#car dealer va

[prioritytoyotachesapeake]

How to maintain the resale value of your Toyota is something worth thinking about, whether you plan to sell your Toyota in the near future or simply want to keep its value intact over the years. Here are some tips from your trusted Toyota dealer on a few steps you can take to ensure that your investment remains valuable.

[thewhumpcaretaker]

Vincent high while Chidi gently carries him somewhere safer so the housekeepers don’t see him in a vulnerable state!!!!!!!!!

I always thought that Chidi would care much about the Marquis’ reputation because simply, Vincent cares too much of his reputation haha

I love this!!!!!!!! Thank you so much for the ask. 💖

I feel like I took it darker than you even intended, for the ANGST. Plus we never got a relapse/overdose chapter from Chidi's perspective like the one we had with John, so I think it will be interesting to compare. Anyway, enjoy!

-⚜- Carrying Your Heart -⚜-

TW: cocaine use, relapse, overdose, panic attack

Disclaimer: I don’t have firsthand experience with cocaine overdose, This is based on research and anecdotes online. It may be inaccurate.

Chidi was an absolute wreck.

He was standing perfectly still of course, but his narrow eyes were frozen into an even harsher squint than usual, and no one dared approach him.

Vincent had given him an unexpected break and gone for a drive without him, during his usual shift. He didn’t do that very often – they were normally inseparable these days. Why be apart unless he was doing something Chidi wouldn’t approve of? And there was only one thing Vincent did that Chidi seriously disapproved of…

But he wouldn’t. They’d talked about it. He’d promised, and Chidi had to trust him. He was probably just on a date or in bed with someone else. Because that’s so much better, Chidi thought. His heart did a strange sort of squeeze like it was trying to eat itself.

He shifted restlessly and turned again to the window where he’d been gazing out at the palace driveway for the past hour at least. The evening was darkening under flat, misty cloud cover, drenching everything in grey. Vincent had left at around three o’clock, and it was almost eight. He’d stayed out for dinner, and Chidi couldn’t summon much of an appetite while he was gone.

This time, though, he saw Vincent’s car swing past the hedges and fountain, up to the front steps. He had to physically hold himself back from rushing down to greet Vincent in person. Just wait, he’ll be inside in a minute and then you’ll know if he’s okay, he told himself. He watched the on-duty bodyguard climb out of the passenger seat and the chauffeur circle around to the rear passenger door – and stop.

The chauffeur and bodyguard consulted with each other, and the bodyguard pulled out his phone. In another moment, he was getting a call. Before the man could even speak: “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t…The Marquis’ not making any sense and he won’t get up. We can’t do this, you need to deal with him.” There were vague sounds on the other end of the line, of Vincent babbling at the man in a low, fast, desperate way. Shit. Chidi had been right after all. “I think he has a fever or - ”

His grip on the phone had already become dangerous. “Just stay there.”

He was down the steps before either of them could have moved regardless, and practically shoved them out of the way.

Vincent had managed to get out of the car when he approached, but he was trembling violently. He saw Chidi and a look of panic flashed over his already pallid face. “Just give me a second. I can walk. Just…” He turned away, folding his arms over the top of the car door to support himself and burying his head in them. “Je suis désolé. Ne me regarde pas. [I’m sorry. Don’t look at me.]”

“Vincent, ça va. Je ne suis pas en colère contre toi. Nous pourrons en parler quand tu te sentiras mieux. Pour l'instant, je veux juste vous aider. Peux-tu me donner la main ? [Vincent, it’s okay. I’m not angry with you. We can talk about it when you’re feeling better. For now, I just want to help you. Can you give me your hand?]”

“Non! Non, ne me fais pas bouger. S'il te plaît... [No! No, don’t make me move. Please…]”

Chidi rounded on the bodyguard with absolutely vicious speed and hissed out, “Why the fuck didn’t you stop him?”

“I didn’t know it was a dealer until he got back in the car, it’s not my job to ask questions!”

“IT IS YOUR GOD DAMN – “ he cut himself off before someone could hear him and counted to ten, breathing deeply. Besides, no one could hear him losing his temper about this. No one could know what was going on, Vincent wouldn’t want that.

“You were right, he has a fever,” he said to the chauffeur, a little too forcefully. “He must be sick. Someone should get a doctor immediately. And clear a path to his bedroom, get the servants out of my way. They don’t see this, they don’t hear of this. Do you understand? Or you’ll be worse than reprimanded.”

“Yes, sir.” They both scrambled out of sight, and Chidi set a hand on Vincent’s shoulder. He could feel body heat radiating off of him. He really did have a fever.

Vincent let out an audible moan of discomfort. Everything must hurt so badly right now, every sensation. “Ne le faites pas [Don’t],” he managed, “Je ne veux pas marcher, s’il te plaît, je ne peux pas, j’ai l’impression que mon cœur va exploser à chaque fois que je bouge, tellement tout va vite. S'il te plaît, Chidi, j'ai peur, je veux juste que ça arrête… [I don’t want to walk, please, I can’t, I feel like my heart’s going to explode every time I move, everything is going so fast. Please, Chidi, I’m scared, I just want it to stop…]” His words were a jumbled rush, his shoulders shaking under Chidi’s hand, which tightened in a gesture of comfort.

