#did somebody call a plumber

[lore-of-the-mushroom-kingdom]

Some Lore About Donkey Kong '94

So Long before Super Mario Odyssey brought forth New Donk City and the Metro Kingdom, before Donkey Kong Land introduced the name Big Ape City, and before Yoshi's Island established Mario was from the Mushroom Kingdom there was Donkey Kong '94.

In this game Mario starts off facing off against Donkey Kong Senior in Big City which would later be known as Big Ape City, and would chase Donkey Kong across many locations. Eventually facing off against a King Kong sized Donkey Kong who had eaten a bunch of Super Mushrooms, this btw could add to my hypothesis there is different species of Super Mushrooms with differing effects. Afterwards Donkey Kong is defeated and the final scene of the game establishes the game ends in the Mushroom Kingdom. This all the way back here establishes that the Mushroom Kingdom and Big City take place on the same planet and not a separate planet.

On a side note there is a few people who think this is where Mario first enters the Mushroom Kingdom to rescue Peach, and that this game is just a retelling of the original arcade game. The first problem with this is there this game is shown to be it's own separate thing and there is no time for Donkey Kong to have done all this, alongside the original 3 games with the third have DK head back to the Kong Archipelago.

In addition Donkey Kong is wearing a tie in this game, and Mario is wearing his modern outfit. When in the original Donkey Kong games and Super Mario Bros Mario was in his Classic Outfit. There is also the absence of Luigi, and the fact Nintendo with Did Somebody Call A Plumber heavily implies Super Mario Bros. takes place directly after Mario Bros. Donkey Kong '94 probably takes place when Mario had already been to the Mushroom Kingdom saving it several times, probably sometime after Super Mario Bros. 3. But also when Mario is still living in Big City and probably still with Pauline.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for leaving an unflushable poo in someone's toilet? ....This one is gross. Sorry.

I have diverticulitis, which is... a bathroom issue. They thought it was Crohn's for a long time, and many incompetent doctors + health complications later, they found out I had an enormous abscess and a golfball-sized fistula growing inside my colon. As you can imagine, this comes with a plethora of issues I am too embarrassed to divulge in their entirety.

This event happened before I had the abscess surgically removed, so I was mid 20s at the time. A friend set me up with this guy I had met once before at a party (J). It was practically a blind date. Things went well and we went back to his house.

Then it happened.

The gurgling. The pain. I told him I needed to go to the bathroom. As luck would have it, this was the WORST bathroom emergency I have ever had in my entire life. I shat more than I have ever shat. I was worried parts of my body would escape out of me and I would somehow reverse-hungry-caterpillar myself into nothingness.

I spent so long doing the deed and trying to clean it up, it must have been around 2 full hours, and we were both reasonably drunk - so when I went to peek my head in the living room, he was asleep. I tried again to plunge this beast back from whence it came. I was crying. It's quite funny in hindsight but as you can imagine, easily one of the worst humiliations I have ever endured. At one point, I had my HAND and FOREARM down this guy's toilet trying to set free the freakish poobaby I had just conceived in his otherwise impeccable loo (a fancy one with BUTTONS instead of a flush handle!). I even took the top off the toilet and tried to... hand-pump the water, I guess? Desperation.

I finally gave up. The whole room stank like sulfur and purse-sized citrus bodyspray so I cracked the window and cleaned up the best I could. I realized that it was, at this point, best left to a professional plumber, or perhaps an exorcist. I was younger and embarrassed and opted to go home, leaving nothing but a foul scent trail and a very small note (Later referred to by my friends as the Ghost Shitter Calling Card) written on a toilet paper square that said "oops" because I guess I thought that would be funny and maybe soften the blow. It was decidedly Not Funny, however, and to my surprise, he never made me foot the plumbing bill, but he did politely tell me that he was uninterested in going out again. Not that I blame him.

Lots of crying and shame later, and after getting my issues fixed via surgery, I am now wondering if there was a better course of action here. My friends do love this story but some of them have mentioned they would be LIVID if somebody did that to them. I know I am probably the asshole for leaving it like that. I really did try my best, and I do believe any people on here with less-than-ladylike health issues will at least partially understand what it's like, and what I was thinking at the time.

TLDR I clogged my date's toilet and left it like that since he fell asleep. AITA?

What are these acronyms?

[rex101111]

Ratchet and Clank size matters got added to the PSN store and I got a a major nostalgia pang so I went "eh, why not" and quickly played through it. And I do mean quickly, I know it was a PSP title but dang, last time I finished a R&C game this quick i played Nexus. Anyway, the thing that struck me about this game is that Ratchet is...a bit of an asshole here. And that struck me as odd because for the last few entries...he isn't.

Like this is still early series Ratchet, still on the PS2/PSP, released just before the first PS3 title, which was in retrospect a bit of an incredibly soft reboot. In the newer games, Ratchet is a fairly straight forward protag, nice, willing to help, only a little bit sarcastic if he's really strapped for time or dealing with someone especially annoying. Early Ratchet? Early Ratchet was a jackass, a dick, a selfish, quick tempered loner that only went on this quest because there was a tangible, direct benefit to him specifically. Seriously, in the first game Ratchet couldn't go two sentences without insulting somebody, and that's when he's in a good mood. In act 2 he's even worse, gnashing his teeth at everyone he talks to and threatening to sell Clank for scrap. It takes hours of in game time and half a dozen levels before Ratchet finally chills out, and a few more levels before he actually resolves to act like any sort of hero, and even that only happens after something he personally cares about gets threatened. Ratchet could give a damn, he can be convinced to help people, but he's still a selfish person who needs the situation rubbed in his nose before he realizes how dire it is. Clank having faith in him, throughout the entire game, even when he's being a dick, even when Clank himself is furious with him, meant something. When in the penultimate level he says "that's the Ratchet I always knew was there" and Ratchet brushes him off, you buy it, that beneath this sharp outside there's someone with the capacity to be a hero, an actual hero, a hero who isn't selfless, but one capable of overcoming his selfishness when it matters most.

Back when the first game came out, people complained about this, about their platformer mascot protag being a huge dick, and even the very next game addressed this by toning him down a smidge, but Ratchet in the PS2 trilogy is still very much not a perfect sunshine person. He's very sarcastic, pretty cynical, is very quick to call other people on their bullshit, and still has a very short temper. (Plasma city, anyone?) Ratchet had texture to him, he bounced off the much more straightforwardly nice Clank in a lot of ways, their friendship felt like it had weight and meant something because these two had so many differences between them that the fact they did get along so well and cared about each other so much showed that their friendship was genuine. I like the newer Ratchet and Clank games, played every one of them, but I've never been really happy with the direction they took with Ratchet. Each game made him nicer, friendlier, smoothing down his edges. And the reboot game had it the worst, they retold the first story, where Ratchet was at his worst and a major thread of the plot was him learning to get over his bullshit, but had the sanded down kitty cat of the later games instead of having confidence in their early work. Dickhead Ratchet worked, he had a place and it gave him a place to grow, while still maintaining his inherit sharpness. Ratchet should get to be an asshole again, just for a bit, let him get angry, properly. Sure, he's a hero who's saved two galaxies three times over and then some, but he did that while being a sarcastic little shit who made a joke about a plumber's ass crack showing and fired rockets at people while complaining about how high the prices are everywhere he went.

I dunno, maybe its a bit too late in the game to say this, but something got lost in the shuffle a while back, and getting a reminder of what was simply put it into perspective for me.

[ladylaviniya]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐧 — 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 || 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐀 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐡é 𝐛𝐮𝐭- 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐛𝐛 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐛𝐭, 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐞 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬?

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤!𝐎𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐛𝐛 𝐗 𝐅!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐃𝐨 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭, 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐃𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐃𝐨 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐄𝐚𝐭, 𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐭-𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝟏 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐧, 𝐎𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐭, 𝐀𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩 (𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧���𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐠𝐞!!), 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐃𝐮𝐛𝐂𝐨𝐧, 𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐃𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐆𝐮𝐧 𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐂𝐨𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐂𝐨𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 *𝐍𝐨 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫*

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟔𝐤+

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: 𝐈 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭. 𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐡 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥.

𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: “𝐓𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝” 𝐛𝐲 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎

𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐲 @dollywons

𝐆𝐢𝐟 𝐛𝐲 @nat111love

Mr Oswald Cobblepot wasn’t such a bad guy, at least that’s what you were told. He was the man who put the lights back on and supported the community with money and shelter because let me tell you, insurance ain’t no cheap fee in Gotham. 

He was often called The Penguin, which if somebody asked you, you’d find both cute but perhaps demeaning- yet Oswald wore the title like a badge of honour. Every waddling step he took with his solid black cane was made with pride, his chin held high and his chest puffed up.

He wasn’t a white trash bum, no, he was a boss, he was a businessman, he was a King with keys to the city of Gotham. 

He took down the Maronis, he took down the Falcones and sure enough he took down every greasy, greedy, lowlife slime ball who came around his turf trying to take what was his- what the people had given him. Respect. 

You see, what made this man so beloved wasn’t for the rumours of his ruthlessly cruel behaviour, it wasn’t for his money he graciously loaned to those in need- no, it was actually his kind and generous behaviour. He was a community man. He cared.

If you had a bill to pay, he paid it. If you’re out of cash and your kids are hungry, he’d bring you a box of food to last a month. If you were scared of some punks trying to vandalised your shop, boy-o did The Penguin handle it. He was even a little chummy with the police, often seen sharing a doughnut and coffee outside a cafe. And there weren’t no one filling the tithes basket like Oswald Cobblepot every Sunday Mass. 

He made sure the priest was happy, cops were happy and people were happy.

Everyone knew about the Iceberg Lounge, his most popular club, but since renovations, it got to be a little classier. It was the place to be of you wanted to listen to the finest swing and jazz. And you had heard strangers on the street gossip about how it sold the best rump steak. Steak? In this economy? 

He even knew your name. Your dad was a handyman, a plumber, locksmith, electrical guy, whatever really. Your dad was a hard worker and often was paid to do jobs for The Penguin. 

So yea, he knew your dad and came to know your name. It wasn’t a surprise when he would wink at you passing down the street with your book bag, sometimes you’d be seen running to catch the last bus of the day.

❆❆❆

The club felt quieter than usual, that’s how the Penguin knew it was daytime without checking his rolex; the usual staff were busy cleaning up shakers and glasses from the previous night’s shenanigans. As the bartenders busied themselves cleaning and tidying up in his wake, Oswald received a call from his trusted right-hand man, Iggy. It seemed that someone had racked up a hefty debt to him, a debt large enough to warrant Oswald’s immediate attention.

Oswald waddled out of the exclusive Iceberg Club with an air of confidence, his doors were lined by his awaiting men admiring his gleaming plum Maserati Quattroporte. He told them where to go. Who to shake down. 

The thugs headed off to do Oswald’s bidding, but before he followed, he took a moment to reflect on the task at hand. 

$100,000 he had loaned...and only $20,000 had come back to him. Normally he didn’t cover gambling debts too high risk in business, but hey he thought he could trust this man. He thought he could trust this working father, just trying to raise his kid, get her a good life. 

Oswald should’ve killed him and he would’ve done too if it weren’t for you. Sweet little princess that you were made him unbelievably charitable. Sadly a debts and debt and he couldn’t let the loss never be paid off. 

It was time to go chop some fingers, ears, mouths and noses. Deliver some punches and encourage a bit of violence.

He slid into the plush leather seat of his Maserati, his callous fingers wrapped around the steering wheel. He pulled out into the street, the purr of the car’s engine giving him a moment of peace to contemplate the road ahead. 

He came to a halt at the end of the road where his club was tucked away. On impulse, he turned his head to take a look at the young woman sitting at the bus stop. 

The sun hung high above the surrounding buildings, casting an orange glow across the cityscape. The evening air held the promise of a hot, sultry night.

The bus stop was a small, metal shelter, its exterior painted a faded red, and the paint chipping in several places. The roof was pitted and rusted, the windows were grime-covered, and the floor was littered with cigarette butts. There was a small bench inside the shelter. 

