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blacktooth-the-comic · 5 months ago

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"Andrew, you hussy!" -- and other alternate timeline delusions.

Pictured: an MS Paint JPEG of a simplified human figure carefully slapping red car paint on the gnarly horrorclaws of a huge fuckoff lusus. The lusus is styled after the freshwater alligator snapping turtle, a reptile and known child-biter native to Pottowatomi territories. Content Warnings for discussions of racism, hate crimes, assault, sexual abuse, harm to minors, and animal death. May or may not mention the gun we stole from that bodyguard.

♦

Your name is AMME, as of writing you are NEARLY FORTY GODDAMN YEARS OLD, and when you were a kid you were bit on the head by a snapping turtle.

You were bit on the head by a snapping turtle that you had grabbed to pull you to shore, after your sister's rapists decided against the 'homo' act of assaulting a four-year old boy and threw you into the deep pond to drown.

You had used empty beer bottles and cans to float as far as you could, before those slipped from your cold fingers and you sank, and sank, right to the murky bottom of the turtle's conservation pond, happening upon the hill of his shell in your crawling quest for higher ground.

The people responsible for trashing the pond considered themselves pure of blood and native to these lands, and spoke amongst themselves about the destruction the white man brings, unaware that your sister, aged six, and you shared a halfnative father. Your sister was lily white, blonde with blue eyes; and her teenaged attackers weren't much darker but considered themselves righteously beleaguered (and were also smoking a lot of meth).

This is a true story. Unfortunately, this is a true story. This story, which is true, had to be rewritten by journalists and popular culture in order to avoid riling North America's white supremacy terrorists; my sister rewritten to be a black girl, our attackers rewritten to be white.

"That's the plotline to 'A River Runs Through It'," your friend BILL argues mildly one night, while you are regaling this very real and true thing that goddamn happened to your family.

"I KNOW, SHUTUP," you sputter. Allegedly, your dad went to school with the idiot who would hire himself out to Hollywood by the stage name Matthew McConahaugey, or however the fuck that's spelt. There's a popculture through-line haunting the heels of your reality, outstanding tragedies and escalated ironies the likes of which could make any other Hapsburg cousin blush with jealousy.

When you were four, and your baby brother was not yet born, you and your sister were walking a familiar nightly trek, back from a party to the shack in the woods that your poor mother could barely afford to house you all in. Because of the blood ties your father could claim to an indigenous nation, you and your sister qualified for north america's shittiest healthcare and weakest nutrition, besides being housed in a mouse-infested shack with open dirt cellars shoveling mold toxins through your tiny nostrils every night.

Not even counting the extra vulnerability to stalking, kidnap and rape; known dangers to Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women (but a vulnerability anyone below a certain tax bracket would share).

Your mom, see, was a polish-catholic whitey; a sparkling blue-eyed autistic fortunate enough to have grown up in the bounty of the valley farms and woodland resourcing culture. She knew how to hunt and butcher and cure hides, how to fish and garden and ferment, a high bohemian prize in the smalltown wash of second-wave feministique and burgeoning 1980s materialism.

Your father was a golden child to his family and tribe, a football star and upright soldier, vaulted either despite of, or because of, his thick blonde hair and pale green eyes, and the dimples he would pass on to you.

Your uncles through your father were as dark as you, black hair that browned in the fields and snowpelt complexions that darkened and waned with the seasonal labor's exposure to northern continental sunlight.

The teenaged boys who attacked you and your sister the night of the turtlebite were close friends of your youngest uncle; but only knew you and your sister as the children of your white mother -- the fact that it was your dad, the town golden boy, who married a daughter from the untouchable polish clan of quiet academics and violently catholic snobbery, the fact was never absorbed by the brains of these reservation sons, brains soaked in weed, amphetamines, and liquor.

Brains bruised by poverty, generational trauma, and colonialist rape culture.

These teenaged child-rapists only knew that your mother was white, her family owned land, and your uncle, their friend, would not miss either of you for spoiling his free time with unpaid child-minding. That uncle, see, was dating and would later marry your mother's sister, your aunt, and of that union these teenaged boys assumed you and your sister's presence at the reserve; that you were the both of you "white trash", castoffs from a catholic community that was only mad at your mother over her recent divorce, rending you both parasites to your uncle's dating life, resource-greedy clingers-on there to appropriate native culture and displace native children from academia.

These teenaged child-rapists did not, or could not, understand the town golden boy was your father; because your father was on military contract and like, couldn't fucking leave to chase his battered runaway wife? Probably something like that.

"This is where Danny Glover comes in," Bill tells his wife, who is listening to you with an expression of extreme autistic discomfort.

"I still don't fucking know if any of this is real or true," you disclaim, reasonably. "Lotta head injury, all my life. Lots of bad Wipipo medsin." You wiggle your fingers at your roomy, who lifts her eyebrows in her best attempt not to look terrified.

So when your mom was still married to your dad, your dad was stationed at an army base several borders away from the hometown that they shared. As her growing family needed the money, and her ravenous brains needed the enrichment, your mom took up a job as secretary to one of your dad's superior officers.

This dude looked exactly like Danny Glover, or was Danny Glover or just sounded like Danny Glover, or you made the connection between this guy and Danny Glover for his involvement in the movie 'a river runs through it', which your mom had bade you and your sister watch when you were eleven or so (and you don't know much now, as an adult, except that delusions of fame and connection can be inheritable).

"I want to hear about the Harry Potter connection," Bill's mean wife insists, several tax brackets more fortunate than you and somehow leagues unhappier for't.

"And the time I cried snot all over Lily Gladstone," you agree, waving that she shut the fuck up. "There is no ethical storytelling under capitalism, and I still don't even think any of this is true, so let's just stay chronological m'kay?"

The night your sister was raped was recounted too many times in the tones of your victory over the snapping turtle; the night your sister was raped was rewritten before her very witness, over and over, as your turtlefight took precedence for family pride. Your sister would grow up suffering extreme paranoia of brown and mestizo people, her connection to tribal support severed, her connection to catholic support non-existent but for her victimhood pricking at the wells of roman grandparent pity.

Your sister's rape was inescapable in the family lorekeeping, and ruined connections to both sides of your entire family with guilt, shame, fear, rage. Disgust.

Your sister would suffer from impulse control disorders and violent outbursts; she would grow insanely jealous of you and for you, would obsess over imaginary wrongs and plot grand criminal schemes of theft and murder, and would eventually grow to be a child-rapist herself after her failure to murder you, shaded under the harrowing impression that nobody cared, really, when kids got raped.