“Je ne te ferai pas marcher. Vous n’avez rien à faire, monsieur. Tu es en sécurité. [I won’t make you walk. You don’t have to do anything, sir. You’re safe.]” He kept his voice as flat and smooth as he could, but it still rumbled with a deep protectiveness. It was good enough to make him feel secure. Vincent seemed overcome. He turned towards the strong hand gripping his shoulder and kissed Chidi’s knuckle in silent thanks. But he still couldn’t move.

Chidi wrapped his arms around him, hugging him from behind and supporting him enough to lift him off the car door and shut it. The shift in position was enough to set off another wave of hyperventilation. The rapid, shallow thrumming of his heartbeat throbbed right through both their coats and Chidi could feel it. He had to calm him down. Vincent was leaning back against him now, his head on his shoulder, still protesting. “Non, je ne peux pas, je ne peux pas Chidi, je vais mourir, mon cœur va s'arrêter, je le sais… je vais mourir, je crois vraiment que je vais mourir… [No, I can’t, I can’t Chidi, I’ll die, my heart will stop, I know it…I’ll die, I really think I’m dying…]”

It just about snapped Chidi in half to see him like this. “Non, mon amour, je ne te laisserai pas mourir. [No, my love, I won’t let you die],” he whispered around the lump in his throat, though he felt anything but sure of that. He might be right, any kind of exertion might push him into a heart attack. Chidi's arms locked around him even tighter to eliminate even the smallest movement. “Je t'ai. D'accord? [I have you. Okay?]” He held onto Vincent’s shivering body, until at last he felt his breathing slow. Vincent gave a small nod. “Bien. Je vais te chercher maintenant, si ça te va. [Good. I’m going to pick you up now, if that’s alright.]”

“Je ne veux pas… tout le monde parlera… [I don’t want…everyone will talk…]”

“Je les ai renvoyés, monsieur. [I sent them away, sir.]” He paused. “Et je les emmerde tous, s'ils le font. Quiconque vous juge. [And fuck them all, if they do. Anyone who judges you.]”

Vincent exhaled softly, a broken kind of huff. “Tu es si gentil avec moi. Et je vais faire ça… encore et encore… [You’re so good to me. And I go and do this…over and over…]” Chidi realized the Marquis was crying.

“Non, non, ne vous inquiétez pas pour le moment. Tu ne vas pas bien mais tu iras mieux. [No. No, don’t worry about that right now. You’re not well but you’ll get better.]” He wrapped an arm up to Vincent’s cheek and caressed the tears away from his cheeks. Vincent shuddered against him, whether from gratitude or discomfort he couldn’t tell. God, this was awful. It was getting cold, and dark, and he just wanted to see Vincent safe in his bed. “Laissez-moi vous emmener à l'intérieur, monsieur. S'il te plaît. [Let me take you inside sir. Please.]”

“…D'accord. D'accord. Porte moi. […Okay. Okay. Carry me.]” Finally.

“Merci de me faire confiance, Marquis. [Thank you for trusting me, Marquis.]” And with that he lifted him, careful even to fold his tailcoat under his legs without creasing it and to cradle his head against his chest. He was a huge, six foot bulk of a man, but Chidi was strong, and felt like he could have carried a whole mountain for Vincent right now.

Up the stairs they went, into the golden glow of candlelight and chandeliers, a place too heavenly to match the mess of shivering pain that was currently overdosing in Chidi’s arms. They glided through the house swiftly, and met no one. There was something surging through Chidi, something more than just sympathy. He felt like an avenging angel. Maybe it was euphoria at being the one to carry Vincent in his time of need. Or maybe it was all-encompassing horror at the thought of losing him, enough to flood his whole body with adrenaline.

Vincent must have felt something too, because by the time Chidi carefully lay down his head among countless feather-soft pillows, his eyes were squeezed shut and his hand was clutching Chidi’s lapel. He refused to let go. But that was fine, because Chidi would never let go of him either.

[thenamesblurrito]

I'M LATE BUT HERE'S SOME CON HAUL PHOTOS! i tagged everyone i could over on instagram, go check out what came from where 1-2) stuff from the alley and the dealer room! that Predaking has a 21" wingspan!!! snagged an intact Blurr, a?? moldy??? Megatron?? and an Elita 1 from DJW's personal collection 😭 and while i absolutely adore all the art i got i am still over the moon about a sketch of my OC Buzzard by @/jeetdoh, tysm <<333 3-5) did a little zine challenge @/sisi_north was running and drew some of the day's events with the characters my friends and i were cosplaying! the drive to InNOut in @knighttimeart's car, the tiktok @/lyndaxyart did, the beeping and the bad wifi in the room, passing out on the floor for the night. AND I GOT IT SIGNED BY BLURR'S VA!!!! 6-9) oh man i really cannot identify every single artist or creator of all of these stickers sdfjgjfds but this is my progress on the tf section of my sticker book! it's not just from TFCLA24 to be fair but i DID add like 2.5 pages worth to it! 10) just for funzies, my tf battle jacket :3 featuring my own pins and patches as well! gotta get more patches, i'm sad not many ppl seem to make those smh anyways it was such a cool con and i adored getting to be around such amazing people all celebrating something we love dearly <<33 i hope to see you all again and again in upcoming years

[cynicalone94]

Lightning Strike

WARNING: There is a suicide attempt in this chapter. Don't read if that bothers you.

Read on AO3 here.

Hailey is half asleep in the passenger seat of the truck. It’s been a long day, productive but starting in the pre-dawn hours and they’re just now heading for home with the sun long gone from the sky. 

But they got the drug dealer off the streets so in Hailey’s mind, it was a good day. 