As his gaze took in the smooth curves of the womans legs, a rare moment of appreciation flickered on his face. Some black kitten heels were on those feet. White stockings. Oswald couldn’t believe it, what type of broad wore stockings on a stifling hot day like this?

His eyes widened in surprise as he recognized it was in fact you sitting there at the bus stop. He quickly rolled down the window and rested his elbow on the sill. A sly smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he regarded you.

“’That you, sweetheart?” he questioned, leaning further out of his car window.

You looked up with a totally surprised look on your face, your eyes meeting his. Your eyes widened as you recognized the car before the voice inside of it. The sight of you all alone at the bus stop made his blood heat up, and he bit his lip hard. There you were, looking so sweet with your book bag and a novel in your hands. Anyone could do anything to you, including him.

 ���Hi Mister Cobb!” you chirped in greeting. 

He smiled.

He couldn’t help but consider how wicked he was to even entertain the idea of hurting someone as innocent and guileless as you. He was ashamed to be so perverted. What were you? Seventeen? Eighteen? Barely legal. Jail bait material.

He took a quick glance in his rear-view mirror, taking in the surroundings. It was daytime, and most people were likely hunkered down at their office jobs. But come the evening, the streets would be crawling with people eagerly queuing to gain entry to his club. For now, the coast was clear – no one was coming up behind him anytime soon.

He adjusted his dark ray bans and looked at you again, his hidden gaze lingered on your legs once more.

He asked, “Watcha doing out here, sweetheart?” he couldn’t believe he was seeing you of all people near his club, after all, didn’t you know this wasn’t a nice area? All types of bad people crawled these parts of town, he was included that crowd. The lenses of his shades masked the hunger and dark desire in his eyes looking over your legs and wide eyes.

You rotated your body towards him, but remained in your seated position. You pursed your lips, wasn’t it obvious? You glanced at the yellow station sign.

“I’m waiting for the bus, Mister Cobb,” you replied, crossing a knee over your thigh. Fuck he swore he saw your underwear under that shapeless skirt of yours. Your knees, Jesus, they deserved a good carpet burn.

He chuckled as he looked down at his rolex. 

“School finished an hour ago, didn’t it?” he questioned, curiosity and maybe being a little condescending. 

You smiled timidly at him, “I’m in college now, Mister Cobb,” you held up the large book bag at your feet. “And there are only two buses since the floods,” you added. 

Oswald’s gaze dropped to the book you were holding, then travelled back to your face. He wondered if you had been sitting there all day, waiting for the bus home. He took a few moments to study you further, admiring your youthful lips, imagining them around the tip of his cock for a moment.

‘C’mon baby doll, another load for daddy.’

Oswald couldn’t help but let out a small smirk as he heard those words. “College girl, huh?” He jerked a thumb towards the passenger side of his Maserati. “Well, c’mon, get in,” he ordered, “I’ll give you a ride home.”

“Oh, no, you really don’t have to do that,” you protested politely, but you began rising slowly, your fingers toying with the strap of your book bag. It would be wildly inappropriate to accept a ride from him. He was the Penguin.

He let out a sharp snicker, shaking his head in disbelief at her sweet rejection, “C’mon, sweetheart,” he coaxed, “Tell me, when does the next bus arrive?”  his rings flashed in the sweltering sunlight.

He watched you pull out a phone and check the time. If your dad was thousands in debt to him, he would’ve bought you a nice watch for Christmas. The cogs behind your eyes worked before you shared the time.

“About an hour,” you confessed.

The Penguin let out an exasperated sigh, “Yeah, you don’t wanna be sittin’ out in this heat for another hour, do ya?” he said, waving at the baking bus stop.  “It’s hotter than hell out there. Come on, hop on in hun, I’ve got the AC cranked up. You can sit up front with me. I’ll drop you off at home.”

You chewed on your lower lip nervously, clearly you were weiging your options. He grinned when you finally rose from the bench, sliding your book into your bag. You made your way around the car and opened the passenger door. 

He cranked the AC as high as it would go.

Once you slid into the leather seat, his gaze dropped down to the supple flesh of your thighs, his throat going dry in response. His throat bobbed, his hand clenched the stirring wheel. God help him if he got an erection. Not that it would bother him too much, but he needed to focus on the road and not on the vision of you fingering yourself on the passenger driver seat.

“Seatbelt kiddo, safety first.”

You smiled at him as you clicked the seatbelt buckle into place and surveyed the dashboard of his car with a sense of awe. The sun made it sparkle. 

 “Wow,” you murmured, your hand slowly moving forward to gently touch the smooth, supple leather. 

The Penguin let out a small chuckle at your fascination, enjoying the way your eyes lit up as you explored the plush interior of his Maserati. You were just another underprivileged girl, unexposed to the luxury of finer things. He knew your father kept you well away from The Penguins world— or else you would be already dancing in heels and a thong in the 44 below lounge beneath the club.

Maybe you could dance for daddy still. Maybe some private dances. Oh how cute you’d be in a white babydoll and some high heels that you would wobble in every step.

The Penguin’s voice broke your admiring reverie, and you looked up at him. “Now let’s get you home, yea?” he said.

Your hands folded on your lap delicately. You were a little lady, a real sweetheart, a princess. Nah, he wouldn’t make you dance.

He knew that the drive to your place would take only about twenty minutes, but he also knew that once you got home, things would go haywire. Taking one final glance at your exposed knees, he pulled back onto the road.

Your wide eyes fluttered slightly as you leaned back into the plush seats. He didn’t miss the chance of watching your knees part lightly. 

“Thank you Mister Cobb for driving me home,” you said with weariness in your soft voice, “It’s been a long day.”

Oswald hummed, “Oh, yea? Why so long?”

You looked down at your hands and fidgeted, nervously picking at your nails as you spoke. “Just anxious about the future, about the exams I’ll might be taking in the future,” you admitted, averting your gaze towards the passing landscape out the window. “I ain’t really in college but it was an orientation day today.”

Your neck and wrists caught his attention, and he couldn’t help but envision how easily he could wrap a hand around your throat. Imagining how easily he could hold both your hands above your head with just one of his own. 

“Nah,” he clicked his tongue, a smirk forming on his lips. “You ain’t got nothing to worry about, sweetheart,” He paused, “You’re a smart girl. You’ll make it.”

Your cheerful smile was greeted with a sly smirk from him. He noticed how well you responded to the praise. God he wish he could pull over down an alley street and turn you into his slut. 

“I’m starting college, If not in the spring, then I’ll start in the fall after summer break. In September.”

He responded with a simple, “Hey, that sounds alright, I didn’t go to college but I bet you’ll knock ‘em right outta the park.” before flicking on the blinker and merging onto the highway. His grip tightened around the gear stick as he skillfully switched gears, causing the car to accelerate at a rapid pace. “Why ugh, why the fall?” 

You cleared your throat, “Oh um-”

Oswald’s gaze shifted briefly in your direction as you spoke. 

You fidgeted nervously, gnawing gently on your lower lip, and explained, “I’ve almost gathered all the money I need. For a full-time enrolment, I still need a consigner, dad’s not willing— but I’m close to having enough saved up to cover a part-time year’s tuition. I can start work at The Corner Diner to make up the difference.”

Oswald’s eyes softened, warmth crept into his smile. He took in your fierce ambition, your unwavering determination to study and better yourself. He noted the spark in your eye, the fierce hunger to rise above and lift yourself out of this hell hole in downtown Gotham and create a new life for yourself.

“I believe you’re gonna go far sweetheart,” he said strongly, “You just gotta put your mind to it, know what you want and know what you’re willing to do and sacrifice to get there.”

In response, a shy smile curled on the corners of your lips as you gazed down at your hands, embarrassment tinged with pride.

Oswald’s gaze flickered over in your direction, memories flooding his mind unbidden. He envisioned the wide-eyed young girl who had once perched on a tall bar stool, sipping a milkshake through a straw, your chubby cheeks puffed up with curiosity and naivety while you asked where your dad had gone. Your dad had business with Carmine Falcone and had no choice but to take you to the Iceberg Lounge with him. You were what? Fourteen back then? He couldn’t remember if you had braces or not. But you’d complimented Oswald for the rosary he wore around his neck.

You still had that innocent look about you, except...a full figure, maybe a little taller, less acne. 

Oswald’s attention lingered on your legs for a brief moment before he returned his gaze to the road, downshifting and swiftly maneuvered the car behind a slower vehicle in the middle lane. He shifted two lanes to the left and gunned the engine, abruptly switching back into the fast lane. Glancing at the dashboard, he kept a watchful eye on the speed gauge, ensuring the speed remained below the legal limit of 90mph.

As the car barrelled down the road, he ventured a conversational question, his tone casual but with a hint of genuine interest. “Whatcha want to study, doll?”

Your cheeks felt unbelievably warm with embarrassment as you hesitantly shared your aspirations with the Penguin. “I’ll be starting with some general education classes, I think, like history, art, maybe writing,” you began, your voice trailing off somewhat. “I hope I do well enough to qualify for a scholarship. It’s my dream to join the journalist program,” you admitted sheepishly.

The Penguin’s lips twitched into a sly smile as he replied, his tone tinged with friendly encouragement. “You’d make a fantastic reporter,” he said. “But you’d best write only good things ‘bout me, ya?”

A soft, nervous giggle escaped your lips, and your hand instinctively travelled to the back of your neck. Your nose wrinkled in a cute, almost bashful fashion as you responded. “Of course,” you said, the words coming out a little more eagerly than you’d meant.

The Penguin took an exit off the highway, signalling with his blinker before turning. He turned to you, his tone both curious and engaging. “What made you choose writin’, doll?”

Your soft lips parted gently as you answered with full sincerely, “I want to write real news, say it how it really is,” you paused. “Sort of like what you do, Mister Cobb.” 

In that moment, you turned your gaze in his direction, and his eyes flicked over to meet yours through the dark tint of his glasses.

The Penguin’s knuckles turned bone-white against the leather of the steering wheel, his mind wandering into dangerous territory again. He mused on how easy it might be to seduce you, how much fun it could be to have you beneath him, moaning his name. You seemed to adore him, and he wondered how you’d react if he placed his hand upon your thigh and told you that you had grown into a bright, gorgeous young lady...how easy it would be to shove you into the backseat and hold you down.

He tried to push those images from his mind. He tried not to dwell. You were out of the question. Not because he had any actual ethical problem with engaging in a sexual relationship with inappropriately young women… but your dad was working for him and most importantly, you truly were an innocent. He reckoned you’d grow up and live a boring life— Marry a highschool sweetheart, raise some kids, join a Parents and Teachers Association group, grow old, bunch of grandkids.

If he tried anything with you, it wouldn’t surprise him if you started squealing bloody murder. 

“I’m impressed, you choose writin’ when you could be a news anchor if you wanted, sweetheart, the prettiest little weather girl of Gotham.” he commented. He turned down a narrow side street, the last vestiges of the setting sun bathing the world around him in twilight. The Penguin kept his sunglasses on, wanting to take one final, lingering look at your legs before you left out of his Maserati totally unmarred. 

“I doubt it,” you replied with a bit of sudden insecurity and self-deprecation. “I’ll be lucky if I’ll be able to even afford the tuition as a journalist let alone a news anchor.”

Oswald wondered if you were trying to ask for money...he would give it to you, but he’d fuck your tight little asshole first before giving out something like tuition money.

The Penguin pulled up in front of the apartment building where you resided with your father. As he parked the car, he was all too aware of the reason why you were pushing yourself so hard, studying until your eyes burned. He knew that you were striving to escape the cycle of struggling to make ends meet month after month. He knew this because, in a twisted twist of fate, he was your landlord, discreetly observing your life from the shadows, silently bearing witness to your efforts.

The Penguin pinned you down with a sly, knowing smile, his hand boldly ventures out and touched your cheek, his thumb rolled over the skin, skating just across your lip before digging into your chin, “You’ll get it, sweetheart,” he hummed, the words rolling off his tongue with blind confidence. 

You felt so small in his palm. The smell of his cologne must’ve been overpowering with how your nostrils flared a little. 