Especially nobody cared when a white kid got raped, because harmony between the skincolors mattered more to the adults in our life than did the actual truth of extremist rhetorics and which communities were vulnerable to nationalist recruitment tactics. Nobody cared when a boy got raped, either, because the homosexual community was not to be besmirched by over-achieving vigilantes. And especially nobody cared when a mixed race child got raped, either side of the family reluctant to confide in the other, suspicions and blame worsened between clans, adults blind to the actual foundation of acts of sadism like sexual violence against kids; adults blind to what, exactly, narratives of power were going to convince the powerless about.

Kids were just supposed to live past their rapes, shrug and move on, sell their labor to capitalism and maybe squeeze a few more worker bees out of a vagina (theirs or someone else's, and this was marketed to us as the standard for happiness, highest proof of recovery).

The natives invoked Bikilimbas and lost a rapist or two to gunfire; but the Catholics only badgered that your sister and you forgive her attackers, a monstrous burden to place on a child and an act that was more than a little responsible for your mother's turn to 'Alternative Medicine' for your counseling and recovery.

In the eighties and nineties, see, it was vogue to heinously abuse autistic and traumatized children in the name of curing their behaviors, nevermind their actual peace of mind or feelings of security. Your sister was a chronic masturbator, her brain starved for dopamine and her violated little body in need of reclamation over its parts, and she was also a fantastical liar, spiritual fanatic, pagan posterchild pupiled to poisonous potionbrewing.

Perhaps inevitably, your sister would turn to physical and sexual violence as an avenue of reassurance; acts of sadism to dispel her existential despair, power trips to regain power by. Her situation wasn't helped by the cowardice and vanity of the father you shared, his constant angling for financial compensation from your existence (kids are expensive), nor his brush with labor trafficking and consequent convictions for things like embezzlement, intimidation, slumlordery and homeopathic grifting.

Well before the tribe didn't want your father, though, your father didn't want his tribe.

"We aren't pottowatomi," you tangent, quoting a demented old auntie who could have been lying through her blackened teeth. "We're from one of the 'uncivilized' tribes, so-named for their willingness to sully white bloodlines with brown, or curse brown bloodlines with white, or whatever." Every whitey in the room looks like they want to question that, but it's Your Fucking Turn To Speak. "Like, it was considered chill for natives to marry black slaves, but tribal leaders and colonialists both agreed that mixing marriage with ze jermins or whomever else european peasant there to do a landgrab; like, they thought that was gross? Terribly, there was an entire, specifically german, movement that considered indigenous races as pure as the white race (or aryan or however that shit went) and, much like some movements in asiatic immigrants the same, thought the mixing of two pure races was, like, fine? So whatever; Maiyami didn't get federal recognition but the reason was mostly because we hella goddamn integrated. Mostly with the jewish, and the french."

To Bill's wife, you clarify, "Been here the whole time, bitch!"

She frowns so hard you think her jaw is going to fall off.

Before or maybe after the turtle bite (you broke a beer bottle open on a rock, head still lodged firmly in that huge fuckoff turtle's maw, and stabbed at the eyes of the thing before shoving your flotation-branch down its spiny throat. The feds would find the turtle dead on your crime scene walkthrough, and lie to you that it was gunfire to end the thing's life, to ease your tiny baby environmentalist guilt.) -- but BEFORE or maybe AFTER the turtle, there was THE OWL.

You met the owl well before your sister's rape, a melanistic horned beast swooping through the station wagon's broad open windows to snatch at your mother's mouseback coinpurse, a brush of feathers across the summer night's driving sweat, your sister asleep in your lap and upset she missed the encounter (your mother hysterical and cussing god).

Probably after the rape, when you forgot many things from the scare of it all and nevermind the pondscum encephalitis (and nevermind the harry potter scar, or the concussive bite force of an alligator snapper vs soft little toddler head), was when you met Blackie the Owl in proper, when you were playing with the field mice your mother warned you not to feed.

From the mouse traps, your mother's chore was often to toss the dead mice to the swamp cats to sustain their company, feeding sometimes the kinds of birds to favor mouseflesh too, though Blackie preferred hers still living and was confident enough to snatch anything from the kids that played in her woods, fuzzy hair accessories and barbie doll heads all fair game to line her nest with.

The story is told that you were holding a gerbil, not a field mouse, aloft the day Blackie cursed you with skinwalking talents. The gerbil had been a gift to foster your love of field mice toward something less prone to rabies, and you were holding him up to get some sunlight, you lying on your back in the cool clover and protecting your fingers from angery gerbilbites by carrying him around on a bedpillow instead of in your grasp.

Pillow held above your face to shade you from the noontide sun, suddenly the pillow was shoved down atop you, elbows collapsing with a laugh because your sister would sometimes do this, start pillowfights and attempt to smother you. When you manage to bench-press the pillow off your face, though, you see naught but a pair of dragon talons balled up in the fabric, a head with the ears of a black cat with one long, fucked-up tooth stabbing down at your poor gerbil sacrifice.

They caught the footage on your landlord's security camera, you strong-arming the pillow carefully over your face so you could wiggle out from under the cat-dragon and buckflip yourself upright ninja-style, recognizing Blackie's wings but having no four-year-old's idea of just what the fuck an owl is supposed to look like up close.

"Cat dragon," you insist to your mother at the kitchen sink, ashen. You don't have a lot of words for a lot of things, and your favorite reading material is the chinese zodiac on the restaurant placemats.

"The what-scar?" Bill's mean wife interrupts, hungry to see her fandom represented at last.

"Oh, yeah," you say, laughing. "You know how JK Rowling was in amnesty international? Yeah, so was an aunt of mine. I knew Rowling as 'JoAnne Fabrics', the name of a local textile outlet, but THAT's another story."

"The original Harry Potter is also the original Dave Strider, and no I will not elaborate," your roommate quotes, looking ill now. A YouTube personality said that, once, and you aspirated your drink right there in front of her, and she didn't understand why at the time.

You nod. This story, this very true and actual real thing you're pretty sure actually happened --

This story is about Homestuck.

Specifically, this story is about Andrew Hussie's struggle with racism, his connection to your sister('s group therapy of similarly traumatised children striving to appease the normalcy-starved adults in their lives).

You say, "I knew Andrew Hussie as Drew Hussar, to distinguish him from Andy [redacted], my cousin. But then again -- a common name, Andrew Hussie, and we might have only been reading Homestuck and clowning on the forums, not necessarily in an active friendship with him or his."

Your buddy Bill nods, looking relieved to hear your measured acknowledgement of probably realities. You agree, this is all just too fantastic to be any kind of true, at least forgiving that you are hilariously faceblind and struggle with associative pattern-finding.

Maybe you're just from another timeline, displaced by all the beatings, stabbings, and poisonings your sister raised against you, her high functioning intelligence and eventual academic and financial stability won at the cost of your safety, your ability to make connections with other people, your confidence. In preteen and teenaged years your sister would set you up to get raped, repeatedly, and the both of you understanding this as just a facet of reality, a Spy vs Spy game risking nothing but catholic ideals on virginity.