But she can’t wait to get home and crawl into bed. 

She’s suddenly wide awake as Jay swerves hard to the side of the road. 

“Jay?” she asks, shifting to reach for her weapon as she looks around, trying to figure out why he’d pulled off the road. 

“We’re good.” he says distractedly, pulling off his seatbelt and reaching for the door handle. 

She trusts him, abandoning reaching for her weapon to get out of the car. 

Jay hops over the pair of barriers to get to the walkway, approaching the final barrier between him and the water. 

By the time he’s halfway there, Hailey sees the man standing on the wrong side of the railing and understands exactly why they’ve stopped. 

A jumper. 

She stays by the truck, calling it in and requesting backup. Her heart skips a few beats when Jay climbs the railing himself, leaning against to it next to the man.

But she trusts him so she doesnt move forward, not wanting to spook the guy by adding an extra body into the mix. 

Instead she watches his back the best way she can, working with arriving patrol officers to isolate the bridge and set up a command post. 

After what feels like days but in reality is only forty five minutes, she lets out a deep breath as Jay helps the man climb back over the railing. 

His hand rests on the man’s shoulder as they make their way back to the road, head ducked low to keep talking to him. 

The man is crying, tears streaming down his face but he’s nodding along to whatever Jay is saying. 

She’s there when they climb over the last barrier, stepping onto the road. 

“This is my partner.” Jay tells the man. “The reason I went to therapy. I didn’t want to do it anymore than you did but she threatened to ask for a new partner so I did.”

“And it helped?” the man asks. 

“Yeah.” Jay says. “It did. They’ll take you to Chicago Med tonight. They have an incredible psychiatry department. They’ll help you find a therapist that works for you.”

The man nods, stepping up into the ambulance. 

“I have to wrap up a few things here but I’ll check in on you.” Jay promises, shaking the man’s hand. “You’re going to be okay, Tommy.”

“Thanks man.” Tommy says, clinging to Jay’s hand for a moment before sitting back. 

The paramedic wraps the blood pressure cuff around his arm and Jay closes the door, giving it a slap before stepping away. 

Hailey follows him as he walks toward the center support and then stands in front of him as he leans heavily against it. 

“You okay?” 

“He’s been home six months.” Jay says, letting out a long breath. “The VA canceled four appointments in six weeks. And it wasn’t worth it so he gave up. Without someone to talk to… the stuff he saw just ate him alive.”

“What about you?” Hailey asks.

“What do you mean?” he asks. 

“You didn’t have anyone to talk to.” she says. “Did you…”

“When I first got home I was in pieces physically and mentally.” Jay tells her. “The VA couldn’t keep my appointments any better than Tommy’s and they prioritized physical therapy over mental therapy. I never met with a therapist. I spent the first six months essentially physically incapable of taking my own life and the next six months too drunk. But then I…”

Whatever he’s about to say is cut off as the air is shattered by a loud crack. 

Light fills the sky above them and Hailey watches in horror, nearly in slow motion as the lightning travels down the support that Jay is leaning against and into her husband’s body. 

Jay goes rigid, his head slamming back against the support as his hands twitch and spasm. 

“We need another ambulance over here!” Hailey screams, unable to take her eyes off him. 

When the electricity finally dissipates, Jay drops to the ground and Hailey lurches forward, dropping to her knees next to him. 

Her eyes are immediately drawn to the horrific burn pattern spread across his back but she forces herself to ignore it, rolling him onto his back and leaning over him to place her ear directly above his mouth. 

He’s still breathing, slow and shallow respirations that do nothing to settle her nerves. 

She presses her fingers into the side of his neck. 

Nothing. 

She presses harder, searching for a hint of anything and coming up empty. 

Shit. 

She lines up her hands, placing them on the center of her husband’s chest and beginning compressions. 

“Come on Jay.” she begs. “You were supposed to be taking me home, joining me in the shower and then we were going to sleep for twelve hours. Don’t do this to me.”

There’s no response and she feels her eyes water as she finishes a round of compressions and pauses to press her mouth to his, breathing air into his lungs. 

By the time she’s upright again, paramedics have reached them and she watches while they rip his shirt and jacket open to press the AED patches into place on his chest. 

Once they are in place, Hailey resumes compressions while the machine analyzes. 

‘Shock Advised.’ 

She pulls back, nodding to the paramedic who presses the button to administer the shock. 

Jay’s body jolts and she resumes compressions while the machine reanalyzes. 

‘Shock Advised.’

She pulls back again, watching as another shock jolts through her husband’s body. 

“We need to go.” the paramedic announces and Hailey helps them roll Jay up so that they can slide the backboard underneath him before lifting his limp body onto the stretcher. 

And then she climbs onto it, swinging her leg over his body and resuming compressions. 

There’s an enormous jolt as the stretcher is lifted up into the ambulance but she doesn’t stop, continuing compressions until the AED sounds again. 

‘Shock Advised.’

She rolls off the stretcher, pressing onto the bench while they administer the shock. 

She climbs back into place, resuming compressions as the ambulance lurches into motion. 

‘No Shock Advised.’

“He’s got a pulse.” the paramedic tells her as she glances over at her. “It’s thready but steady.”

Hailey clambers off to settle onto the bench seat. 

While she’s been fixated on her partner’s heart and the desperate fight to get it restarted, the paramedics have been busy. 

An IV is running into his arm, carrying saline and she has no doubt medications that had aided in the battle to bring his heart back online. 