Your gaze rose to meet his, your big eyes fixed upon his face, searching for something, anything, to hold onto. As your lips parted in anticipation, the Penguin revelled in the way your eyes widened, taking in every expression that flickered across your face. It was almost tragic, how easily teenage hormones could control your heart...

The Penguin pushed up his raybans, observing you intently as you stumbled over your words. “Uh... thank you for the ride,” you managed to say, attempting to break away from the intensity of the moment. In your haste, you accidentally fumbled and dropped your book bag. 

The Penguin continued watching, a hint of amusement in his eyes as you knelt down to retrieve your belongings.

The books spilled out onto the floor, creating a small pile amidst the plush carpet of the car. The Penguin’s eyes tracked your movements with a growing smile, watching with a lazy, almost sadistic pleasure as you knelt down, gathering your books, pens, and crumpled receipts. Is this how you’d look on your knees, head bowed, ready to suck his cock? His sweet, innocent, little college girl? 

His smile suddenly froze on his lips as he caught sight of one of the books that had fallen over the cup holder, its cover facing up – the cover of a book on- no, surely not, surely not you. You couldn’t read that, could you? You wouldn’t read that type of thing, fuckin—

Oswald seized the book from your frantic grasp. You tried to reach out for it, but he swiftly jerked his hand away, a cruel smirk cemented on his lips. He relished the brief moment of control, holding the book just out of your reach. But eventually, you managed to grab it from him and shove it into your bookbag, your cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment.

Your voice trembled with anxiety, words tripping over each other in your attempt to explain, “It’s just... it’s...”

But the Penguin cut you off, his voice low and purring as he replied, “I know what it is.”

You looked up at him, your eyes wide and full of trust, just as they had been when you had first visited the Iceberg Lounge club, your lips parted ever so slightly.

It was the adult novel, ‘The Negatives of Shooting People.’ A cheesy pornography book about some journalist girl getting used like a ragdoll by a mafia leader.

Oswald could’ve laughed. Was this the real reason why you wanted to be a Journalist so bad?

“Please...it’s not mine,” you whispered, your voice trembling. Sweat trickled down your neck. “I’m just holding it for a friend...I promise.” Your eyes pleaded, hoping he’d believe your lie. “I don’t usually read that type of thing...” your voice choked, eyes welling up with tears. Shame truly flooded over you. “Please, Mister Cobb,” you implored, “You must believe me... I’m not...I’m not a...”

“A slut?” Oswald said as he let out a low chuckle, finishing your sentence. “Of course not, sweetheart,” his body shifted. 

He locked eyes with you, studying your face. Those big, innocent eyes. Those beautiful, trusting eyes. He pictured you, your sweet lips, just like your eyes, puffy. He imagined the tears flooding down your cheeks staining them with mascara, while his cock was pressing down the back of your throat and your backside marked with angry welts from a thorough belting.

The Penguin’s eyes flickered up to the apartment building, a pang of guilt gnawing at the back of his mind. A part of him wanted to tell you to wait in the car, to keep you away from the horror that potentially awaited you. But he knew it was too late. This was it. You were about to see the real side of him. 

The car drive home would be the last kind thing he’d ever do for you.

"Let me escort you upstairs," he grunted, turning off the ignition. "I’ve got business with your ol’ pops."

❆❆❆

As the Penguin got out of the car, you scrambled to follow, walking a few steps behind him as he waddled towards the buildings steps. You didn’t want to walk in his way, didn’t want to show that disrespect. You moved your book bag to your other arm.

“Please,” you begged him, “Please, Mister Cobb, don’t tell my dad about the book.”

The Penguin cast a sidelong glance at you, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, kid,” he chuckled, “Don’t you worry ‘bout it. You got a key?”

The short walk up to your apartment seemed to take forever. Every step into the building, into the foyer, and towards your apartment door was filled with a prickling tension and an underlying sense of dread. 

As you fumbled with the keys, you could feel the Penguin’s gaze boring into the back of your head, his presence looming over you like a shadow. He was much taller, larger, and more imposing than you in every way, his scarred face making him look deadly, dangerous. But beneath the rough exterior, you knew he had been kind to you, warm and almost comforting. And yet, right now, he seemed like a shark, waiting to pounce and strike.

What surprised you was that your dad had never invited The Penguin over for dinner which you found had been customary in the neighbourhood. It was a bragging rights to invite The Penguin over and have that invitation accepted. 

Hell, even Mrs Occhipinti next door; old lady, cat addict— served The Penguin her famous linguine recipe she brought from the Old Country. 

But your dad? Not a fucking word. Not a damn desire to have his Boss and landlord over for a cup of wine, not a loaf of bread to break, not a cigarette to spare— nothing. 

Which you found incredibly odd. And he never wanted to talk about it either. Everytime you brought up the idea of making gnocchi for the notable man, your dad would tell you to not worry about it and to just keep your nose clean and your head down. 

Your dad made it clear from the day one, he didn’t want you to forever live here in Gotham, not in the Downtown at least. He wanted the best for you. Which is why he made damn well sure your grades were good and you studied hard. 

“You can make friends when you’re an adult, focus on your education.” Was his favourite quote. 

And boy, did you live by it. And it paid off. You were going to get a scholarship, a program that went towards kids that had been traumatised by the terrorist flash flooding incident. You were so excited! You would have the opportunity to go to Gotham University! 

You opened the apartment door and heard a loud humming moan come from inside.

“Dad?” You called out, “Mister Cobb is here for you.”

You jumped as a loud crash echoed from outside, followed by the sharp sound of shattering glass. A shiver coursed through you as the low chuckles of nearby men filled the air, a malevolent sound that sent a chill down your spine. A sense of dread coiled in your stomach, and your skin erupted in a sea of goosebumps. Every instinct within you screamed that something was wrong.

As the Penguin moved up behind you, you felt his stomach brush against your back, his large body pushing you deeper into the apartment. You reasoned with yourself that it was just the television, that maybe your father had dozed off watching a comedy show and tripped, causing something to break. You tried to shake off the unease that clutched at your stomach.

You didn’t have to walk long until you saw the chaos of your home. 

The kitchen cabinets were open, the contents of broken glasses and dishes strewn across the countertops. Curtains had been totally torn from their rods. The living room furniture was all askew, the chairs and sofas overturned, and bookshelf empty of all the contents smashed and scattered across the floor. Picture frames were broken, glass spread out like sharp glitter thrown across the rugs. The whole apartment looked like it had been thoroughly ransacked and violated.

And in the center of it all? Your father on a chair, red stained rag in mouth, tied up with rope. His face was a bruised and bloody mess, his right eye swollen shut from whatever besting he’d endured. Over six different men, all dressed in black, stood around the chaos that was your home. 

“Oh god,” You cried out, “Dad!”

Before you could rush forward to help, two arms snaked around your body, their grip tight and cruel. Oswald jerked you backwards into his chest, the sharp movement forced you to flail and gasp in surprise.

“Woah there, sweetheart!” cackled Oswald. 

Fresh tears stung your eyes, as a lump began to build in your throat. You didn’t understand why Oswald was holding you back from going to your father’s aid. You tried to twist and struggle against his firm grip, your feet thrashing behind you in a desperate attempt to break free.

“Let me go!” you yelled, your voice breaking into a sob. “He’s hurt!”

He ignore how you flailed and scratched at his arms. He lifted you back and off the ground for a moment before throwing you into the arms of three men.

“Let go of me! Let go of m—” a hand clamped hard down over your mouth. 

You fought like a wild animal, kicking and scratching at everyone within reach, unable to tear your eyes away from the horrifying sight of Oswald, who was panting now, a sly smile playing on his lips as he looked from you to your father.

“Fuck me, she’s got some fight in her, boys,” he chuckled, his voice was filled with a purely cold and sinister glee. “Who would’ve thought she could pack such a punch?”

The men around you erupted in a chorus of mocking laughter, their voices made your heart sink. The sound of your father’s tears filled the air, a pitiful sound that echoed the despair you felt. 

You were led to an empty chair, forced to sit down as one of the men’s large hands clamped down on your shoulders, holding you in place. The Penguin paced back and forth across the room, his footsteps heavy and measured, his presence imposing. They didn’t tie you up, but the weight of their hands on your shoulders was enough to keep you from making any sudden moves. Someone behind you grabbed at your hair and pulled your head back. 

“Schools in session kids,” Oswald hummed, glancing your way before glaring at your father, “If the Penguin loans Pops one hundred thousand dollars and Pops only pays twenty thousand dollars back, how much does Pop owe the Penguin?”

Your eyes darted between your father and the Penguin, desperate to make sense of the situation. The amount he mentioned was staggering, and you couldn’t imagine your father ever borrowing that much money. But he remained silent, his moans and whimpers the only sounds that escaped his gagged mouth.

Your stomach lurched, and a whimper escaped your lips as fresh tears streamed down your cheeks. Frantically, you shook your head in denial.

“Pl-” you gulped, your wobbling lip tried again, “Please,” you whispered in a trembling voice, “p-please, Mister Cobb.”

Oswald pulled a gun from a holster inside his jacket, the black metal gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. He checked the bullets with an expert hand before turning back to you, turning the safety off.

“C’mon sweetheart, use that noggin of yours,” Oswald grunted, “How much does he owe me?” 

Your whole body trembled uncontrollably, and you feared you might even soil yourself from sheer terror. With a trembling voice and a sharp intake of breath, you choked out your answer.

“E-eight—” you stuttered, your voice breaking as a hiccup escaped your lips, “Eighty thousand?”

A harsh laugh burst from his lips as he confirmed your answer. “That’s right baby doll, eighty fucking thousand,” Oswald repeated, his voice rising with anger. He rounded on your father, his voice becoming a sharp, booming bark.

“Where the fuck is it!?” he thundered, spitting with rage, “Where’s my goddamn money, huh!?”

Your father's face jerked to the side as Oswald struck him, the force of the blow sending his head jolting to one side. The Penguin turned back to you, his hand on his chest as he continued speaking.

“I'm guessing pops didn't tell you he was borrowing big bucks from the big man, to cover his Gambling debts, huh?” his scared lip curled back showing off his gold tooth, “Here you were tellin’ me 'bout you wantin' to start college and here I was thinkin’ gee what a nice pop, bankrollin' tuition fees. but then you said you couldn't afford it. What a piece of shit father you got here kid.”

There was a sharp and loud click as the safety was pulled back, before the cold tip of the gun barrel pressed against your father’s blood covered temple. Your father began to sob and the front of his trousers grew a large wet patch, the scent of urine filled your nostrils. You felt sick watching the whole thing.

“Where. Is. My. Money!!?” he roared, his eyes were wide and wild.

“Please no! No! God!” You squealed and scratched the hands that were holding you back in your chair. You twisted and wailed, “Mercy! Please!” You coughed, snot dripping down your lips and chin, “Oh fuck! Please god!”

With a burst of energy and adrenaline, you managed to wriggle out of the hands of the gang members, but as you fell to your knees, you grabbed at Oswald’s trousers and shoes, your fingers desperately clawing at the fabric. 

“Don’t kill him!” you pleaded, your voice choked with tears, “Please! I’ll do anything! Please, I’m begging you! Please!” You buried your face into his knee, your wet face soaking into his expensive trousers. 

A heavy hand came to rest on top of your head, patting you gently as you leaned, trembling against his leg and wept. You heard the softest shushing sounds, from the man with the deadly firearm held in his other hand.

"Anything?" he whispered softly with a curious and considerate edge, though the threat in his hand remained ever-present.

Your hands trembled uncontrollably as you looked back up at Oswald, your fingers gripping the fabric of his trousers tightly. Your father’s eyes widened in terror as he desperately shook his head from side to side, his weak struggles against the bindings doing little to loosen them. He protested loudly against the gag in his mouth, whimpering and grunting in fear.

The penguin rolled his eyes, “She’s doing you a solid,’ Oswald barked at your father, “should be grateful.” His gaze snapped back down at your wet blinking orbs, “How are you gonna pay what he owes me?” he looked honestly interested in what you were offering, he smiled even.

