But being hosted by Hamas, receiving its commendations, and displaying terror groups’ insignias isn’t a case of journalists even trying to be professional. This is an agenda-driven, cooperative, symbiotic, reciprocal, and personal nexus that benefits each side.

A Hamas statement from one of the commendation events said it best:

The media office of Hamas organizes this annual event to honor creative journalists for the fourth year in a row, in appreciation of their efforts in serving the Palestinian cause.

Journalists who violate the agency’s code of ethics by receiving de-facto bribes (or at least benefits) from terrorists to “serve the Palestinian cause,” and decorate their office with terror symbols, are not deserving of international praise or the defense of the Reuters Ethics and Standards department.

#reuters ethics and standards #reuters #reuters ethics and standards editor #media bias #hamas #gaza #suhaib jadallah salem #journalists

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