An oxygen mask is in place over his face which has already lost several shades of color. 

“Just hang on, baby.” she begs him. “Hang on.”

She walks into a room at Med, thanking the nurse for buzzing her through the door. 

Thomas Kirkpatrick looks up at her in surprise. 

“I thought Jay said he would be checking on me.” he says. 

“Jay is a danger magnet who got struck by lightning within five minutes of you rolling out.” she says, shaking her head. “The doctors think he’s going to be okay but I know he’d want someone to check in with you, make sure you don’t think he forgot or that he was lying to you.”

“Lightning?” he says, eyes wide with shock. 

“Yeah.” she says, huffing an exhausted laugh. “This is what I deal with on a daily basis.”

“You don’t sound very annoyed by that.” he says, tilting his head. 

“I could do with a few less trips to the hospital.” she says. “But I wouldn’t trade having Jay as my partner for anything.”

“As just your partner?” he asks with a slight smirk. 

“Way more than just my partner.” she admits. 

He nods, looking down. 

“He’s lucky to have you.” 

“It goes both ways.” she assures him, biting her lip. “Look. I have no idea what the two of you went through over there. But I can tell you that whatever you’re feeling now, it can get better. When I met him, Jay was a mess. But he’s in a good place right now. And he likes to give me the credit but a huge part of it was his therapist, and him putting in the work. Because therapy sucks and it doesn’t work unless you do but it does help. And I can’t threaten you with finding a new partner but I will find something to blackmail you with if I have to.”

He chuckles. 

“Interesting approach.”

“I mean, it worked once.” she says with a shrug. 

“I’d like to give it a shot on my own first.” he says. 

“Alright.” she agrees. “Just know that if you need me to, I’m happy to help out.”

He nods, actually laughing this time. 

“You should go check on Jay. Make sure he didn’t get hit by lightning again while you were gone.” he tells her. 

“Don’t say that.” she scoffs. “If anyone could, it’s him.”

“Thank you, for checking in.” 

“Thank you.” she tells him. “I know you might be sick of it but I appreciate what you did for us.”

He nods and she offers him one more smile before knocking to be let out. 

Jay is awake when she returns to his room and she breathes out a sigh of relief. 

“Hey.” she says, hurrying forward to take his hand. 

“Hey.” he rasps, blinking slowly. “What happened?”

“You’re a lightning rod now, in addition to a trouble magnet.” she tells him with a fake glare.

“Ouch.” he manages. 

“Yeah.” she agrees. “You burned your back up pretty good, in addition to the whole stopping your heart thing.”

His eyes widen for a moment but he just nods. 

“I check in with Tommy.” she tells him. “Told him you’d be by when the doctors agreed to let you roam, threatened to blackmail him into therapy if necessary.”

He offers her a smile. 

“Thanks.”

“Could make a career of it.” she says with a shrug. “Getting stubborn men to open up about their feelings.”

“A necessary profession.” he agrees. “If there’d been someone doing it when I got home I might not have ended up on that bridge myself.”

Hailey’s heart clenches but she doesn’t say anything, just squeezes his hand. 

“I recovered from my injuries and then spent those seven months drinking, smoking and screwing and it still didn’t make me feel any better. Honestly made me feel worse. And I just… couldn’t see any other way out so I walked to the North Avenue Bridge, climbed over the railing and stood there looking down at the water for six or seven hours thinking about how disappointed my mom would be with me.”

Hailey is torn between praising every deity that could exist that he didn’t jump and asking what had kept him from doing so. 

“An off duty cop came by.” he says, looking over. “Talked me off the edge and got me help. And he didn’t check out once I was off the ledge either, he kept checking in, eventually talked me into joining the force.”

“I’d like to thank him.” she says honestly and he smiles at her. 

“I could introduce you.”

“Good.” she says with a smile. “And then he can teach you how to do it without getting struck by lightning.”

[geezerwench]

Sundown Towns by State - History and Social Justice

The entire county I grew up in is listed as a sundown town. Calvert County in Maryland. Which really isn't all that surprising, but in a way, it is. I know. That doesn't make sense.

I'm white. My family is white.

In the 60s, 70s, and into the 1980s, the population was about 40% Black. I had Black and white teachers throughout the years I went to public school. Male and female teachers! It was normal to me.

My Mom drove a school bus for a private contractor who was a Black man

I was the minority white kid in a drum corp. Didn't think all that much about it. That's just how it was. I thought everywhere was like the county I grew up in.

Then I got married and moved halfway across the US to Louisiana in 1980. I asked one of the ladies I was friends with, "Where are all the Black people?"

Didn't see them anywhere. I didn't see Black people at the grocery store or the little convenience store on the corner. There weren't any working at the fast food joints or the car dealer. Didn't see them at the mall or movie theater or restaurants. It was weird. It was abnormal. There was something about it that just felt not quite right.

I was young and quite naive.

Where were all the Black people?

Her answer was, "Oh, they know their place."

I was flabbergasted. Like, where do they buy groceries and clothes and cars? Where do they work? Where do they live?

It was so strange to me. Little did I realize that most places were like Louisiana and not Calvert County. It was a learning experience.

[claudehenrion]

Quousque tandem abutere, Catilina, patientia nostra ?