Your tongue flicked out to wet your dry bottom lip. “I’ll—I’ll work at the lounge,” you stammered, “I’ll pick up babysitting.” The words came stumbling out of your mouth, your mind racing as you desperately tried to find some way to satisfy the demands of the mobster. “I won’t go to college, just give me time!”  You prayed he would offer some leniency.

The Penguin’s scoff was cold and dismissive. “Your pops has had a year, honey,” he retorted, “You wouldn’t be able to make that much bussing tables and waitressing let alone playing nurse maid.”

His words stung, and you felt a sharp pang of helplessness. He was right. There was no way you could make that much money to pay off your father’s debt.

Your hands clasped together, your shoulders drooped, you felt just how you looked, pathetic and small, “Please, please Mister Cobb.”

As he twirled his gun idly in his hand, the mobster hummed, “You wanna help your pops? You wanna pay off his debt?” he tilted your chin up with the tip of his gun. The safety was still off.

“Yes, hm,” you whimpered, “yes, Mister Cobb.”

He withdrew his pistol, setting it aside, and now cradled your face in his large, warm hand. His voice was gentle as he inquired, “Be honest with me Doll, did you read that book?” 

Your breath hitched in your chest as you realized he was referring to that smutty book, the one that had caused so much upheaval and embarrassment before you’d come inside to this horror.

Your face crumbled as you choked out your answer, a single syllable word. “Yes.” You wouldn’t dare lie to the Penguin. Not now.

The sinister smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth made your stomach churn. His reaction seemed almost gleeful as if he was secretly pleased by your admission. Extending his hand towards you, he quietly encouraged you to take it.

Your legs trembled weakly as you slowly stood He pulled you into his side, and your body was pressed close against his, intimate and too close for comfort.  He groaned happily, “Alright then, give me a kiss.”

You gulped hard as you tried to steel yourself, desperately holding back the well of tears that threatened to spill over again. He wanted a kiss from you, just a simple little kiss, it wasn’t that hard. You pressed your lips to his cheek. You shuddered and then pressed your mouth to the corner of his. He groaned and squeezed at your waist. Your fingers trembled violently as they gripped his lapels, your breath coming in short, shaking gasps.

“Good enough,” he groaned, “Now say goodbye to your Pops. You’re gonna come with me and you can see him once the debts been paid.”

Your father went back to fighting his binds, hollering behind the gag. He pleaded that the penguin would not take you. 

Your mind raced, filled with a library of questions about your impending fate: If you accompanied the Penguin, would you ever get to see your father again? What exactly would you be expected to do to pay off his debt? What could the Penguin possibly want from you? Where would you even stay, how would you survive?

The panic rose in your chest, and your voice trembled as you asked, “How long will that be?”

Oswald pinched your chin and pressed his nose against yours, “Depends on you, doll face,” he drawled, “I reckon a good six months to a year should be enough.”

Your chest felt tight, your heart clenching in sadness, as you whispered, “Oh.” Oswald allowed you to pull away and step over to your father. You gently cradled his bruised and bleeding face in your hands, tears streaming down your own cheeks.

“I lo-love you, dad.” Your voice cracked as you spoke, “Please, I’m sorry.” Your father cried into your palms, his sobs choking out through the gag.

Squeezing your eyes shut, your mind struggled to take in the gravity of what was happening as fear bubbled inside of your stomach. You felt a thick, black bag being dragged over your head, the rough cloth pressing against your face and blocking out what little light had been left in the room.

To be continued...

  𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒:

𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐞, 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬, 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬. 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬, 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

[androgynouspoetry]

I like to head canon that Tim’s lactose intolerant so here’s this based off my very aggressive milk loving friend.

Dick walking down the street with Tim: Hey, did you wana get some ice cream?

Tim knowing Dick wouldn’t let him have dairy if he told the family: Yeah! Been craving it :D

Tim just inhaling about a tubs worth of ice cream like somebody’s going to take it from him. He’s eating it like when a dog has something in its mouth and it knows it’s not supposed to so it just starts eating faster.

Like an hour later they’re both home only for some like emergency call to happen where they’re all requested to help. Yet when everyone is getting ready, no one can find Tim.

Bruce: Where’s Tim?

Dick looking at Bruce and giving a shrug: No idea, haven’t seen him since we got ice cream together.

Bruce getting war flashbacks of when Tim first was coming around and inhaled an entire plate of oven baked macaroni and then proceeded to fuck up three of his toilets so bad they had to call a plumber. Just the haunting sound of Tim screaming while hauling ass to each different toilet while trying not to shit himself.

Bruce: ᵒʰ ⁿᵒ.

Tim someplace fighting for his life on his second toilet: Worth it.

[tipsypixel-sims]

The next morning started with Riley picking up the flamingo in the front yard, who somebody had angryly kicked over the night before.

Only to come back inside and find the master bathroom flooded. She did her best to mop up as much as she could, but with both the toilet an bath tap leaking water it didn't take long for the next puddle to form. She made a mental note to call Fiona and ask if she knew a plumber, but decided to go grocery shopping first.

After filling her basket with one of each kind of TV dinner the small market had to offer, she walked up to the register.

Cashier: "That makes 175 Simoleons."

Didn't they always advertise those TV dinners as "affordable"?, Riley wondered. While handing him the money she asked about the notice board that Mickey had mentioned.

Cashier: "The notice board? Right there on the wall behind you!"

Hm... Let's see... Car to sell... Babysitter wanted... Bookclub... Lead's Gym NEW OPENING! ...

Between the many slips of papers - some hanging there for a long time judging by their yellow color - one caught Riley's eye:

[bomberqueen17]

the home stretch

Went over to the house yesterday morning and Jim was there sawing a hole in the exterior wall.

Not alarming at all once I remembered part of this remodel that i'm really excited about is that we're getting an actual exhaust hood for over the stove. Not one of those ones that goes through a microwave either, a real exhaust hood that goes to the outdoors. (The real ones are mounted 30" above the stove top. Microwave ones have to be lower so you can reach the microwave. i can't stand cooking in such a constrained space like that. No thank you. Keep my microwave separate!)

He had sawed out a big chunk of drywall on the interior too, and replaced it with plywood, which is much sturdier to screw mounting hardware into. At my request, he'd extended the plywood down a couple more inches (it'll be covered by the tile backsplash so it won't even show!) so I can screw a couple of heavy-duty mounting hooks in there and have a place I can hang both my cast-iron skillets when they're not in use. I don't like leaving them on the stove (my mother's approach) or stacking them on a shelf (dude's approach) because one is untidy and the other requires me to lift every piece of cast iron i own at once to access any of them. (I also have a square griddle and a Dutch oven and also a tiny skillet which Dude uses all the time when I'm not around and neither of us uses at all when I am around, because it is very much a Cooking For One mini skillet LOL.)

He paused to show me the deer hunting hut he'd meticulously constructed for himself while he was on Christmas break and then artistically had painted camoflage. ("My friends were like omg how long did that take you? I dunno, I wasn't counting, I had a blast. Had a beer in one hand, spray paint can in the other, I just let it take as long as it took. It's like arts and crafts! Who's keeping track of the time?") It did look great. As he was swiping his finger accidentally slid onto the later bits of the camera roll and it showed me the deer he'd gotten on the last day of hunting season. "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you look at that," he said, and then looked at me and laughed, remembering I had told him I work in a slaughterhouse. "Right, you don't mind that kind of thing, but still." It was a nice big doe, cleanly felled, nothing to object to there.

I went and called the appliance company, who'd said they'd deliver my dishwasher and vent hood on new year's eve probably. They seemed confused that I'd called, and then were confused when they discovered that indeed both my items were in stock and should have been delivered. I said I figured the holiday had confused things (genuinely, probably the vent hood had come in on NYE like the salesman had thought it might, but I bet somebody had the day off and they weren't on the ball about calling people) so I just wanted to call and find out if anything needed sorting. They told me they'll call me today to tell me the two-hour delivery window. So I'm getting my dishwasher today! Pumped. It's gonna go into the living room to start with but like, y'know, that's fine.

The counters are going in on Thursday. Hopefully, Jim said, the counter people could do it in the morning, because then he could start on the tile that afternoon.

Ah they've just called, my delivery window for the appliances is 11-1. OK cool.

The plumber can't come until Monday. But then once he's been there I'll have my stove and sink and dishwasher. And, Jim says, that means the final, last little button-up details will be done on Tuesday.

"And then," he said, amused, "I can go back to the regular schedule, because the people who refused to have their houses torn up over the holidays will be clamoring to get the work done now. It's good you didn't mind." Which is precisely why we thought we'd gotten bumped up by two months, but it's funny to hear him so directly confirm it.

"I'm the luckiest person in the world," I said, "with my mother-in-law's house vacant walking distance away for this whole time, so it's been genuinely no trouble at all." And I am. She's coming back on Tuesday, so I figure we'll move back into our house over the weekend, and I'll deep-clean her house and (sighhh) put all the beautiful sewing equipment back where I found it. I won't really miss her fancy modern sewing machine (which she just got and is third-hand and I don't think she knows how to use either) but her old workhorse straight-stitch machine is a beautiful, unfussy beast I've really enjoyed spending time with.

OK i gotta get off my ass and go get the grocery shopping done so I can go sit in my house for the delivery window. I saved plenty of things to do, don't worry. I'm starting to put stuff into the cupboards, made Dude come sit with me over the weekend and give his opinion-- he's been busy at work and has had no attention span but I refuse to take his "idk just put stuff wherever" at face value, he spends more time in this house than me and i will NOT have him after the fact annoyed with how I chose to organize things. So he did give opinions, finally. And I need a few more lazy susans and storage baskets and half-shelf-rack kinda thingies here and there but I'm getting there.

[pixeldistractions]

With Maria on the train and dashing back to her daughter, Jordan had a date to keep of his own. He told the boys he’d be a little late for their usual 4:00 chat. 

“Hey guys, I’m here now.” In the background of their image, the normally sterile counters were cluttered with pans and bowls. “Oh, hey, did your mom cook?”

“She tried to make mac and cheese,” Milo said. “But the water kept bubbling over and she almost burnt the kitchen down, so she got really mad and dumped it all down the sink. But then it clogged the drain, and now she has to call a plumber. You should have seen the veins in her head.”

“Oh, no. So what did you eat for dinner?”

“Pizza again,” Milo said. “It’s okay, we like pizza.”

“Ok. Well, sorry I was late. I had a visit from a friend. She just got on the train.”

“Was it Maria?”

“Wait, what? How did you know?”

“Because she’s your best friend. She said so, but she said it kind of funny. And you said she took a train, so it must have been kind of far.”

These boys were too smart.

“Right. She is my best friend.”

“Is she your girlfriend?” Felix asked.

Instant paralysis. “Where’s your mom?” Jordan scanned the background of the video for Colette. He suspected that she often listened in on these calls. And sure, these conversations would have to happen someday, but he wasn’t ready to deal with that now, especially when apparently her veins were already popping out of her head today.  

“She’s taking a bath. She said she needed self care.”

Relief.

“Okay,” Jordan said. “What do you boys know about girlfriends?”

“It’s like, kissing and holding hands and stuff,” Felix said.

“Felix wants Lily to be his girlfriend,” Milo tattled.

“Shut up, no I don’t, you idiot.”

“Felix, no name calling,” Jordan said.

“And Connor had a girlfriend last year. It was Bianca, except she said he wasn’t her boyfriend. But we saw them kissing during recess.”

“Kissing, in fourth grade?”

“Dad! They weren’t in fourth grade, they were in fifth. But now they went to middle school this year. They’re like eleven already.”

“Of course. Eleven.” Jordan felt so old. “But you don’t have to kiss someone just because everybody else is.” 

“Was mom the first girl you kissed?” Milo asked.

“Um, no, it was somebody else.”

“How old were you?” Felix asked.

“I was, uh, fifteen,” Jordan said.

Felix cackled. “Ha ha, that's so old. I better get to kiss someone before I’m fifteen.”

“It’s not a race.”   

“Were you a dork in middle school?”

“Ha. Maybe I was.”