Of course you just wanted your sister to make friends with other people, so she could leave you the hell alone. Of course your sister always wanted to share you with her friends, until the jealousy kicked in to get you murdered; so you learned to swerve these social connections early, and often.

'Anti-social' your family would joke of your reluctance to party.

You were very social, actually, and suffering extreme depression from the isolation, but okay. Family could joke, it wasn't them that got raped by indigenous supremacists. And you did party with your sister on her invites, which sometimes ended in serious injury to others bordering second-degree murder. Accidentally. Allegedly.

But you're pretty sure you were in the company of the origins of the homestuck character beats, you and one of your fellow rape survivors (from your sister's therapy group, and from a few hometown incidents you yourself had the privilege to survive). You remember your sister violently upset by the name "Dick Strider", and you remember explaining that your handwriting had not yet recovered from your most recent hospitalization, that the name was "Dirk', that it meant sword.

You chose Dave Strider after Dave-the-army-buddy you used to tail around the base, mistaking his mustache for your dad's. And Strider after the dude in the Hobbit cartoon, and Dirk because you, Amme, and your sister and your newly born brother all had four-letter names, a delicious joke about cussing you didn't yet have the words to define.

You are way beyond age four when this all goes down, of course, it's just that the head injuries... Nothing doesn't ever stop keep happening, time is a flat circle, and you warned him about the fucking stairs, bro.

Being a taurus to the colonial zodiac, and being in a wheelchair at the time, you somewhat fancy yourself the original tavros, your personality just as malleable and digimon-obsessed, even if you also ranted like karkat (carket, actually, like the demand to Cork It, and named after your love of cars and ketamine).

Perhaps somewhere in this hazy recollection of camaraderie amongst defectives is a lost cousin or two, a monied benefactor to fund you all, some happiness and intelligence and helpful distraction. You remember feeding your friend's ant farm something from the back yard, a moth or dead bee or such, accidentally infecting the colony with cordyceps fungi, and scrambling to turn the tragedy into story fuel because hey, at least the ants weren't raped by their uncle's friends (and let that be a lesson about closed ecosystems and building immunities anyway; no sense in living life as an ant if they're going to live and die behind featureless, sterile glass).

You remember confessing to your aspirations to have twelve children exactly; not for any heteronormative aspiration for large family or tradition or whatever, but because you wanted one of each zodiac, to run tests on and see if the personality traits, strengths and flaws really were all that accurate if you simply never taught those kids about western zodiac. There was an entire other half of the world, after all, who based personality shortcuts on a completely different calendar, and most days you felt way more tiger-ish than bull.

You remember a lot, just not if any of it is real. The way everyone around you behaved, you're scared to know which. If these delusions and connections were true, then it was also true that your sister was routinely drugging you to treat your 'social anxiety', and eventually was routinely pimping you out to friends and contacts in ever-worse grabs for connection to fame and success.

If any of this is true, then maybe all of it could be true; Danny Glover sexually harassing your mom, terrorising your entire family for the sake of his own bruised pride over your mom's rejection of his advances; a skit that Dave Chappelle would one day freeze your entire stomach with, the punchline being that your mom wore a squirrel-fur coat and was a money-chaser, and that Chappelle's character was only merely 'petty', and gleeful in his bloat of wealth and fame while the hometown beauty despaired of her humble life.

In reality, your mother chose honesty and peace before she ever chose money or fame; and the only n-word you ever dropped was landed at the loafers of your mother's abuser, and the only reason you ever dropped it was specific to the understanding that the word was harmful; because you legit had and have black family, and would have in your early life known the vagaries of casual racism.

In reality, your mother was harangued by this black dude several leagues wealthier and more powerful than she; and he was a conservative christian too, an admission that would cement your judgement against all who would claim similar, if conservative christianity meant grownass COs physically cornering your mother, right in front of you, to sexually intimidate her and curse her for a racist when she preferred to stay faithful to her marriage.

The divorce with your dad, see, was because your dad did not stick up for your mom when she was being sexually harassed on that army base way back when. Your dad even suggested that your mom simply sleep around with whomever asked, a longstanding workingclass trope and expectation of new mothers trying to secure gainful employment.

And Drew the Hussar (corsair, like a pirate, yeah hussie doesn't mean sexually avid so much as it's like, idk, some european shit? like how gary is actually the name of a type of gardening tool or primitive farming tech or some damn thing).

You are maybe eight or nine years old when you David yourself a Goliath, and land yourself in the hospital with a spinal injury about it all; and you have no regrets about the attack nor the n-bomb, except for the attention that your bravery draws from the town. White supremacy attentions, like. And second-gen Welsh and Irish catholics very easily racist, themselves, having little enough heritage to slave ownership and more than enough historical victimhood under the same colonialist royalty to plague american shores!

So like, your family's pain was always under pressure by the recruitment tactics of extremists looking for a righteous cause to do violence over. Your mother was never racist, never a liar, and never crazy -- not until her abusers found it more useful that she be thus, that the judicial system continue to favor the comfort of the higher tax brackets, and that malignant narcissists stay unchallenged by a world that also expected its children to remain civil in the face of extreme injustice.

And the fact that you dropped the n-word mattered more to your father than did the assault and harassment metered out against your mother, by the Danny Glover lookalike.

But you're not an idiot, and you know the uselessness of prejudice as just like a pattern-finding pitfall. It was bad logic, was racism, and it was bad logic to blame your pursuit of justice on the sin of Wrath, so neither the natives nor the catholics had solved the problem of the wealthy preying on the vulnerable poor.

Your mother bonded with JoAnne Rowling over their shared victimisation, and told the british interloper your entire history. JK Rowling, see, ... well, that story is on Twitter, under the name Professor Blacktooth, probably.

This story is about being homestuck, and probably also a child soldier, and probably also a vengeful Owl Spirit defending its ha'nativ babies through the calculated violence of a terrorised child.

You are maybe eleven, or twelve, or thirteen for the halloween party where you crack the joke "Andrew, you hussie!", because your best friend who-was-a-girl had a crush on the tallest cousin at the house, and he wasn't even your cousin but only shared a name with him, and that cousin had to move to Argentina besides, which sounds fake as hell, so either way you don't want to date the only Drew at that party, and not just because your friend who-was-a-girl liked him but also because You Are A Dude.

You were a dude with a documented circulation problem, even, and was stoned enough to cuddle with anything that sat still long enough to lend you their body heat, and Drew was cousin-shaped and thirteen wasn't too old to stop cuddling your cousins, and really only white people had that bad habit of sexualising kids and teens cuddling anyway, while the rest of the poors chose to live with the practical realities of heating costs, and halloween costumes with no fukken layers.