  Cet exorde autrefois célèbre des Catilinaires de Cicéron, qui faisait la joie des “latinistes” d'antan,  n'était pas destiné à promouvoir la pratique de la bicyclette à deux places : le “tandem” dont il est question ici n'est qu'une version très ancienne du “et en même temps” (c'est le sens de “tandem” en latin) : les mauvaises idées ont fait la démonstration de leur nocivité. Du coup, on les réinvente ! A la lumière de l'expérience ratée qu'a été le macronisme pour la France –que même Hollande-le-nul n'avait pas esquintée autant que son successeur– cette phrase cicéronienne peut se traduire par par “Mais jusqu'où vas-tu te foutre encore de notre gueule ?”).

En période trouble, dit le proverbe, le sage se terre… Mais qui a dit qu'un Blogueur devait se comporter comme un sage ? Bien loin de cette perversité, j'ai l'impression que plus tout va mal… et plus une force, en moi, voudrait comprendre les raisons de la chute vertigineuse de la France vers des abîmes qu'elle ne méritait pas ! Pourquoi le macronisme au pouvoir n'ose-t-il même pas reconnaître qu'il a endossé toutes les mauvaises idées de ce qui fut “la Gôche”, –dont il ne reste qu'une troupe de supplétifs aux ordres des théories les plus liberticides, les plus mortifères et les plus nocives pour l'Homme et l'Humanité ? A qui la faute réelle de tout ce qui nous tombe sur la cafetière ? Cicéron répondait, dans son plus beau latin de “pas-cuisine’‘ :Combien de temps ta folie nous défiera-t-elle ? Jusqu'où ton audace effrontée se déchaînera-t-elle ?…. ce qui tendrait à étayer la théorie qui prétend que l'Histoire ne serait, au fond, qu'une répétition (en changeant quelques noms) d'une immense farce qui se répéterait… jusque dans le détail et les mots choisis !

Il faut reconnaître que la tentation est à la fois grande et facile. Je n'invente d'ailleurs rien : on trouve sur le ’'Net” des exemples, dans l'histoire récente, où le nom de Catilina a été remplacé, dans des citations expressément adressées à Macron. Au delà des apparences, je pense que jamais, pourtant, on n'a été si  proche qu'aujourd'hui du “foutage de gueule” que cache à peine l'invective de Cicéron. Comment ? On sort à peine –et par le bas, en plus– d'une crise de désobéissance civile, morale et économique de toute première importance, rarement vue en dehors de la Révolution de 1789 (les autres étaient bien moins porteuses de conséquences dramatiques, à terme), et voilà que l'Exécutif se remet à ses petites manies solitaires : “renouer le dialogue” , “chercher des boucs émissaires, ’'jouer avec le mots”, “changer le gouvernement ” (ce qui veut dire : mettre d'autres nuls à la place des nuls actuels, qui succédaient aux nuls d”avant !).

Car la vérité doit être dure à encaisser, pour notre armada d'incompétents multi-diplômés : si les troubles se sont arrêtés (jusqu'à la prochaine fois !), ce n'est absolument pas parce qu'on avait couvert la France d'escadrons de “forces de l'ordre”(nos nuls parlent de “mettre du bleu dans les rues”. Comment ne meurent-ils pas de honte, d'oser plaisanter avec notre futur et le destin de nos enfants?) –qui sont plus des faiblesses de désordre : les émeutiers adorent “taper dessus”, plus on en met, plus ils sont heureux, et, d'ailleurs, plus ils en “cassent” . Il n'y a guère que le lamentable Darmanin  pour croire aux sornettes de la version officielle ! Dans le “vrai monde”, tout s'est arrêté parce que les dealers se sont rendu compte qu'ils perdaient des sommes immenses… ce qui est moins valorisant pour nos nuls ! La seule question qui se pose est plutôt : croient-ils un seul mot de ce qu'ils disent ?

La suite de cet “épisode” humiliant aurait pu prêter à sourire s'il n'était pas si dramatique est simple à raconter s, s'il est insupportable à regarder “en face’' : la partition en deux de la France semble de plus en plus se rapprocher d'un point de non-retour, et nos édiles continuent à refuser de (se) poser les vraies questions . Il faut dire qu'elles dérangent, et que le ’'ron-ron” habituel des affirmations sans fondement et des enfonçages de portes ouvertes semble moins exiger de prise de risque… à ceci près qu'il est totalement contre-productif. Et voilà que refleurissent les petites recettes (?) politicardes, les changements de gouvernement, la promesse (que personne n'écoute) de têtes nouvelles, ou la menace de “tenir compte” (toujours plus à gauche, évidemment)  de ce que leurs conseils stratégiques américains leur soufflent dans l'oreille pour accélérer encore la soumission de notre Nation à la politique d'Oncle Sam –dont on sait qu'elle ne peut être, pour nous, que mortifère à terme… (les exemples ne manquent pas !)

Rien de ce qui pourrait “faire avancer le Schmiblick” n'est retenu, mais en revanche, puisqu'on est en France… tout finit par des impôts… en promettant solennellement de soi-disant ne pas aggraver encore davantage le goût d'une potion amère qui a depuis longtemps dépassé tous les seuils tolérables (que les haineux contre-productifs de la Gauche-méchante rêvent de voir atteindre des sommets absolus… Il faut dire que, quand on a Chavez ou Castro comme seuls modèles...). Ce n’est pas comme ça qu’on s’en sortira ! A quand la nécessaire opération ‘’Vérité” (et... courage !) que tout le monde attend et que le Pouvoir remet à demain, ou après ?

H-Cl.