“That’s why,” Felix said, nodding sagely. “Dorks don’t get kissed until high school.”

Jordan was hoping this side track into middle school romantic gossip might make them forget their question, but no, it didn’t. 

“So, is she? Your girlfriend?”

“This is the kind of thing I should probably tell your mom first,” Jordan said. “Does that make sense? It’s the right thing to do.”

“So, she is then?”

“You know your mom and I never got married, right?”

“Yeah, we know.”

“How do you feel about me having a girlfriend?”

“I don’t know,” Milo said. “It’s kind of weird. But I guess she’s nice.”

“She’s very nice. Felix, what do you think?” 

“I never really talked to her before,” Felix said. “I don’t know if she’s nice.”

“You can talk to her sometime if you want,” Jordan said. “Soon. We’ll all spend some time together soon.”

“I guess we could.”

“Your mom is still in the bath?”

They nodded. 

“Are you sure? Make sure.” 

Felix elbowed his brother in the ribs and Milo crept up the stairs and then back down. “Yeah,” he confirmed.

“Okay,” Jordan said. “Yes, Maria is my girlfriend.”

“Oh, okay,” they both said, sitting in that new truth for a moment. 

And then, thankfully, they had other things to talk about. Very exciting things. Like how Connor McCullough got suspended for pranking the school toilets, and how the new Voidcritter movies were kind of dumb, but they watched them all three times anyway, and did he know there was a skate park being built at the harbor? And when he comes back in December, could he take them there? Please please please?

“A thousand percent, yes,” Jordan promised. “No matter how cold, even if there’s snow.” 

They were smart and getting so big. They could walk themselves to the bus stop and pour their own cereal and didn’t need to be reminded to wash behind their ears most of the time. But they weren’t done with their dad. Jordan wasn’t even done with his own dad at twenty-two. And this was special, what they had, him and his boys. Colette had her role, and he wouldn’t call it an unimportant one, but he couldn’t imagine her holding space for them, being open for them, talking with them like he did. Maybe it was a boy thing. Which meant that his leaving left an immense void, and were these video chats good enough to fill that void?

Life was a seesaw—one thing goes up and another thing hits the ground. In one hand an answer and the other hand a quagmire. You might need it all, but you can’t have it all, and there’s the tragedy. Something precious will be lost, and what will it be?

— from “boxes and squares #4.5: home is wherever you are, part 2” (5/10)

story notes: Jordan always tells his boys first

Next ->

[unhingedtiktoks]

Description: Tiktok from user littlevictorianboy. The caption says "your typical plumber."

Woman (behind camera): The issue is just my kitchen sink. It's still working, it's just- it's draining slowly. Just like a little slow.

Plumber: (moving faucet around) Did it always do this?

Woman: Yeah.

Plumber: Move like that?

Woman: Yeah of course.

Plumber: (dramatically takes drink from the faucet) The water drained fine down my throat so we know it's not a problem with the water. On a scale from 3 to 10, how many times a week do you fill this sink to the brim with like a clam chowder?

Woman: Uh zero?

Plumber: On a scale from 3 to 10. Alright you see that?

Woman: Yeah.

Plumber: That's your P trap. You know what the P stands for?

Woman: No.

Plumber: (whispers) It stands for penis.

Woman: I- no- I don't think that's true.

Plumber: Fun fact we actually used to use real snakes. You got a jilted ex-lover that you chopped up into little bits and fed into the garbage disposal but maybe you kept the head in your closet because he keeps talking to you?

Woman: No.

Plumber: You'd be surprised how many times that's the problem.

Woman: Um I'm sorry you're not even putting that down the drain.

Plumber: It's getting there. What is this?

Woman: Paper towels?

Plumber: Woah! This is like a wizard scroll! (grabs paper towels while screaming and laughing hysterically) Look I can juggle! (drops paper towels) Fuck! I made a goddamn mess in your house!

Woman: You wasted a lot of my paper towels.

Plumber: Okay I'll pick them up. (tries to grab one with a wrench)

Woman: Is that... really the most efficient way to do that?

Plumber: Yes.

Another guy enters and says "Hey somebody called for a plumber?" The woman says "What? Who-" She turns to the "plumber" in a panic and he runs away.

[kariachi]

Who wants more house arrest fic? Mike hasn't killed himself yet- 'yet' being the operative word.

Kevin is not paid enough, and in fact has to live with the knowledge he's doing the funding.

~~

Mike was not a stupid person. Selfish, yes. Persistent, yes. Bit of a drama queen, yes. But not stupid. Once the stinging in his throat became hindering, he took that as his cue to step away and let whatever fumes the cleaning solutions were giving off dissipate from the oven. When it became clear that they were still a problem, he’d opened a window. Of course, while grumbling about the house clearly being too small, certainly they’d never had this problem even back in the guest house. Then he’d opened another window. And another. At which point he’d lowered himself to calling Levin.

So it was that he was sat on the roof when the ‘hero’ pulled up, all but slamming the car door shut behind him.

“How the fuck,” he yelled up to him as he stormed up the walk, “did you manage to fucking gas yourself?!”

“I don’t know,” he called back, “I was just trying to clean up, since somebody decided my allowance shouldn't account for a maid.”

“I don’t trust you with a maid.” Shaking his head as Mike huffed, he heaved a sigh. “How’s breathing going?”

“Better since I came outside.”

“Good. Stay here.” As if he had options. Mike was generally certain the talk of an explosive in his tracking anklet had been a hollow threat, but he couldn’t entirely discount it and didn’t intend to go back to prison besides.

Kneeling, Levin absorbed the concrete from the walkway and headed in the open door. Mike didn’t know what exactly Levin was doing in there, investigating the situation presumably, and he could hear more windows opening, but it took several minutes longer than he felt it should. How long could it take, really, when he seemed to already know what he was looking for.

“First up,” Levin said when he finally exited, as he finally exited, “did your fancy school not teach you not to mix cleaners or did you just not pay attention?” Mike blinked, frowning, and did him the service of at least considering the question.

“I certainly don’t remember anything like that, no. They weren’t exactly expecting us to be doing our own housework.”

“Fucking rich people…” Grumbling, Levin shook his head again. “Second, why the fuck were you scrubbing out the oven, anyway- it’s got a fucking self-clean!” Nose scrunching, Mike glowered at him.

“And how was I supposed to know that?”

“There’s a fucking button!”

“Excuse me for not paying attention to the functions I don’t need.”

“You need it!”

“And now I know.”  The pair stared each other down, eyes narrowed and frowns on their faces, until Levin let out a growling huff.

“If I could trust the Plumbers with a fucking beanbag chair, Morningstar…” he said, all that was needed to get Mike to relax with a huff of his own. He was, again, not stupid, and knew exactly how much work, had an idea of the strings Levin had pulled to keep him out of the Null Void or a cell. The story behind the turnaround was still a mystery to him, would likely stay that way, but he couldn’t be ungrateful for it. “A month and you already burned through three sets of cookware-” Quite literally. “-nearly starved-” A polite way of saying ‘failed to order enough groceries and almost ate me’. “-and now you’re gassing yourself.”

“I always have been an overachiever.” Mike smirked as Levin flipped him off.

“Or you’re a dumbass. Ya know, Ben joked about how I should off you and move on, beginning to think it woulda saved you as much trouble as me.”

“Well, if you’re going to kill me, can it wait for next month? There’s a movie I want to see.” For a heartbeat, they both paused, then Levin snorted a laugh.

“Sure, when’s good for you?” Pretending to mull over it, Mike leaned out so that he wasn’t looking quite as far down his nose at him.

“The next to last Tuesday. Always hated Wednesdays, I’ll avoid one if I can.” With more snorting laughter, Levin shook his head, a small smile on his face.

“Let shit air out for like an hour,” he said. “Already wiped out the oven, when you go back inside hit the self-clean, leave it closed, wipe it out with a damp sponge once it’s cooled off. A’ight?”

“Alright.” With a nod, Levin took a step back, half turning to go, and Mike took less time than normal to stop him with a quick “Thank you, Levin.” Levin threw a smirk back over his shoulder.

“No problem. Try not to hurt yourself again?” Resisting the urge to throw out a quick jab in the midst of what was, for them, as good as a goodbye, Mike just nodded back.

“I’ll do my best.”

~~

Mike wasn’t a stupid person. Yes, his upbringing meant that there was a lot regarding maintaining one’s own home that he didn’t know. But that didn’t make him an idiot, merely uninformed. He was, for a lack of any other options, trying, and with each mistake came a little bit closer to knowing what he was doing. It was a perfectly normal, or at least understandable, situation to be in.

But three days later, when he had to call Levin out again over a dryer fire (“If somebody had said anything about ‘lint traps’ before-”) he was forced to admit that he wasn’t going to be convincing anybody anytime soon.

[correctrvbquotes]

Church: Shut up Tucker.

Tucker: Did somebody call for a really hairy plumber? Bow chicka bow wow!

Church: Tucker. Shut up.

Tucker: I came here to lay some pipe. Bow-chicka-bow-wow!

Church: Tucker!

Tucker: So I hear you got sisters. Bow chicka- who're twins! -wow wow!

Church: Shut up.

Tucker: Hey, are you a model or famous actress? Bow-chicka-bow-wow!

Church: Shut up.

Tucker: Bow chickachicka-

Church: Shut up.

Tucker: -gow wow chicka-

Church: Shut up.

Tucker: -chicka bow bow chickachickachi bow bow!

Church: Shut up!

[lore-of-the-mushroom-kingdom]

Mario Timeline Part 2

Part 1

Time Skip At some point in time the Bros. and their family migrate out of the Mushroom Kingdom and into the Metro Kingdom. They live in the new and still under construction Big City which would eventually become New Donk City.

Before Super Era

Game & Watch: Mario's Bomb's Away Mario fights in an unnamed war, given Mario's stated age he's probably barely over 18 in this game. Due to the presence of palm trees this probably takes places in the Kong Archipelago.

Game & Watch: Mario Bros., Mario's Cement Factory, and Wrecking Crew Mario more than likely hopped job to job with Luigi before they landed on their main job. These games have no exact placement, so they could go in any order.

Game & Watch: Donkey Kong Circus Mario goes to a circus and watches Donkey Kong Senior perform an act. This probably where Mario met DK Snr. and would go on to befriend him, and buy him as a pet.(Yes pets are weird just look at Chain Chomps and Mona's pets).

Game & Watch: Donkey Kong Hockey Mario and Donkey Kong play hockey together. This is probably when DK Snr. is still living with Mario, so it probably takes place before Donkey Kong.

Donkey Kong Arcade Donkey Kong Senior decides to prank Mario and try to get a rise out of him by kidnapping Pauline. These events would later become a festival for the New Donkers, and even in a musical titled Donkey Kong played by DK III the grandson of DK Snr. Mario might be a carpenter in this game, though this might have been retconned because Miyamoto implies he was already a plumber in this game. Mario is still wearing his Classic Outfit.

Donkey Kong Junior Mario cages Donkey Kong Senior after what he did in the previous game. Donkey Kong Junior is trying to free his father, thus Mario takes on the role of the antagonist.

Donkey Kong III Sometime after Donkey Kong Junior, Donkey Kong Senior probably decides to head home. On his way home he comes across Stanley on one of the islands in the Kong Archipelago, and decides to mess with Stanley.

Mario Bros./Did Somebody Call A Plumber One day Mario and Luigi get a call to deal with pests in the sewers of Big Ape City. In the sewers they fight Sidesteppers, Shell Creepers/Koopa Troopas, and Fighter Flies. As they go deeper they fight Spinys, Goombas, and Piranha Plants. Eventually the Bros. turn up in the Mushroom Kingdom, and the events of the next game begins. Bowser probably having heard of the prophecy from Kamek and maybe even remembering the Bros. from the past, sent minions into the pipes to prevent the Bros. from returning to the Mushroom Kingdom. But said actions would only lead them right back to it.

Part 3

[lunarsilkscreen]

Minimum Wage, and beyond

Let's use any store for an example:

Minimum wage is set at $15 an hour.