And yeah, okay, so you were cuddling The Tallest Girl At The Party and it was in the top bunk bed, because Drew was wearing a wig and you thought it was funny to hit on him, and you had a bad back from your storied history of stabbing evil chumps, plural, and you almost always wanted to just Go Lay Down Somewhere Quiet, and you the both of you shared migraines and social anxiety, and you might have wished out loud that Drew was a girl or at least shorter than you right before your friend-who-was-a-girl came into the room to try and make out with her crush, only to be crushed to discover you yourself canoodling in a bed making the tallest girl at the party turn several shades of red.

And here's what you remember, of the time you nearly lost your eyeball (it was dangling down your cheek, the world in cockeyed split screen); or maybe this was the injury set from the time that paparazzo hit you with his car princess-diana style, or that other time the town pedophile hit you with his car in an attempted excuse to 'drive you to the hospital' (to somewhere secluded, more likely), or maybe this was the injury where your sister clubbed you over the head with a decorative old wrench, and you played possum in that driveway so long that your blood glued your long warrior's hair to the gravel in the settling frost.

You remember either Drew or some cousin, or one of your wealthier guests, was colorblind, and so your bloodshot eyeball looked not red, but black to them, and the green eyes of your fishbelly maiyami heritage looked only to this person as a very pale grey, nearly white the whole way through, though they could still register the flecks of gold and gosh, didn't you just have the prettiest eyes in the joint?

And wasn't it true, that the only cousins in that house were merely your cousins through your mother's second marriage, and your babies likely unflippered?

And you remember your sister constantly trying to set you up with one paramour or another, despite your highly autistic asexuality and preference toward intellectual and creative pursuits (and god bluss lady gaga, anyway, for explaining to a magazine how sexual relationships usurp creativity).

At that Halloween party, you remember this entire cultural mountain of pressure to 'be normal', to recover from your several encounters with horrorshow monsters in full, which meant an average interest in sex; and you remember not being afraid, at all, to do as your sister encouraged, knowing full well that being young was for making mistakes, and that none of these relationships were supposed to matter by the time you were an adult.

♦

"So that's it?" Bill's mean wife says, sitting back with crossed arms and a jaw set against compassion.

"This is, like, a mysteriously numbered repeat attempt to communicate all of this," you answer, hurt. "I keep forgetting shit. Remembering shit. Drinking to forget shit. I accidentally joined the army, completely unawares I had an entire medical file, psych record, AND TRAIL OF JUDICIAL PAPERWORK behind my entire twenty six years of life to disqualify me, not to mention a cadre of completely alarming health upsets whose origins are sometimes a mystery to me, which comes off as I'm either a hypochondriac and malingerer, or stubborn idiot refusing to acknowledge his limits."

You flap your arms penguin-style. "I do know that I am... pathologically honest, though, and not at all lying or exaggerating about the concussions and memory losses and whatnot, and if it suits your comfort to toss delusion or schizophrenia atop all of that then I ain't gonna squawk. I just wanted to share with my friends that, well, yeah I Had Opportunities and still chose to leave them behind with my sister's social circles, because of all the --"

"All the rapes, yeah," Bill helps, helpfully, nodding and sorry in the eyes.

It matters that Bill is white and has black family, too. It matters that Andrew Hussie's early comics were kinda hella raycist.

"All the associative memories," I explain. "And from experience, my sister was never going to change, around me. I'm her trigger. I'm her reminder of the unfairness of the world, her treasure and her curse, her supporting witness and her amnesiatic disbeliever. And she's my Bro Strider, hypersexual and violent, jealously hoarding me inside of a shitty apartment under the guise of safety but really just to monopolize my loyalty, and sell footage of me to creeps online, if we had things like webcams and internet growing up. Which we didn't. On account of the poverty."

"Kinda feel like poverty isn't what made your sister ... do. Everything that she did." Your roomy adds, still on your side despite the stress of uncertainty hovering around all these fantastic claims and possibly misremembered spikes of trauma.

This is your conclusion for this post on tumblr dot com, in the hopes that you aren't fruitlessly scaring the bejeezus out of an innocent webcomic author;

"Generational poverty stole our family early to their graves, left many of us languishing in monotony and pain, starved us and saw our babies born dead. Poisoned us when our economic superiors polluted our lands, denied us access to critical infrastructure, stole our children away, *legally* displaced these kids to white schools and churches that murdered them. My grandma was sterilised by an evil ladyparts doctor, my uncle born with disabilites from a syphillitic infection that the army had given to my grandpa with reused blood-draw needles.

"And," you continue, cold with nausea. "And any possible brown or black ally I could ever have in this country, is going to see my vitiligo and cast judgement."

"YOU DO NOT HAVE VITILIGO, YOU JUST HEARD THAT FROM MICHEAL JACKSON," Bill's shitty wife explodes, repeating an old elementary school taunt.

You argue in a drawl, "Auto-immune disorders triggered by heinous amounts of childhood stress, hey, those existed way long before the celebrities were around to 'raise awareness', but thanks for participating. Mypipo called it the moon's curse, and nicknamed me Pony for the palomino spotting, but y'all going to stay sexist and assume the moon curse is about menstruation and the pony nickname was a sexual innuendo, cos white people fucking suck." This examples the rapid-fire lacony that inspired dave strider's deadpan delivery, his 'cool' in actuality an irrefutable depression, his brother dead through most of the webcomic because truths came to light about your sister's psychopathy and she got roundly excluded from many of the projects she had roped you into.

But the conclusion is thus, as you finger-guns at your roomy and moonwalk out of the small kitchen you're all hotboxing to save on product, "No war but class war, babes."

#hamsteaks #homestuck #blacktooth comics #blacktooth articles #child abuse #abuse survivor #trauma #complex ptsd #tw: bummer #racism #racial violence #rape #MMIW #patriarchy #rape culture #homeopathy #homeopathic grifters #abuse of autistic minors

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zooterchet · 8 months ago

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Agency Career (CIA Field Agent, Raised Since Birth; 1985-2024)

1989: Drop of Berlin Wall, informed tip to Holy See on Rabbi Anatole; vice and collegiate draft, of athletes wife. Polish Jewish labor mills, Gentile produced pork; isolated Israeli produce, to Arabia.

1992: Removal of amphetamines from children's medicine, IQ test revealed passage on State Police Captain's examination at maximum level; other child, converted Converso, allowed to return as Judaism; end of Sino-Judaic movement, Egyptian.

1996: Informed tip on Andrew Wachowski, Carrie-Anne Moss, and Raven Laventi, for enslavement of dominatrixes, preferred wives of Garfield Lodge rules, however as submissives, as if common prostitutes; rule reformed, 1860s, President James Garfield, Battle of Shiloh; wars won, Vicksburg, and Wilderness.