[clemecritflower]

Musique :

Dealer - Lana del Rey

__

J'ai écris sous toute sorte de thème, de genre, de façons, de moment, mais je n'ai jamais vraiment parler de moi, peut être dans le poème "Merde,, mais sa ne dit pas vraiment comment je me vois, donc j'écris lui, qu'il soit heureux ou pas, long ou court, peut importe, peut être que je le jetterais et l'oublierais après.

Savez-vous pourquoi j'écris sur les autres et pas sur moi ?

Pourquoi les seuls poèmes qui parlent de moi sont tristes ?

C'est parce que je me déteste.

Que je le cache ou non, je n'arriverais jamais à m'aimer

Rien que de m'entendre parler j'ai envie de me tirer une balle dans le crâne

Me voir dans le miroir je donne envie de pleurer, vomir, crier, tout, sauf de sourire.

Je n'arrive même plus à parler de moi même, quand quelqu'un me demande comment va ma vie, j'ai envie de pleurer car je fais tout les mauvais choix possibles

J'en suis a m'en couper les cheveux tellement je me déteste, pas la peau non, ma peau a déjà assez souffert pendant 3 ans, on voit mes toute premières traces sur mes cuisses, et je ne dirais rien dessus

J'ai un sommeille de merde, et sa fais 4 ans que sa dure, pourquoi une gamine de 8 ans demande des putain de somnifère pour Noël ???

Au bout de 4 ans, il y a enfin des personnes qui remarquent que j'ai des poches sous les yeux et qu'à 4h du matin je suis la, a chialer

Et je les aime c'est personne la, merci a vous, je vous aimes de tout mon cœur

Mais maintenant c'est bon, je vais bien, c'est devenu une habitude, je connais mieux l'insomnie que moi même.

Et ce putain de poème par n'importe comment mais j'ai tellement de défauts a souligner chez moi que je pourrais en créer un livre.

🌟

Salut-

Waw, ça m'a fait dut bien de cracher

sur moi même, je vais surement ajouter

plus de truc des fois, ou carrément en faire

un très gros un jour, je sais pas, on verra bien ?

[exdraghunt]

TFConLA review

Pretty mediocre con experience overall.

Now, this was my first TF con. I am used to attending Furry cons, and have also gone to anime, sci-fi/fantasy, and comic cons.

TFCon was not a particularly social con, at least for me. It seemed like, if you didn't go in already knowing people, there wasn't much opportunity to meet new people. (for example, at a furry con, there is an Art Jam or Art Room. A collection of tables with free art supplies. It's a wonderful way to strike up a conversation with new folks)

There were also no fan panels. It's great to bring in Voice Actors and other industry professionals, but I have no interest in sitting around watching people ask them questions for hours at a time. It would've been nice to see meet-n-greets, round-table discussions, how-tos, pretty much any of the types of panels you'd see at other conventions. (The costume contest was nice, but no how-to costume panel?)

There were no tables or chairs around the convention center, leading to large groups of people sitting on the floor to hang out. There was also no water in the convention center (only in the panel room). I'm used to furry cons, where there are water dispensers every few feet.

Unless you were a hardcore toy collector eager to dig through bins of toys for hours, or someone who really wanted to meet some VAs, there really wasn't that much to do.

It wasn't all bad, of course. The artist alley was small, but the artists there all lovely and I did buy some merch. The dealer's room was large and had an incredible array of toys (I'm still excited to have found Shadowmaru), even if some of the booths were so tight I couldn't actually get into them to look at the merchandise.

A surprising amount of people recognized my Gunmax hoodie. (And the people who obviously had no idea what BPJD was asking me about my hoodie, my Deckerd plush, or my Shadowmaru toy was amusing)

I did also get pretty excited that someone brought a Prowl car to the con and parked it outside. I spent a fair amount of time just standing there staring.

In the end, I really wish there'd been more to do. Browsing the Dealer's room or Artist Alley is something that can only take up a few hours of my time, at the most. I spent a lot of time just standing around, or going up to my room out of lack of anything to do. I just don't care about actor Q&As, and that's pretty much all the con was about (well, that and buying toys)

Maybe I'll go back next year once I have a cosplay done. Maybe I won't. I don't know yet.

[disease-danger-darkness-silence]

Okay. So. Update.

Raven's wife - they hadn't divorced even though they haven't been together for a while - died on Saturday. It looked to be a heroin overdose. Luckily their two sons weren't at home when her body was found.

She was in Kentucky. Her parents are in Oregon. They immediately went and got the boys, so they're safe in Oregon now.

Shit didn't add up. Kayla was afraid of needles and was found with four of them nearby, had been clean, etc. Turns out she recently helped put away the biggest hard drugs dealer in Kentucky and this may have been retribution. Kayla had some fucked up shit going on in her head, but let it not be said that she didn't try to make the world a better place for her kids. Anyway, there is now an active murder investigation going on, but her body is OK for release.

Downside? Raven is legally her next of kin. While we could dump that responsibility on her parents, it doesn't feel right. I am trying to get the VA to at least pay for a cremation, because she was the wife of a veteran, but y'all know how that works.

So I may need to set up a gofundme for my partner's ex's cremation and the shipping of her cremains to her parents. I already plan on paying for a nice urn and some decent urn jewelry for the boys, Raven, and her current boyfriend, as well as any family members who want to keep her with them, because it's the decent thing to do. Those I can afford. I can also afford to help with the memorial service, especially if they're OK with me hand-making programs and such.

But we'll need to get up to Oregon.