In order to break even, which is arguably the entire point of a business to begin with. You need to pay your employees hours worked.

That means you need to sell 2 $10 sandwiches an hour per employee. You make cost of ingredients AND pay that employee.

Now, back in the day before utilities were a thing: water, power, refrigeration, ectera... You didn't need EXTRA to pay the utilities. It wasn't a thing. That's why bartering worked, because the shopkeep could sell goods to the next sap to walk in the door.

And, besides from the assholes, rent wasn't a thing. You bought a plot of land, took out a loan to hire a carpenter and built your house and business on the same spot, called it a day. (Or got some buddies and some brewskis and did it yourselves.)

There's building codes, and inspectors, and utilities, and you have to worry about termites, carpenter ants, other pests, mold, mildew, ASBESTOS!

You gotta pay all *that* on top of the doctor that owns the business that you manage for him while he's in the Bahamas. He's never there, he rarely checks in, he just wants to foot the bill for a continuous dividend.

And shit if you fuck it up, or the business is in a location with no foot traffic. (And since it's to expensive to go outside, now you only interface with people delivering to other people! And those other people will give you a bad review when they inevitably receive their food cold.

Did I mention it was good for nothing doctors that recommended asbestos in the first place as a miracle insulation?

So how the f* are you supposed to make enough money to pay yourself, your employees, and your boss AND STILL HAVE ENOUGH TO PAY UTILITIES!

And on top of *that* what's the next step since you don't work for a corporate infrastructure that has hierarchy beyond *some doctor who owns this place*?

Unless you manage to figure out how to convince the doctor landlord to pay you a bonus for making astronomical returns, this is it buddy. This is your life.

I hope you enjoy Pizza.

So how is it possible that anybody make more than that? How is it, that somebody can get a loan of A BILLION DOLLARS. Refuse to pay it back, and then not go to jail? Is it because you'd have to be an idiot to loan out that much? Well if you got that much to lend, it must be fine.

In America, "pawn stars" has ensured that bartering is like an old fashioned nearly ancient way to make money. Goods are money, disposable items means you can't sell anything. Hell, I've never seen anything at a garage sale go for more than a couple bucks.

The goods as currency just doesn't work if everybody is just waiting to "storage wars" your old stuff when you can't pay your mortgage anymore. It's not value, it's icing for land owners and banks.

So tell me, how is value store supposed to work for the average person? We need to spend money to eat, and for the economy to work, it's mathematically impossible to make ends meet at a business that sells food if the local population doesn't come eat at your establishment.

On a macro scale, what we have isn't working at all.

It wasn't working when minimum wage was $7 it isn't working with minimum wage at $15. We checked the math twice.

How do you ensure an employee can afford room and board, and still have time to participate in politics to ensure a working government and economy?

That is the questions we're trying to answer as we look at the entire system from a macro perspective.

We have to ensure that the plumbers, and the farmers, and the electricians and the mechanics can all get paid a living wage, but they cannot if there is nobody who can afford their services.

So how do we make sure, that the "dirty jobs" that "nobody wants to do" actually have demand for use, AND return on investment to the individual doing them?

I think, that it should be illegal for a residential unit to be used on AirBnB. I think, that they should have to be zoned like regular inns and hotels. I also think, that if somebody who *owns* the house they're living in, or you know, has a mortgage. Then you should mind your own damn business if they have an OnlyFans. unless they're keeping you up at night, or out in the streets, I don't think you should care.

I also think that rental housing should also follow the same rules for Hotels and apartments. They should be zoned for that, and they shouldn't count towards the theoretical residential housing that the city thinks they have.

At the very least, it'll ensure that there's a supply of people nearby to buy pizza from Dr. Pizza's Pizza and Law office.

And you'll be able to keep track of your homelessness issue.

[icyspicy4u]

take their love and make it burn for you instead (chapter three)

heyyyy. chapters one and two up on ao3. ao3 link!

[REVIEW: How La La Land Fails to Make ‘Contact’ With Reality] Posted 12/14/16 by admin katiehomophobia.

Comments: Viewing 1-100 of 3.6k

pinkthingsoterrify: I cannot Jodie Foster this kind of behavior.

katiehomophobia [admin]: @pinkthingsoterrify HOLY MOTHER OF GOD.

Katya invites Trixie motherfucking Mattel into her home and turns her back on her. This is mainly due to the fact that she fears she’ll pop a blood vessel in her eye if she has to feign disinterest directly to the other woman’s face any longer.

“Sorry to interrupt your night,” Trixie says cautiously, followed by the creak of the door opening further—she must have accepted the invitation, then, stepped over the threshold. If Trixie is a vampire, Katya muses idly, she’s fucked.

“Not interrupting much,” Katya replies, still not facing her, electing to stub her cigarette out instead. Trixie Mattel is in Katya’s home. There’s still a fucking movie review with her name peppered throughout it pulled up on Katya’s computer. It occurs to her that she should rectify that, actually. “How can I help you?” she asks as she closes the tab of her broken website.

“Well, my name’s Trixie.” I know. “I’m subletting Kasha Davis’ place for a couple of months. She’s out for the night, so I can’t call her, and, um—” she gives a hissing exhale through her teeth, and Katya finally turns to face her, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from saying anything stupid — “my shower is broken, and I really need to fucking shower. She left your number, but I figured I’d just—” She makes a big, sweeping gesture that Katya can only assume is meant to convey come downstairs and knock on your door and absolutely turn your evening upside down because I’m Trixie motherfucking Mattel.

“Oh, the shower’s giving you trouble?” Katya asks, in a voice that sounds completely foreign to her own ears. She doesn’t fucking talk like this, like some extra from Grease. She clears her throat, adjusts her posture. “Sorry. There’s something wrong with your shower?”

“Yeah. Sorry, I know this sounds like an awful porn setup—I just figured I should consult somebody who lives here before I blow a thousand dollars on a plumber or something.” Trixie shrugs, and by god she’s beautiful, standing there in a floor-length gown like it’s nothing.

“I can come up and take a look at it, if you want,” Katya’s mouth says with absolutely no input from her brain. “The pipes can be kind of a bitch in this apartment. I assume that it’s the same story in Kasha’s.”

Trixie’s shoulders sink in relief. “Jesus, really? Thank you, I’ll owe you a meal or something—your name is Yekaterina, right?”

The full name makes Katya blink rapidly like she’s been struck across the face. The butchered pronunciation falling from Trixie’s mouth doesn’t carry quite the same weight as it did when her father yelled it in gruff, fluent Russian at her across the house, but even watered down, it has the same immobilizing effect.

“Katya,” she manages. “It’s Katya.”

Trixie nods, and although the twist of her lips tells Katya that she wants to interrogate that reaction, she doesn’t say a word about it. “Okay,” she says instead. It’s far too gentle for her to handle right now. “Katya.”

Instead of standing there dumbly for one second longer, Katya decides to grab her toolbox. It’s an old gift from her parents that she has never touched before, but by God, she will fake being butch for Trixie Mattel. She shimmies into some gym shorts and tightens her bird’s nest bun into something approximating secure, appraising herself in the mirror.

“Passable,” she says aloud.

When she strides back into the room, trying to project confidence and an intricate knowledge of shoddy California plumbing, Trixie’s standing where she left her in the living room. Her eyes are glued to the John Waters movie that’s still playing.

Katya allows herself a brief second to take it all in: there’s a gorgeous woman in a perfectly-fitted blush-pink gown standing at ease on Katya’s area rug, her mouth moving along absentmindedly to the filthy lines that Divine is spouting up on the screen, and she’s likely going to be nominated for a Golden Globe in a few hours.

“You a John Waters fan?” Katya asks loudly, startling Trixie and effectively shattering the beautiful, pink-edged peace of the moment.

“Oh, he’s my president,” Trixie says emphatically, to her credit seeming unbothered in the wake of Katya’s outburst. “I met him once at a film festival a couple of years ago and lost my mind about it.”

“Oh my god, shut up, oh my god. Shut the hell up. Really?” Katya asks, giddy and disbelieving.

Trixie grins, swipes her phone unlocked, and after a few navigational taps on the screen pulls up a photo of herself and motherfucking John Waters. Trixie looks young, wide-eyed and stunned by the flash but clearly over the moon to be standing next to her hero.

“I’ll be damned,” Katya says, shaking her head, and then grins toothily up at Trixie. “Nice peace sign.”

“Okay, whatever, I was nervous and—”

“You were a very entrepreneurial young woman making her way up in the world through the power of peace and excellent snuff film,” Katya says sagely, shifting the toolbox to the other hand.

Trixie rolls her eyes, which delights Katya to no end. She’s easy to needle, but is just as quick to give it right back, a relatively novel and exciting concept.

A lot of the time, Katya feels like she has to tone herself down when she first meets someone. Ease them in slowly to all of the barbs and the references and the flailing. Trixie is right there with her already—there is something wildly intoxicating about it.

“You got the tools,” Trixie notes, cutting a glance down to the rickety toolbox. “Instead of commenting on who I was meeting five years ago, did you perhaps want to actually do something with them?”

Katya snickers, but turns and lets Trixie lead her up to Kasha’s place, swinging the toolbox casually in her grip as they walk and trying not to objectify the next great star of America’s silver screen.

Because, well, wow. Mathematically speaking, Trixie is all curves. Bhaskara would go nuts if he saw the pink-clothed goddess his theories of sines and cosines had conspired to create. Her ass is at eye level as Katya follows her up the stairs, and she forces her gaze to her feet as her mouth goes dry.

She’s just here to fix a fucking shower (that she doesn’t know how to fix). She will put her metaphorical dick away for five minutes and muddle through this, so help her God, her unintentional months of celibacy and resulting pent-up arousal be damned.

Trixie swings the door open easily, having left it unlocked in her journey down to Katya’s place, and she holds it ajar so that Katya can follow her in.

Katya’s only met Mrs. Davis—Kasha, apparently—once or twice, but the interior decor of the apartment immediately makes sense with the personality she garnered from those brief meetings. It’s all extremely dated, gaudy pieces, once saturated with color but now more muted with age. The aesthetic of Kasha’s space seems like a hand-me-down sweater for Trixie—it doesn’t not fit her, with the blush pinks and ‘60s prints, but you can tell that it doesn’t belong to her.

She looks just a little out of place as she walks in ahead of Katya, sticking herself firmly by the pile of pink suitcases that must be hers. She points a finger over at a door with a big, garish LADIES sign on it, quintessentially middle-aged woman couture.

“That’s the bathroom,” she directs, shrugging. “I don’t know. You can give it your best shot.”

“I surely will,” Katya says, and turns her best, most winning grin on Trixie, just to see what she’ll do. She blushes a very pretty shade of pink and turns around, mumbling something about needing to find something in the myriad of suitcases.

Well. That’s an interesting response Katya doesn’t have the time to address right now.

She salutes and pushes through the door with the terrible sign, setting her toolbox down in the tub and flopping down to take a seat alongside it. She stares up at the showerhead. It doesn’t look like anything’s wrong with it, so that’s Katya’s first plan of action foiled, and when she stands up and taps it with her hand nothing magically starts working, so her second one is shot, too.

After about fifteen minutes of Katya engaging in a one-sided staring match with the faucet, Trixie shows up in the doorway sipping from a glass of wine.

“How’s it going?” she asks, her tone a little too amused for Katya’s comfort.

Fearing the jig is up, Katya purses her lips and decides to sell it even harder. Blaze of glory, and all that. “I’m going to be frank, this is worse than I thought,” she says seriously, pushing her glasses up her nose.

“Really?” Trixie asks, the teasing dropped from her voice as it’s replaced with real concern. “Fuck, did I do something to it?”

She looks genuinely worried, her brown eyes wide and fearful, so Katya gives herself a nice pat on the back for her own theatricality, which is rarely serviceable, and then drops the act to avoid fraying Trixie’s psyche further. “No, not really,” she says. “It’s just not working.”

“Jesus, don’t scare me like that,” Trixie says, grinning. Her tensed shoulders have gone slack in relief, but then she starts working her lip between her teeth as she realizes something. “I’m kind of fucked, then, aren’t I?”