1999: Murder of Alice C. O'Neill, claimed named Charlebois, for Colombian betrayal into Likud, past war advisors of Chinese enemy; signals of CVS German-Israel alliance with PRCC-Diet, Japanese South Korean transit. Dragonball produced, at siding with North Korea, and the People's Republic of Communist China. Future trade partners, under George W. Bush, "Joshua Tree".

2003: Yeltsin revealed through Hopkinton, Massachusetts, as center basin of school shootings, beginning in 1990s; Holocaust History Museum, disapproval of temporary lesbianism, for shame of being Holocaust victims; German-Israel revealed as being the prime conspiracy, Israelis thrown out of orders as Wehrmacht. Rise of George Soros, Romalian, having had a precognitive accident, on motorway, dueling Mossad.

2004: Revealing of External Security pimping scandal, through Hamas; beginning of mathematical frequency, planted by Wiccans, Confederate-Catholics, to reform with African and Asian communities. Spanish pimping, "Ali", Episcopal drafts, "Popeye", Irish cops, "Blintzen", German spies, "Schnitzel", and remaining endeavors, Russian factories, "Google", African voudoun, "Mosey", and British fascist, "Mandatory".

2006: Sheriff's Cajun, of Fugitive Slave Act, removed through frame of Marvel Comics, under auspice of Hell's Angels; Third Degree interrogation, of Lairds of gender therapy, the mating of wives to unusual genomes of logic. Shut down, by lesbian accusations, the combined Kampuchean logic of all tribals associated, having been declared as poorly invertebrate. Friends Stand United, contacted, for Hollywood hit; the Foreign Office, readmission to destiny. The CIA's blessing, given, to learn new lessons.

2010: Suicide Squad on print; dietary disorders, of major operatives, offered as medicine and pills; except for Captain Boomerang, tomato sauce, potentially deadly kill ratio; "Vile", "Vava"; Doctor Ciel Mallory, Alice O'Neill.

2013: Murder of Whitey Bulger, for releasing secret that the Beatles, was anti-British, and that homosexual children steal brides, through the "Beatles", on forged check proxy of self, on strike to head; with lesbians, allowed to marry, however caged and hazed and brutally murdered, if a fan of American music of British recording studio print.

2016: Separation of factory unions, white supremacists, ordered, for African civil rights, blacks being the foundational bedrock of community, opposed to Asians; simpleton little people, working in small factories, without any ability to express own face. Racial inferiors, compared to Africans; Africans incapable of murder, Asians incapable of yielding. John Rocker.

2020: Mass quandry quarry, of INTERPOL, Unitarians, Tong, MI-6, and Abwehr, as Art Bell subscribers, held in prison facilities apart from wives and children; children turned over to CIA indentures, as orphans, to become proper Americans, as State Police Colonels; any dissenting, ignored by news, their supporting journalists indemnified, by Mayor Wu, of Boston.

2024: Gay leaders outed, as George W. Bush, Kim Jong-un, and Crown Prince William; having claimed own condition, is the other, the inability to produce a child, instead adopting under false claim; German-Mormon.

#cia #batman #4chan #matrix #dune #mature woman

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namitomoon · 1 year ago

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Just saw the notes for the tumblr post of the theory that Aaron Bushnell MIGHT have been trans and damn. It was full of pure venom against "trans" and "nb" people. But because they put "White" before trans and nb, it comes off as a "reasonable post-colonial criticism against self-centered whiteys" instead of a disproportionate negative answer to a pretty inoffensive post. Kinda like how you can be an Andrew Tate-like misogynist as long as you add "White" before "women".

Calling trans people self-centered is shitty considering that every single queer account I follow here and on Twitter has posted non-stop 24/7 about Palestine.

Reminds me of that post someone did against "White gentrifiers" in their neighborhood altering the character of it that, you know, comes off as pretty similar in tone to blood and soil racists who complain about "those pesky people" moving into their neighborhoods and ruining them.

Fucking chill, perhaps?

0 notes

rickywilson · 7 years ago

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kaiserchiefs 👯‍♂️ #moves

#ricky wilson #whitey #andrew white #kaiser chiefs #videos #ricky being ricky #instagram

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collectorscorner · 4 years ago

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kaiser-chiefs-fan · 8 years ago

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Meanwhile Up In Heaven at Birmingham

#gif #kaiser Chiefs #meanwhile Up in heaven #lighting #Birmingham #band #music #concert #gig #Ricky Wilson #peanut #nick baines #vijay mistry #vj #whitey #Andrew white #Simon rix

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diaryofanangryasianguy · 5 years ago

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I feel gross about Yang giving the racist free media instead of letting him fade out into obscurity. Who stands to benefit? Why use the rare moment when anti-Asian racism is at the center, as an example of his quick forgiveness and neutrality as a candidate? white comedians are already acting like he lost his job cause of cancel culture, not cause of RECENT racism. Any one of us would also put our job on the line if we publicly used slurs no matter the so-called intent. 1/2

2/2 it's "cancel culture" when a racist suffers the consequences to his own words coming out of his own mouth. "we are all human” is such a passive, weird thing for yang to say in response to raging anti-asian racism. and if the racist is not guilty, why'd he go deleting the videos once he got snl? how much worse was the rest of the podcast? it actually pisses me off that the only Asian candidate is acting so neutral to not lose his right wing voters. he could find better people to forgive.

Exactly.

I really hate that whole “I’m gonna be the bigger person by sitting down and talking to a racist.”

Bitch if you’re not white in this country, you’ve been sitting down and letting these racists blabber on. A conversation with a racist ain’t nothing new or revolutionary. That’s just kissing ass. Plus, that cracker even called Andrew an anti-semitic Chinese slur himself and he was still like “I’m gonna sit down with the dude and he shouldn’t be fired.” Like bro. Show some damn guts because as Asian people to another, we’re watching.

It was very disappointing of Andrew Yang, especially considering that the vanilla boy didn’t even care that he was being racist. In fact, he embraced being racist.

So yeah, we are justified to be pissed that the only monoracial Asian candidate (also the only candidate that the slur actually affects) gave in to some racist whitey. How many more will he give in to if the same thing happens again?

Angry Asian Guy

#anon #ask #long reads #tw sensitive material

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mitjalovse · 5 years ago

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John Mellencamp's funny moniker reminded me of a fact that some musicians' early works don't represent them that much later on. However, I am not merely talking about them learning what the deal is on these pieces, I am discussing the latter's incongruity with their consequent discography. Of course, that inconsistency can be overstated like in the case of Parva's 22. You actually heard them on my blog, they are Kaiser Chiefs, but they released an album under a different name before they became one of the noughts' rock stalwarts. Thus, 22 sounds like a demo version for their rock escapades, though you notice they were closer to The Strokes at that point. Actually, they did their own version of what the other band did, yet you can still hear the traces of Kaiser Chiefs.