So I'm going to also have to crowdfund that. Somehow.

I already need new fkn tires - one popped bc I ran over a screw the other day and I'm lugging it to get a used one today but I need a new set, it's like $400. And new CV axles. And to change a few things out that are relatively inexpensive. Even with gas the way it is, I can drive to Oregon for fairly cheap if I get the car working right. But the tires and axles.

So tldr I need to do like four crowdfunds: one for the cremains and shipping, one for the funeral itself (we really want her family to not have to worry about cost AT ALL - I feel like we owe it to her, and they blew all of their spare money on going to get the kids so that they're safe), one for tires and CV axles, and one to get us to Oregon so I can essentially act as funeral director bc I'm the one least-connected and thus, best-placed to take care of the stupid little shit while the family that knew her best grieves.

I don't even know where to start. I suppose with finding a crematorium near Columbia, Kentucky and getting rates.

I hate that I'm this experienced with this, but I'm glad I can ease the burden a little.

[kimberlyharrisus]

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[lepartidelamort]

La police craint une insurrection générale du front rouge en cas de victoire du RN

Vous vous rappelez des Jeux Olympiques ?

C’est normal.

Il va être temps de sortir les uniformes bruns – ou noirs, selon les sensibilités – car le front rouge est sur le pied de guerre. Derrière lui, en renforts, les banlieues ethniques avec ce qu’elles comptent de dealers, migrants clandestins, islamistes.

Nous avons eu un avant-goût de ce cocktail en juin 2023.

Le front rouge n’est pas sur le pied de guerre pour une semaine, un mois, mais pour tout le temps, jusqu’à la chute du gouvernement RN.

Il n’y a aucune raison de se faire d’illusions sur les capacités de ce futur gouvernement à bouleverser la donne. Le pays sera rapidement sous siège financier (juif).

Du côté du péril juif, le RN ne prendra aucune mesure, notamment pour ne pas aggraver cet embargo financier. Nous allons même voir des faciès odieux refaire surface, à commencer par celui de l’immonde juif Habib, parce que les juifs essaient toujours de se trouver des deux côtés.

Cependant, la juiverie contre-révolutionnaire a déjà décidé de se tenir à bonne distance de la situation.

Il y aura aussi des Français (racistes) de qualité dans cette équation.

Dans l’immédiat, des tas de Français vont se retrouver avec des bêtes sauvages de la gauche coalisée pour députés. Nous parlons ici de satrapes locaux puants protégeant des bandes déchaînées, financées par Soros et la CIA, avec pour seul but d’abattre les forces d’opposition indigènes.

Au gang sioniste qui ne manquera pas de poursuivre son action mortifère à Paris quoi qu’il arrive, il faut, sur le terrain, un contrepoids blanc et professionnel.

Rester passifs ne sera d’aucune utilité. Les nationalistes doivent travailler à ce qui adviendra après la faillite de cette république, dès maintenant. Ils ont une opportunité unique de constituer, sur les ruines de cette démocratie juive la base d’une action de renaissance raciale partout où cela est possible.

Ils ont la chance d’expérimenter ce que les nationalistes allemands et italiens ont expérimenté dans les années 20. Un front rouge déchaîné, une bourgeoisie odieuse et lâche, un bloc national composite, encore réticent au saut révolutionnaire.

En avant !

Mort au front rouge !

Mort à la gauche !

Mort au marxisme !

Démocratie Participative

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[jmfcomicsdubs]

Abandon du Tumblr

Un des nouveaux changements implicites de la chaine est qu'on va laisser tomber les posts sur Tumblr.

Rien à voir avec ses utilisateurs ou le fait que vous êtes genre juste 20 à nous suivre. (quoique) La raison viendrait plutôt de la plateforme elle-même.

Cela fait des mois que Tumblr cumule bugs sur bugs, m'obligeant 1) à attendre plus de 10 minutes (ce n'est pas exagéré) pour accéder à la page principale, 2) Sa tendance à autosave les brouillons glitche totalement les posts et m'obligent à les sauvegarder en brouillon en vérifiant trois fois que le post est complet, m'obligeant à chaque fois d'y retourner pour mettre ce qui manque, 3) quand l'upload se fait, la page se bloque en upload indéfiniment même quand il a fini ! Du coup, j'en ai spécialement marre de dealer avec ça, surtout pour peu de retours au final.

Ne vous en faites pas, le blog va rester en ligne quelque temps. Et pour ce qui est des dubs, nous vous conseillons de nous rejoindre sur nos autres réseaux :

YouTube (celui-ci en priorité, car il contient absolument tout ce qu'on fait contrairement aux autres)

TikTok (certains de nos contenus ont dû être censurés pour la plateforme)

Instagram (bien qu'il y ait les dubs de la team, c'est surtout l'insta personnel de Max le Fou)

TwiXter (pareil que insta)

Merci de nous avoir suivis ici ! On se retrouve sur les dits-réseaux ^^

[donovanmorini271]

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[claudehenrion]

“Quousque tandem abutere, Catilina, patientia nostra ?”

  Cet exorde autrefois célèbre des Catilinaires de Cicéron, qui faisait la joie des “latinistes” d'antan,  n'était pas destiné à promouvoir la pratique de la bicyclette à deux places : le “tandem” dont il est question ici n'est qu'une version très ancienne du “et en même temps” (c'est le sens de “tandem” en latin) : les mauvaises idées ont fait la démonstration de leur nocivité ? Du coup, on les réinvente ! A la lumière éteinte de l'expérience ratée qu'a été le macronisme pour la France –que même Hollande-le-nul n'avait pas esquintée autant que son successeur– cette philppique cicéronienne pourrait se traduire, de manière très,mais alors... très libre, par “Mais dis-donc, Catilina, jusqu'où vas-tu te foutre de notre gueule?”