“My shower’s open,” Katya offers, and then cringes a little bit at how that sounds. “I mean, you can borrow my shower tonight and I will make myself scarce when you do. If you want.”

“If I want?” Trixie parrots, mocking her with a wonderful, sly tilt to her mouth.

“I just figured you might want a chance to rinse off this cotton-candy coating,” Katya tells her, grinning at the banter, gesturing to the pink gown and pink earrings and pink detailing in her hair. She looks rosy and sugary-sweet in the lamplight of Kasha’s place. Delectable.

“Mm. You would not be wrong,” Trixie says dryly, cracking her neck to one side. “I… okay. If you’re serious, and you’re sure you don’t mind.”

Katya nods. “Wouldn’t have offered if I did,” she says cheerfully, because it’s true. “I’ll head out to the courtyard while you’re indecent, give you some space. Just stick your head out the window and shout when you’re done. Should be open.”

“I should ask you if you’re a serial killer, but you clearly are,” Trixie says carefully, and sure, Katya’s only known her for a little while, but she likes to think she can hear the edge of a smile in her voice.

She smiles back, the one that shows all her teeth, and cranes her head at a disturbing angle. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Tritzie,” she coos, and Trixie’s face scrunches up in disgust before she barks out a real laugh.

Katya hasn’t heard it before in any of the interviews she’s watched—this laugh is screechy and grating to the ears as it rises and falls like a wave. It’s such a perfectly distilled sound of human joy that all Katya can do is break right along with her, her awful smoker’s wheeze of a laugh folding in to Trixie’s scream.

“You’re a psychopath,” Trixie pants, catching her breath, holding her index fingers under her eyes to catch her tears from laughing. “Jesus Christ, oh my God.”

Katya, a little out of breath from laughing herself, just grins at her before hopping up out of the shower. “Come on, I feel like you might calcify to the floor if you stay in one place too long,” she tells her. “What’s all this for, anyway?” She gestures to the pink opulence Trixie appears to be draped in from head to toe—except her face, which is mysteriously bare.

Trixie was leading the way back out the front door, so when she stops in her tracks at the question it means she bumps into Katya. “Sorry,” she says automatically, reaching out a hand to steady her. It’s unthinkingly sweet. “Um. It was for a photoshoot.”

The walls that Katya could instantly sense when she opened the door and saw Trixie have clearly been thrown back up. She’s disappointed at first, but then a shiver of self-revulsion creeps up and down her spine at the uneven dynamic at work here, one that Trixie isn’t even aware of. Katya spent the whole day researching Trixie Mattel for her article—Trixie met Katya minutes ago, and has no idea who she is.

“Oh, cool,” she says simply, hoping the enthusiasm in her tone doesn’t come across as desperate, and drops it immediately, resuming the walk back to her apartment. Trixie will tell her if she wants to. If she doesn’t, that is none of Katya’s goddamn business. Katya already knows too much.

“Hold on,” Trixie says strongly, and it’s Katya’s turn to pause, keeping her feet rooted where they are as she turns her head around slowly like she’s in a screwball comedy. Her heart pounds. Does Trixie know too much? Did she see Katya’s computer? Does she know who she is? “Slow down. I need to find my shower stuff in these bags.”

“Oh,” Katya replies, more than a little stupidly. “Yeah, duh. Sorry.”

Trixie digs out no less than five different hair care products from one bag, then yanks a towel out from another, and then stands there working her lip between her teeth again until Katya figures out she’s probably trying to remember where her pajamas are.

“I have shirts,” she volunteers easily. “And pants, too, if you ask really nicely.”

Trixie snaps her gaze up, like she’d forgotten Katya was there. She laughs (not the same full-throttle cackle as before, which is extremely disappointing) and then releases a big sigh.

“Yeah, that would probably be easiest,” she says, pressing the heel of her free hand into her eye. “Thanks. I fucking hate moving.”

Katya almost decides to regale her with the tale of the time her mom had to move a sex doll out of her old Boston apartment, but then just as quickly decides against it. Probably not the time.

“Okay, here’s the shower,” she tells Trixie once they’re back in Katya’s apartment, the John Waters movie in the living room paused on a truly excellent expression on Edith Massey’s face. She points to the faucet, points to the showerhead. “It’s exactly like Kasha’s, but it works.”

“Mm,” Trixie says dryly, nods. She’s running out of humor, but so would Katya, if she had come out of a photoshoot of the caliber Trixie’s gown suggests and had to contend with herself to be able to take a shower.

“I’ll leave you be,” she promises, brandishing the pajamas she agonized over selecting for just a few minutes too long in her room.

Trixie snorts at the illustration of the Pan’s Labyrinth hand-eye monster over the front of the shirt Katya chose.

“Comfy,” she snarks, shakes her head, but a smile tugs at her mouth. “Thanks again, Katya. For all of this.”

“Oh, of course,” Katya says, waving a hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be in the courtyard.” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder towards the window that looks out onto the pitiful little square of dehydrated grass. “Give a shout out the window when you’re done.”

Trixie nods again, then closes the bathroom door behind her. As Katya heads for the courtyard with her keys and a fresh pack of cigarettes, she hears the water start up, then the screech of Trixie’s voice: “Are you kidding me? It’s that easy?”

Katya smirks, shakes her head, then jogs down the stairs out to the front courtyard.

Sitting in the lone chair out here, lighting up a cigarette in the still of the night, makes it finally set in how fucking bizarre this all is. Katya feels like a witch. A soothsayer. She called out into the universe for Trixie, and now here she is.

She drafts a text to Willow.

So, a newly A-list Hollywood celebrity is using my shower, she types, then deletes it.

Trixie Mattel is in my home. Delete.

My pussy’s summoning powers are getting stronger, Mother… delete. She kind of stares at that one for a while, though.

She shuts off her phone without sending anything and takes an especially long drag on her cigarette. Telling anyone else about this moment feels like it’ll break it, somehow. This feels like a story to be savored, one that she should bring up on her deathbed at the last possible moment, having held it to her chest for decades but needing it to be spoken out into the universe. Once, oh, marvelous once… Trixie Mattel knocked on my door, and I lied about having plumbing expertise because I didn’t know what else to do…

Her first cigarette is dead, so she throws it to the ground, extinguishes it under her heel, and then lights another one.

The strangest part of all of this, really, after her obvious initial shock, is that it honestly doesn’t feel weird having Trixie in the apartment. She fits somehow, an impossibly tall Barbie that wound up among Katya’s матрёшка dolls and carved out a space for herself. She strikes Katya as someone who is used to that. She seems like she’s had a lot of practice carving out space for herself, in this world that doesn’t quite deserve her.

Everyone else in Katya’s life, when she first meets them, always feels a little bit like an invader. She spends so much time in her own head that real people take some adjusting to. But Trixie hopped over that hurdle easily, as if it didn’t exist, and now she’s occupying space in Katya’s head like she’s never not been there.

Is this comfort something to be concerned about? She pulls her legs up to her chest and crosses them at the ankles, puffs around her cigarette.

Addictive personalities are no joke, Mary. It’s something she has to be constantly careful of, lest she pull someone into her orbit and be unable to let them go. To extend the metaphor, it would only end in cosmic disaster—planets colliding, black holes being created, blah blah blah.

There’s a banging sound behind her that interrupts her thoughts, and when she turns instinctively she sees her window fly open to reveal Trixie. She’s lit from behind by the lamps in the living room, so Katya can’t make out her facial expression when she shouts, “Your water pressure sucks.”

“Yeah,” Katya yells back, not arguing. “Sorry.” It seems like the right thing to say, but she sees Trixie’s posture flinch.

“No, you don’t need to—that wasn’t a real complaint,” Trixie says hastily. “I—Jesus. Come up here, I hate yelling like this.”

Obediently, Katya stubs out the cigarette, wasting a couple hundredths of ounces of tobacco, and jogs back up the stairs.

“I was trying to be funny,” Trixie says petulantly as soon as Katya comes in the back door.

If seeing her in the gown, a red carpet glamoured vision, was a mindfuck for Katya, seeing Trixie Mattel in Katya’s Pale Man t-shirt that’s just a little too small and Katya’s flannel pants that are just a little too short is something else entirely. Something that hits her more squarely in the chest.

“Oh,” Katya says, intelligently. “I should’ve laughed.”

Trixie snorts, then. “You’re weird,” she says, uncrosses her arms and then starts to move before pausing where she stands.

Katya would like to kiss her, she thinks. Or ask her if that would be something she would want. She’s old, now, or older, and her methods of beguiling have dwindled to just point-blank requests.

Miss Mattel, care for a fucking?

That’s too much to say to Trixie, though, even for Katya, so instead they both just stand there, each seemingly biting something back.

“Do you like Pink Flamingos? I didn’t, really, the first time I saw it,” Trixie volunteers, still not having moved from where she’s standing by the kitchen table. “Too gross. I think I’ve only seen it the once.”

“Yeah?” Katya says. She feels stuck in a low gear, only able to supply simple one-syllable words. She clears her throat. “Wanna stay till it’s over?”

Trixie’s eyes widen. She smiles a little bit.

“Yeah, all right,” she says.

It goes back to being easy, after that one charged moment in the kitchen. Trixie sits on one end of the couch, both legs tucked under her primly, and Katya sits all splayed out on the other end. Divine stands disgusting and beautiful on the TV and bathes them in a blue-screen glow.

“Kill everyone now. Condone first-degree murder. Advocate cannibalism. Eat shit!”

Trixie mumbles the lines along with Divine from the other end of the couch, her eyes locked and unblinking on the screen. Katya giggles.

“So you said you don’t like this movie?”

“It’s fucking abhorrent,” Trixie tells her, shaking her head. “But you can’t deny that Divine kills.”

“Well, yeah, she condones first-degree murder. I know the line too,” Katya says with a smirk, dodging out of reach of the kick Trixie attempts to land on her. “How did you even find this movie? Film class?”

“No, no, there’s this film critic I love—”

Trixie sits up eagerly, her eyes alight, and hives instantly begin to prickle over Katya’s chest.

“She writes these reviews every week. Sometimes they’re for blockbusters, sometimes they’re completely off-the-wall hidey-hole flicks, and sometimes she just goes on a multi-day rampage where she watches movies by the same director for days at a time. Sometimes even the same movie.”

“What’s her name?” Katya asks, hoping her voice comes out right. She can’t really tell.

“Oh, the site’s called I Like To Watch, but she posts under Katie Homophobia—” Katya’s hives instantly get worse, she can feel it, and her cheeks flame. “Nobody knows her real name, though. It’s crazy. She’s bigger than the New York Times some weeks, and she’s completely anonymous.”

“So she’s, um. She likes John Waters, then?” Katya asks, nodding at the screen.

“Yeah, she loves the original Hairspray. She watched Pink Flamingos, too, but that one she branded as disgusting. Good, too, she gave it a good review, but disgusting—I was intrigued, so I watched it, and I agree with her. Still do,” she adds, flicking a look back up to the screen.

“So do you borrow all your film opinions from, um. From Miss Homophobia?”

Trixie scoffs. “No.” She smiles then, pleased with herself. “Just most of them.”

“I don’t really watch many movies,” Katya says abruptly, some dumbass part of her trying to push herself as far away from I Like To Watch as possible with maybe the stupidest excuse ever fathomed.

“Oh?” Trixie asks, amused, and Katya realizes that she’s looking around at all the vintage theater display posters, the original film reel of Silence of the Lambs, the tall stack of film books on the coffee table.

“New movies,” Katya amends, sort of desperately. “I don’t go to the theater much.”

“Mm,” Trixie replies, apparently satisfied with that. She opens her mouth, but then closes it immediately—something shifts in her expression, and she says nothing.

They settle back into mutual silence for the rest of the movie, Trixie occasionally making retching noises at the dog shit scene and Katya staring blankly at one part of the screen without really blinking.

Trixie Mattel is an avid reader of I Like To Watch. Well. That’s certainly something.