#parva #22 #don't get me wrong #ricky wilson #andrew 'whitey' white #simon rix #nick 'peanut' baines #nick hodsgon #stevie henderson #00's music #indie rock

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atomicwedgienerd · 6 years ago

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Boyfriend Twins No Longer

Derek was furious. Last night had been his 21st birthday and what should have been a blast had been ruined by all the jerks at that gay bar. “Boyfriend twins!” The taunt rung through his mind. Nobody had ever made fun of him and Arjun before! They didn’t even look that similar. After all, Derek might be tan but he could never be compared to Arjun. Sure they had both been wearing Abercrombie shirts and khakis in nearly the same hue, but lots of people dressed like that! And besides, Derek though their matching sneakers were cute. And yet, when they walked into that one queer bar in town, the hipsters all turned to them and immediately started laughing. The door guy asked if they were clones and the bartender asked if there was a 2-for-1 special at the Abercrombie shop. Like they were so cool just because they had piercings and tattoos! That didn’t make them unique! There were plenty of hipster “boyfriend twins” in that bar and nobody gave them any guff! Regardless, Derek couldn’t stop fixating on it. He hated being criticized by other gays after a lifetime of being mocked by straight people for being different. He glanced over at Arjun as he snoozed, admiring his butt in the matching pair of Andrew Christian briefs that they had actually bought in a 2-for-1 sale. Well damn, thought Derek, maybe we are a little similar. “Are you ok, hun?” Arjun asked, stirring from his sleep. Derek sighed and turned away. “You can’t be upset about the boyfriend twins thing, can you?” Derek harumphed and turned to his lover, unaware that the mystical forces that grant birthday wishes had decided to pay attention to Derek this year. “I just wish we weren’t so similar!” Derek said angrily. A lighting bolt cracked across the sky, scaring both of the boyfriends. “You’re being dramatic,” Arjun sighed as he got up from the bed. “Let me make you some coffee and we can do something fun for your birthday. Arjun headed out to the kitchen, his ass looking great in the jockstrap he was wearing. Wait, that wasn’t right, thought Derek. They had the same pair of underpants! “Arjun!” Derek cried. “What’s up with that jockstrap!?” “Uh duh, it’s what I always wear, bro,” Arjun yelled back from the kitchen. That didn’t seem right to Derek. He looked down at his own lap and noticed that he was now wearing a pair of plain Hanes tighty-whiteys. That definitely wasn’t right. He sat up and leaned over the edge of the bed but something else was wrong. His feet didn’t reach the floor anymore. Derek panicked and stood up. He looked in the mirror and something was off. Where they had both been a solid 5’11” before, Derek couldn’t be more than 5’8” now and he was looking leaner than usual. There was something weird going on with his hair but Derek couldn’t really discern it in the mirror. He grabbed his pair of thick black framed glasses from the end table and threw them on. His hair was paler, more red, than before and seemed to be stuck in a weird center part. This was not the haircut he had gotten a week ago. And wait a minute! Derek didn’t need glasses! He threw them off and the world turned into a total blur. Derek started to panic, breathing heavily and starting to hyperventilate. Arjun reentered the room, or at least Derek thought the blurry shape was Arjun—it seemed taller—and handed Derek a glass of skim milk. “What’s this?” Derek whined, his voice noticeably higher pitched. “Where is my coffee?” “You can’t drink coffee, bro,” Arjun laughed, his voice noticeably deeper. “You’re spastic enough as it is.” Arjun took a deep sip of his coffee. “Give me a sip of your coffee then!” Derek whined. Arjun laughed. “You need to put on your glasses dude.” Derek did as he was told and was shocked as the world came into focus. The Arjun in front of him was different. He was taller for one, at least 6’2” now, and substantially more muscular than he had been before. Whereas Arjun had always been clean shaven, he was now sporting a decent five o’clock shadow. Derek rubbed his face; it was now smooth where before he had been sporting the beginnings of a beard. And then Derek noticed Arjun wasn’t drinking coffee at all. He had a protein shake. “Something isn’t right!” Derek wheezed. Arjun rolled his eyes and handed him an inhaler. “You need to calm down bro. And use your inhaler. You know you’re not supposed to get excited. It’s time for us to get dressed and head to campus anyways.” “But it’s my birthday!” Derek complained, taking three short puffs of the inhaler. “So who cares!?” Arjun laughed. “Get out of my room and go get dressed!” Arjun’s room!? But they had shared a room for six months. Regardless, Derek felt too timid to argue and he shuffled meekly out of the room. Derek headed down the hallway and then noticed his backpack peeking out from their study. He opened the door and was shocked at what he saw. It wasn’t a study any more. It had turned into a bedroom. In the center was a twin sized bed with Pokemon sheets. The walls were decorated with anime posters and cardboard cut outs of Lord of the Rings figures. There was an entire shelf of trophies from Math League, Chess Club, the 24-Hour Coding Challenge, Klingon Karaoke. Whoever had this room was a total dork! And that’s when Derek saw it. A framed picture on the wall of a total dork with Patrick Stewart at a comic convention. The guy looked familiar even though he was wearing thick glasses and the nerdiest clothes Derek had ever seen. He looked closer and gasped. It was HIM. But this wasn’t right! This room belonged to a total dork and Derek wasn’t a geek! He barely even used his computer. And yet this room had a massive desk with multiple computers on them, running World of Warcraft! Derek looked at the picture again and shook his head. This couldn’t be right. He would never dress like this! And yet when Derek opened the closet. all the clothes matched those in the pictures. Plaid button downs, cheap pleated dress slacks, shiny leather shoes. None of it seemed right. “Hurry the fuck up and get dressed!” Arjun yelled from out in the hall. Derek had never heard him yell like that before. That wasn’t the Arjun he knew but something made Derek quiver. He did not want to make Arjun mad! He sighed and started getting dressed. He buttoned up the button down all the way to the top and felt compelled to add a too short black tie. He put on a pair of clashing brown slacks that stopped a couple of inches above his ankle and couldn’t stop himself from attaching a pair of red suspenders that yanked the waist of the pants up above his belly button. All of Derek’s socks were white crew socks now and they clashed with his black patent leather shoes but he could hear Arjun getting impatient so he threw them on in resignation. He was scared to make Arjun mad; something he had never felt before. He looked at himself in the mirror and sighed. He looked like a total dork! He had definitely shrunk too! There was no way he was over 5’2” now. “HURRY UP DWEEB!” Arjun boomed from the living room. Derek grabbed his backpack and meekly shuffled out, his confidence totally eradicated. He gasped when he saw his boyfriend. Arjun towered over him now, standing at a solid 6’6”. Where he had been slightly muscled before, he was now a total meathead, weighing in at 300 lbs of pure muscle. The five o’clock shadow he had moments before was now a beard of epic proportion that came down to mid chest and his hair was up in an unruly and super masculine bun. Arjun’s muscles were massive… unlike anything Derek had ever seen and they were on full display as Arjun was now wearing a muscle tank that said “Give Me Deadlifts or Give Me Death” on it. On his legs, he wore tight black sweats that showed off every bit of muscle in his thighs and his massive calved. His arms were now dotted with tattoos and an 8 gauge septum piercing adorned his nose while double zero gauges rested comfortably in his ears. “S-s-s-since when do you l-l-l-lift weights?” Derek said, now aware that he stuttered. “S-s-s-s-since fucking forever, braceface,” Arjun laughed. Braceface? Why would Arjun call him that? But Derek reached up and touched his mouth and knew the answer. Huge clunky orthodontics were now glued to his teeth and when he caught his reflection in the mirror, he sighed. “You sh-sh-shouldn’t talk to your own boyfriend like that,” Derek implored. This sent Arjun into a series of hearty chortles. “Boyfriend!?” he laughed. “I would never date a dweeb like you, fuckwad. The only reason we live together is that the college said I needed to get my grades up if I wanted to stay on the weightlifting team and well, you’re too much of a fucking pussy to stand up to me when I ask you to do my homework.” Derek tried to argue but found himself getting too nervous. I guess I am too much of a pussy, he thought. “You’re right, Arjun,” Derek complied. Arjun rolled his eyes. “How many times have I told you? It’s AJ, not Arjun. Only my mom calls me Arjun. Now let’s get going.” Arjun grabbed Derek by the waist of his tighty whiteys, effortlessly lifting him up in a painful wedgie and carried him out the door. As they walked to campus, Derek felt all eyes on them. People were swooning over Arjun—er—AJ and pointing and laughing at Derek the whole way. He couldn’t stand it! AJ and Derek couldn’t be more different. That’s when it hit Derek. The wish. HE HAD WISHED FOR THIS. “Th-th-this isn’t what I wanted,” Derek said meekly as they arrived on campus. “Well I didn’t want to have to spend time with the university’s least attractive virgin but here we are,” AJ said as he dumped a bunch of books in Derek’s hands. “I’m going to need all these papers written by Monday so I can stay on the team.” “B-b-b-but-“ “No buts, dork!” AJ yelled as he shoved him towards the library. Derek looked at AJ with tears in his eyes. They had been so close, so in love, and now this was their life. More muscular hunks walked up to AJ as they started heading off to the gym. Derek turned meekly and started shuffling towards the library, his spindly legs giving him an awkward gait. “Hey nerd!” AJ yelled after Derek. “You forgot your student ID!” He flung it at Derek and it hit him right in the forehead, causing a chorus of laughs from AJ’s weightlifting bros. Derek struggled to pick it up from the ground without dropping all his books and gasped at his ID. For a brief moment, it listed the correct information: “Derek Parker, English Comp” before shimmering for a moment and changing. Derek blinked his eyes and looked at it again through this thick coke-bottle glasses. “Derwin Pimpleberg, Computer Science,” he sighed. Derek—make that Derwin—had totally changed, and all because of this stupid birthday wish. He headed into the library wanting to cry. Luckily, Derwin found academic achievement easy, which was great because soon AJ was making him do not only his homework, but also all of AJ’s weightlifting bros’ homework. AJ and his boys would come around on Saturdays and get wasted before heading out leaving Derwin alone to play World of Warcraft all weekend. While AJ would bring home a different stud every night to fuck, Derwin was alone reading fantasy novels and writing World of Warcraft fanfiction. And the noise from AJ’s heavy fucking made Derwin sad. Before the change, Derek and Arjun had had plenty of sex, but Derwin—well that was a different story. He was a virgin and try as he might over the next few decades, no one ever wanted to have sex with him and he remained a virgin forever. Eventually, the now roommates graduated but AJ didn’t want to let Derwin go. Why would he? Derwin was too meek to fight with AJ and would clean up after him, make his protein shakes, and wash his dirty gym clothes for him. Besides, whereas AJ’s degree was useless, Derwin’s computer science degree was a cash cow and Derwin was making tons of money consulting. Of course, AJ had made Derwin sign over all of his bank accounts to him so AJ could focus on professional body building instead of working, meaning that Derwin still had to wear cheap dorky clothes and couldn’t really afford to go out, not that he had any friends he needed to see. A few year later, Derwin had to go to his high school reunion and AJ decided to tag along. All of Derek’s friends were shocked to see that their old buddy was now a total nerd stereotype that went by Derwin but they were all enamored with AJ and joined in on mocking, ridiculing, and beating up Derwin. As his former friends hoisted him up the flagpole so he had to just dangle there in an atomic wedgie, Derwin sighed. He had wished that he and AJ were different and well, it couldn't have come any more true.