En période trouble, le sage se terre, dit le proverbe… Mais qui a dit qu'un Blogueur devait se comporter comme un sage ? Bien loin de interprétation, j'ai l'impression que plus tout va mal… et plus une force, en moi, voudrait comprendre les raisons de la chute vertigineuse de la France vers des abîmes qu'elle ne méritait pas ! Pourquoi le macronisme au pouvoir n'ose-t-il même pas reconnaître qu'il a endossé toutes les mauvaises idées de ce qui fut “la Gôche”, –dont il ne reste qu'une troupe de supplétifs aux ordres des théories les plus liberticides, les plus mortifères et les plus nocives pour l'Homme et l'Humanité ? A qui la faute réelle de tout ce qui nous tombe sur la cafetière ? Cicéron répondait, dans son plus beau latin de “pas-cuisine’‘ : Combien de temps ta folie nous défiera-t-elle ? Jusqu'où ton audace effrontée se déchaînera-t-elle ?…. ce qui tendrait à étayer la théorie qui prétend que l'Histoire n'est, au fond, qu'une répétition (en changeant quelques noms) d'une immense farce qui se répéte… jusque dans les mots choisis !

Il faut reconnaître que la tentation est à la fois grande et facile. Je n'invente d'ailleurs rien : on trouve sur le ’'Net” des exemples, dans l'histoire récente, où le nom de Catilina a été remplacé, dans des citations explicitement adressées à Macron. Au delà des apparences, je pense que jamais, pourtant, on n'a pratiqué le “foutage de gueule” à une échelle aussi grande que celle que décrit l'invective de Cicéron. Comment ? On sort à peine –et par le bas, en plus– d'une crise de désobéissance civile, morale et économique de toute première importance, rarement vue en dehors de la Révolution de 1789 (les autres étaient bien moins porteuses de conséquences dramatiques, à terme), et voilà que l'Exécutif se remet à ses petites manies solitaires : “renouer le dialogue” , “chercher des boucs émissaires’’, ’'jouer avec le mots”, “changer le gouvernement ” (ce qui veut dire : mettre d'autres nuls à la place des nuls actuels, qui succédaient aux nuls d'avant !).

Car la vérité doit être dure à encaisser, pour notre armada d'incompétents multi-diplômés : si les troubles se sont arrêtés (jusqu'à la prochaine fois !), ce n'est absolument pas parce qu'on avait couvert la France d'escadrons de “forces de l'ordre”(nos nuls, provocateurs, parlent de “mettre du bleu dans les rues”. Comment ne meurent-ils pas de honte, d'oser plaisanter avec notre futur et le destin de nos enfants ?) –qui sont autant de faiblesses génératrices de désordre : les émeutiers adorent “taper dessus”, et plus on en met, plus ils sont heureux, et plus ils en “cassent” . Il n'y a guère que le lamentable Darmanin  pour croire aux sornettes de la version officielle ! Dans le “vrai monde”, les dealers s'arrêtent lorsque leur “bizzness” est moins lucratif… et “remettent ça” à 20 mètres de là… Macron rend visite, montre ses faux biceps ridicules, fait des promesses-à-ne-pas-tenir, puis il s'en va… et les problèmes restent ! Croient-ils ce qu'ils disent ?

La suite de cet “épisode” humiliant aurait pu prêter à sourire s'il n'était pas si dramatique est simple à raconter et si insupportable à regarder “en face’' : la partition en deux de la France semble de plus en plus se rapprocher d'un point de non-retour, et nos édiles continuent à refuser de (se) poser les vraies questions. Il faut dire qu'elles dérangent, et que le ’'ron-ron” habituel des affirmations sans fondement et des enfonçages de portes ouvertes semble moins exiger de prise de risque… à ceci près qu'il est totalement contre-productif. Et voilà que refleurissent les petites recettes (?) politicardes, les changements de gouvernement, la promesse (que personne n'écoute) de têtes nouvelles, ou la menace de “tenir compte” (toujours plus ''tirés'' à gauche, évidemment)  de ce que leurs conseils stratégiques si chers payés leur soufflent dans l'oreille pour accélérer encore la soumission de notre Nation à la politique d'Oncle Sam –dont on sait qu'elle ne peut être, pour nous, que mortifère à terme… (les exemples, hélas, ne manquent pas !)

Rien de ce qui pourrait “faire avancer le Schmiblick” n'est retenu, mais en revanche, et puisqu'on est en France… tout finit par des impôts… en promettant solennellement de soi-disant ne pas aggraver encore davantage le goût de cette potion amère qui a depuis longtemps dépassé tous les seuils tolérables (que les haineux contre-productifs de la Gauche-méchante rêvent donc de voir atteindre des sommets absolus… Il faut dire que, quand on prend Chavez ou Castro comme seuls modèles, les chances de survie diminuent sérieusement !). Une chose est certaine : ce n’est pas comme ça qu’on s’en sortira ! A quand la nécessaire opération ‘’Vérité” (et… courage !) que tout le monde attend ? a... ''demain'' ?

H-Cl.

[kandicesobenes490]

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