It’s obviously kind of terrible, another card on top of the rapidly growing stack of Things Katya Knows That Trixie Doesn’t Know and Maybe Should Share With Her, but all Katya can find herself thinking of is if Trixie has ever commented on any of her posts. If they’ve ever interacted before today.

I would’ve known, she thinks vehemently to herself. I would have felt—something.

Pink Flamingos ends, and the TV segues right into Hairspray on autoplay after the credits roll. Katya looks over at Trixie, who looks right back and shrugs before settling back into the couch cushions to watch the movie.

After Hairspray’s over, of course it’s Female Trouble up next, and then at some point while Divine is strangling her daughter onscreen over dressing like a nun Katya falls asleep.

When she wakes up, her wall clock reads seven in the morning, barely legible in the low light of dawn, and Trixie’s snoring on the other end of the couch. She looks sweet, Katya thinks drowsily.

A noise is blaring from somewhere. It’s loud enough that it makes Katya clap her hands over her ears once she gains enough consciousness to hear it and figure out where it’s coming from: the pink phone on the coffee table, presumably Trixie’s.

Trixie’s phone is doing that thing that phones do when you get so many texts that your phone can’t possibly make enough noises to notify you of them all. It’s ringing, it’s buzzing, it’s chiming, all at once, and Trixie is sleeping through the whole thing.

Katya glances over at Trixie, snoring like a train, and then it hits her.

The woman sleeping on Katya’s couch has just been nominated for a Golden Globe.

Nominations started just before six, the Best Actress category would be happening around now, it all makes sense.

Katya should wake her up, she should hold the phone to her ear, she should at least plug the phone in before it dies.

All she can get herself to do at this moment, though, is just kind of sit there in the knowledge that everything is about to change. The feeling of standing on a precipice that she had last night when Trixie looked her right in the eyes and told Katya about her own film site returns full force. It makes her dizzy.

She shakes her head in an attempt to physically rid herself of the feeling. It doesn’t work, but it loosens something enough that she reaches over to the other side of the couch and shakes Trixie awake, hard.

“Trix,” she whispers as Trixie’s eyes peel open, the nickname coming far too easy, “Trixie. Your phone’s been ringing.”

Trixie’s eyes fly wide as she scrambles to sit up, and Katya knows she figured it out, too.

“Oh, shit,” says Golden Globe nominee Trixie Mattel.

[bllsbailey]

The Overrated Obama

My Red State colleague, Jeff Charles, has already reported on former President Barack Obama’s recent attempted public shaming of black men who don’t want to vote for Vice President Kamala Harris, supposedly because of their misogyny.

I would like to associate with most of his column. The one exception I have is to this statement – “it’s the type of mistake that Obama doesn’t normally make.”

I beg to differ.  Actually, I think it is the type of mistake that Barack Obama often made.  

You know, Obama is the guy who once said, in 2008, “And it’s not surprising then they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren’t like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations.” And who said, that same year, that he was going to "spread the wealth around" of people to “Joe the Plumber.” And who said, in 2012, “If you’ve got a business, you didn’t build that. Somebody else made that happen.”  

Let me stand even further athwart the conventional wisdom regarding President Obama. His recent statement is just another example that demonstrates that Barack Obama is, and always was, a very overrated politician.  

I have written below a list of characteristics that good candidates for political office are frequently thought to have. This list comes from my observations on American politics since the 1988 election, my extensive campaign experience since the early 90s, my long-time experience in the Hill, and my Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees in Political Science (it's good that I can finally use the latter for something).

According to most knowledgeable political observers, a good political candidate is one who:

Wins most of his/her elections, including in competitive races.

Has a good appearance, voice, and charisma.

Is a good political strategist and has good political instincts.

Gives good speeches.

Is good on his feet.

Has a "moderate" record on the issues. Not too far to the left, and not too far to the right.

Avoids saying and doing politically foolish things.

Avoids associating with shady, radical, criminal and/or controversial characters.

Is energetic and hardworking, and is certainly not lazy.

Is a good fundraiser.

Is able to stick to his/her talking points.

Can be a pragmatist on some important issues. (A pragmatist is willing to make compromises, while a moderate tends to have moderate issue positions.)

Chooses competent people to run his/her campaign, and is willing to listen to them.

Is, at the very least, above average in intelligence. 

Is loyal to "them that brought you." 

Comes across as authentic.

Is likable to the non-political average person. You know, the “beer question.”

Now, let’s focus on President Obama and how he compares to this list: 

1. Obama won his two presidential campaigns, including a competitive primary in 2008 when he was the underdog. He won a U.S. Senate race in Illinois. And he won three state senate races. He only lost his attempt to move up to the U.S. Congress in 2000, against a longtime sitting Congressman. However, Obama’s record is more mixed than it would initially seem. He won his state senate seat and U.S. Senate seat largely by playing dirty pool against his opponents, and his 2008 presidential general election victory was easy – he won in a terrible year for the Republicans and against a bad candidate – that almost any Democrat could have done it. Nonetheless, I will officially give Obama the check for having this quality.  √

2. Obama certainly has a good appearance, voice, and charisma.  √

3. Obama never impressed me as a political strategist. One personal example, in 2007-2008, when Obama ran for president, he faced a major criticism – he was a talker and not a doer, and as a U.S. senator, he had accomplished virtually nothing concrete. To rectify this, Obama pushed bipartisan legislation called the MEJA Expansion and Enforcement Act of 2007. What the bill did was unimportant. However, instead of doing the smart thing and being willing to compromise with the Bush administration to get this bill passed into law, Obama’s team allowed Senate Judiciary Committee Chairman Pat Leahy, a Democrat partisan if there ever was one, to “negotiate” it to death with the Bush administration. This “negotiation” was something I attended: endless meetings where the Leahy staff berated the White House negotiators, repeating the same allegations over and over again, and never attempted to actually compromise on something that might get passed. Which was not in Obama’s interest, since he wanted to brag about his passed law. ×

4. Obama gave one good speech, in 2004, which led to his presidential run in 2008. Other than that, I fail to remember anything positively memorable that he has ever said. But I am feeling generous, so I will give this to him.  √

5. Obama was not particularly good on his feet. He often said unfortunate things, including the above statements, and also including his promise: "If you like your health care plan, you can keep it," which became the lie of the year in 2013. It is not good for a politician to be caught in a lie. And here are some more ill-fated statements Obama made.  ×

6. Obama was a radical leftist who had a left-wing state senate record (including on abortion), but he got “lucky” (see above) in 2004. In 2008, his left-wing U.S. Senate record was overshadowed by the poor economy and the war in Iraq. And in 2012, his left-wing presidential record forced him to go negative against Romney (he’ll “put you all back in chains”) to win.  ×

7. Obama often said and did politically foolish things. See above.  ×

8. Obama often associated with controversial persons.  See racist and antisemite Rev. Jeremiah Wright, whom Obama sought religious guidance from and prayed with (unlike Oprah, who wisely moved to another church). See terrorist Bill Ayers. See convicted fraudster Tony Rezko. See racist and antisemite Louis Farrakhan. He also associated and assisted other corrupt individuals.  ×

9. Obama was considered rather lazy, even by himself. As was said of him in the passage of some legislation in the Illinois state senate that he was given credit for, “He was not the nuts-and-bolts guy. He got credit for it, but he did not put it together. This was a lot of hard work and negotiation between lawyers and law enforcement.” Indeed, much of what Obama supposedly accomplished in the state senate was actually accomplished by the Democrat leader who wanted Obama to be a U.S. Senator.  ×

10. Obama was certainly an excellent fundraiser.  √

11. Obama had a big problem sticking to his talking points (and avoiding sticking his foot in his mouth). See above.  ×

12. Obama may or may not have been a pragmatist. Left-wing sources felt he was. But I, and many conservatives, beg to differ.  =

13. Obama certainly chose competent people to advise him when he ran for public office. See, for example, David Axelrod, who got his opponents bounced in Obama’s race for the U.S. Senate.  √

14. Obama is intelligent, although, like almost all Democrat presidents (but not Biden), his intelligence is probably somewhat overestimated (JFK, Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton, and Obama were all portrayed as geniuses).  √

15. Obama was generally very loyal to his own people, who returned his loyalty.  √

16. Obama came across as a leftist who was trying to conceal his left-wing radicalism. See above. Making him inauthentic. That was also one of the reasons his frequent voting “present” in the state senate became an issue in his races.  ×

17. Obama was considered sort of a “cold fish” who would fail the beer question. And indeed, his beer summit with Henry Gates was reportedly somewhat uncomfortable.  ×

Since, in my view, Barack Obama has more negative qualities than positive ones, I don’t believe the conventional wisdom considering his qualities as a political candidate.  

Therefore, I think Obama was, and is, overrated as a politician. And his recent statement shows that, once again.

[drewoclock]

Roller Skates Turned Into Silverware

Originally published April 12th, 2015

It had everything a kid could get excited about: A roller skating rink, an arcade, prizes, contests, a big jungle gym, multiple ball pits, hit songs blaring overhead.  And one day my parents read something in the newspaper saying that the owner of that place was closing it.  And instead, he was going to move somewhere else and open up a restaurant.  That was somewhat of a shock.  I initially pictured the restaurant being exactly like the last place, but they also served you pizza.  Turns out I was wrong; it was going to be a fancy adult restaurant.  Which meant there probably wouldn’t be any ball pits.

I was bummed that one of my favorite places was disappearing, but I wasn’t even able to focus on being upset.  I was too intrigued by this owner.  I couldn’t believe that somebody could want two totally different things.  I just assumed people had one ultimate dream that they spent their whole life going after, and yet, this guy crafted a one-of-a-kind empire to stimulating the imagination and thrill of small children everywhere and decided that he also wanted to make a restaurant for adults that like to be fancy.

The world stopped being a place where people just had one dream; where they were either living it or had to settle for something else, and I would want to go up to that plumber and say “If you always wanted to be a yo-yo entertainer, you should go do that instead!�� and the plumber would cry and break his plunger in two and pull out from an old dusty box his sacred yo-yo and jump out the window and grab onto a bus that was heading to the world yo-yo competition.  Now, people could have more than one dream.  Somebody could like being a birthday clown AND a porn star.

This really changed things.  It's awesome, but when you have more than one dream, it’s very hard to make time for both dreams.  Sometimes, you have to pick between the two.  And then you have one dream that isn’t being realized anymore.  For a while, I just thought of myself as a drawing/painting guy.  My parents, teachers, and peers all encouraged me to keep up with it, and I did.  But I haven’t painted anything for years now, and you know what?  I miss it.  Sometimes I just want to stop what I’m doing (which may or may not be trasitioning into a bird person to be among my avian friends) and paint.  It’s just not that easy, though.  Birds don’t usually paint.

It doesn’t just affect you, either.  Several creators on YouTube that I love have moved on to do other things.  The lives of those creators are definitely changing, but so is mine.  The type of videos I watch has changed.  The things I’m being inspired by has changed.  The things that I miss seeing?  That’s changed.  Will I ever get to see the last episodes of that web show about telekinetic cats?

With multiple dreams, you see a lot of things that end up getting abandoned for a while, and sometimes forever.  All I want to do is watch these things grow and flourish when they often won’t.  But isn’t that urge a sign?  Having that urge means that something’s there.  That somebody managed to put something out there for a while.  And isn’t it cool, that I can have this urge in the first place?

Who knows where that roller skating owner is now.  Maybe he’s making just the best salads.  He owns the finest salad hut in Fancy Town.  And right now, he’s thinking “It’s been a real wild ride galavanting with all this lettuce, but it’s about time I moved onto my true calling: saving people from quicksand.  I’ve just always wanted to wait around quicksand in case some traveler falls into it, and then I’d rescue the traveler with my quicksand savior skills.”  And maybe when the restaurant closes, some customer will go “What buttshit!  I loved his salads and now I can’t have his salads anymore!”  And I’m right next to him, and I go “Yeah, and I wanna cool place to roller skate again!”  And there’s another guy that says “I can’t believe he stopped saving people from quicksand to go build a giant balloon castle in the sky!” but that guy isn’t able to say that because he’s in quicksand.

What a load of things to cause, huh?