#nerdification #nerdtf #gaytf #m2mtf

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antoine-roquentin · 7 years ago

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Pity the conservative film critic. Suffering through so many juvenile, raunchy flicks and mindless blockbusters. Why even the great films are marred. No matter how extraordinary the film, something comes along to spoil it. Something…politically correct.

Maybe it’s the villain, an evil giant multinational corporation dumping oceans of toxins into the local river, which also happens to be the town’s water supply.

Maybe it’s Mr. Potter’s bank threatening to foreclose on the old homestead.

Typical liberal pablum, snarls the conservative critic. All corporations are evil. Banks are foreclosing on everybody’s sick grandma’s farm.

It hardly matters that socially conscious films like A Civil Action, North Country, Norma Rae, Silkwood and Erin Brockovich are extraordinarily entertaining films with Oscar-level direction and performances. What matters to the conservative film critic is that they are mere whored-up vehicles for socialist propaganda. And only he (and it’s always a he) is wise enough to see it.

Whatever would American film audiences have done without the conservative film critic to enlighten them as to the “awfulness” of Jordan Peele’s Get Out? The film boasted a perfect 100 score from critics on the movie review aggregator Rotten Tomatoes. That is until National Review’s Armond White reviewed the film. Where other critics saw the “satirical horror movie we’ve been waiting for, a mash-up of Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? and The Stepford Wives that’s more fun than either and more illuminating, too,” Armand, who is African American, saw a film—which he dubbed “Get Whitey”—that was “tailored to please the liberal status quo.”

The Chicago Reader’s J.R. Jones must have been watching another horror-comedy called Get Out, because he saw a brilliant film “that sticks closely to genre convention even as its ribbing of white liberals hardens into a social point.”

Selma was another film with a 99 percent rating on Rotten Tomatoes whose perfect score was spoiled by a critic from a conservative publication, this time Nigel Andrews of the Financial Times. Andrews, unlike every other reviewer, panned Selma as “a dead-as-a-plank re-enactment of a pietised ‘then’: a 50-year-old battle of ideals between Good Guys (MLK, LBJ in civil rights reform mode) and Bad Guys (Governor Wallace, keeping the Alabama hate fires burning) that seems exactly that: 50 years.”

Unsurprisingly, National Review’s White similarly hated the film (though he loved that jingoistic homage to endless war American Sniper). White called Selma “a mediocre and disingenuous film” and criticized the movie for “rubbing soft spots” and “sore spots” (i.e., depicting the murders of black children and white allies) instead of “making meaning.” (“Soft spot” is certainly a strange way to describe the murder of four black girls by a white supremacist.)

Until recently there was a paucity of films starring, written by or directed by African Americans. Blacks largely played the role of thugs or servants. As the role of blacks in Hollywood has slowly begun to broaden it has presented a unique problem for conservative magazines. How to criticize socially conscious African American films without sounding blatantly racist?

National Review seems to have hit on a successful solution when it hired Armond White. As an African American, White can freely trash socially conscious, historical “black films” like Selma and Twelve Years a Slave with little fear of a racial backlash. White can say things that white conservative critics are thinking, that they would have easily spouted twenty years ago, but dare not say in public today. And he says a lot of such things. For instance: “Who can forget the throwback image of British director Steve McQueen jumping Jim Crow at this year’s Oscars?”

Then there was White’s depiction of the 1963 Birmingham church bombing that killed four African American girls as “one of The Movement’s Greatest Hits.”

Not to mention his constant dog whistles that Hollywood Jews control the media’s image of black people.

When Twelve Years a Slave (Academy Award: Best Picture) came out National Review cautiously asked scholar Thomas Hibbs to review the film. Hibbs turned in a thoughtful piece which lauded the film. The editors tried again. In the print edition, conservative New York Times’ columnist Ross Douthat reviewed the film. Again, a positive review.

Soon after that, National Review hired White. He had dismissed Twelve Years a Slave in CityArts writing that it “belongs to the torture porn genre with ‘Hostel,’ ‘The Human Centipede’ and the ‘Saw’ franchise.”

Wrote White:

These tortures might satisfy the resentment some Black people feel about slave stories (“It makes me angry”), further aggravating their sense of helplessness, grievance–and martyrdom. It’s the flipside of the aberrant warmth some Blacks claim in response to the superficial uplift of ‘The Help’ and ‘The Butler.’ And the perversion continues among those whites and non-Blacks who need a shock fest like ‘12 Years a Slave’ to rouse them from complacency with American racism and American history. But, as with ‘The Exorcist,’ there is no victory in filmmaking this merciless. The fact that McQueen’s harshness was trending among Festivalgoers (in Toronto, Telluride and New York) suggests that denial still obscures the history of slavery: Northup’s travail merely make it possible for some viewers to feel good about feeling bad (as wags complained about Spielberg’s ‘Schindler’s List’ as an ‘official’ Holocaust movie–which very few people went to see twice). McQueen’s fraudulence further accustoms moviegoers to violence and brutality.

Just the thing National Review was looking for. A black reviewer who could spout highfaluting hokum for its racist white audience.

White was immediately given a chance to write about the film. He went profoundly negative calling the film “decidedly unpleasant (and unpopular).” It was “awarded (Best Picture) purely to make the Academy feel good about itself as a defense against Hollywood’s standard segregated practices.” It “distorted the history of slavery while encouraging and continuing Hollywood’s malign neglect of slavery’s contemporary impact.”

Conservative film criticism is so easy any conservative can do it. Simply choose a film with a social justice theme (say, family farmers versus the bank), then ignore everything else about the film. National Review critic Kevin Williamson carried this off spectacularly when he was tasked with reviewing Hell and High Water. Again, the film garnered overwhelmingly glowing reviews, including a 96 top critics score on Rotten Tomatoes.

Hell and High Water, which pitted two rural everymen versus The Bank, seemed to resonate with everyone: snobby film critics and conservatism’s base in the boonies. One might think that in this day and age when conservatism’s base is rabidly anti-Wall Street, a conservative film critic would go ga-ga over Hell and High Water.

Wrong.

“[M]an, is this movie stupid,” wrote Williamson. Who then spends 700 words nitpicking ways other than bank robbery that the heroes could have raised enough money to save the family homestead. Like asking for a loan.

Conservative critics often seem unable to comprehend the basics of theme or characterization. One tried-and-true theme is that of the underdog battling some powerful entity–for example, the family farmers in Places of the Heart taking on The Bank, or the spunky legal assistant battling the giant chemical corporation poisoning a small town in Erin Brockovich. Conservatives would have us turn these themes on their head, so that we would root for the poor beleaguered chemical company that was only trying to maximize shareholder value like any true blue American company is expected to do.

Williamson offers an alternative movie pitch: Two brothers walk into a financial institution with an oil-lease document and say, “Hello, there, Mr. Banker! I’m about to have a passive income of $600,000 a year and would like a $40,000 loan to pay off the lien on my property until that first monthly check comes in. Would you like to be my banker?”

Perhaps this is why there are few conservative screenwriters in Hollywood. They think a man with a line of equity walking into a bank and getting a loan would make riveting drama.

This is not say conservative film critics hate every film. They love most Clint Eastwood movies. They love the Left Behind series. Not long ago National Review put out its own list of “greatest conservative films.” Among them, the amateurish B-movie Red Dawn, about the Soviet Union invading the US. Many of the films on the list have nothing to do with conservatism. A Simple Plan? It is hard to see what conservatives like about a greedy guy getting away with countless murders–unless they simply have a hard on for greedy guys. Braveheart? Why because of Mel “fucking Jews” Gibson? Team America: World Police. Conservatives don’t seem to realize this film was satire. Ghostbusters? Groundhog Day? Okay, fun films, but they are about as conservative as Bernie Sanders and far from the greatest anything.

It’s not all doom and gloom for the conservative film critic. Clint Eastwood still has a few movies left in him before he shuffles muttering and drooling into the sunset. As does Mel Gibson. And now that Steven Bannon has vacated the West Wing we will likely be treated to more documentaries about Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin. But in the end it’s more fun to pan a great film than to praise a mediocre one. Besides, the base doesn’t tune into FOX News and Rush Limbaugh for good news or good reviews. It tunes in to feel angry. That’s why it reads conservative film reviews that begin “Man, is this movie stupid.”

They get off on it.

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