#hoi polloi

[georgeromeros]

The Three Stooges - Hoi Polloi (1935)

[objectspod]

Guys... We're so back

Haunted Objects Podcast Season 2 has begun! In the season two premiere, a possessed tarot deck terrifies television viewers, but the devil’s in the details. Plus, we give YOU a reading with the haunted deck, Dana reveals her secret tarot techniques, Greg embraces chaos, Connor learns about computers, and Keelin swears she knows what a shopping mall is. Shuffle the deck and hope for the best, because it's time to seal your fate with the Devil's Deck!

Watch on YouTube or listen wherever you get your podcasts

[fallow-grove]

hello this is my application for use of the acronym "hp" i think weve all decided the previous occupant no longer qualifies so may i have it for my story which also begins with the letters h and p? thank you

[haverwood]

Hoi Polloi Del Lord USA, 1935

[classicalliberalleague]

By giving us the opinions of the uneducated, journalism keeps us in touch with the ignorance of the community.

—Oscar Wilde

[historywaitsfornoone]

If Cleanliness is next to Godliness, was the Industrial Revolution an invention of the Devil? When did the “unwashed masses” start to wash, and why? If they washed, did they cease to be Hoi Polloi? Herein you'll discover why the “great unwashed” started to wash; how the Industrial Revolution lowered the cost of clothing, so even the poor started to wear more than rags; how medical advances exacerbated an already-growing  population; and how this booming population led to increasing labor strife, a raft of utopian schemes, and outright war.

[t00thpasteface]

ideologically i don't agree with mister squidward tentacles but he did go off with his utter lack of company loyalty and his rigid insistence on getting paid overtime for performing any duties outside of his job description

[frankenshane]

i trust that this is a safe place to relay that i feel like elitism has some points

[maxknightley]

saki kurokoma is a bitch-ass motherfucker and REST ASSURED that if I were not busy this evening I would dedicate the rest of my day to smashing her stupid cowboy face into the pavement

[figureinthedistance]

found another example of a word w two directly competing definitions. trying to find the beauty in this phenomenon but struggling

[fallow-grove]

oh look its A scrungle.. main character 1/7 textposts: (x) (x) - read the comic - th - support me + bonus content

[piedoesnotequalpi]

Once again thinking about the fact that Race uses “hoi polloi” in the complete opposite way from what it actually means

[mourning-again-in-america]

the call-out to Gold Coast in Scott's review of Bobos In Paradise gave me shivers; I stayed at a hotel there for a week because it seemed nice, I needed a place to stay between apartments, and with credit card rewards, it was really cheap and it's inconvenient to get to the area unless you really intend to, so I wanted to check it out

And I've never found another neighborhood that made me feel so out of place--Woodlawn and Lawndale were more welcoming! It was *nice* certainly, but the most unnerving thing was that everyone looked the same--*nice*. Polos and good shorts were the most basic requirement for guys and I saw a quarter of the older ones (30+) in suits in July! It wasn't just a rich old white guy thing, there's Indians and Africans and Middle Easterners but it's the same damn thing. It's terrifying, makes you want to believe the most paranoid conspiracy theories about the bugmen mandiranate--but from what I can tell from looking at early American history, Connecticut was just *like that*

[alanaisalive]

I've been going back and listening to some of the Christian music I listened to back in the 90s and what is surprising to me is how much of it is about social justice and how I'm pretty sure a lot of it would be condemned as "woke" by the people who call themselves Christians these days.

Also, a lot of funk bass lines and more 60s and 70s musical influences than I remembered.

[ferritins]

PUTTIN’ ON THE RITZ | B. WAYNE

SUMMARY: You’re Bruce Wayne’s long suffering personal assistant. On a time crunch, you (re)teach him how to apply cologne.

NOTES: belligerent tension, Bruce is characterised more on the socialite side than Batman, though Batman is alluded to. Suggestive ending.

For all the years that you’ve been his PA, you’ve never quite understood the borderline hysteria surrounding Bruce Wayne.

The perils of having a pretty face and old money, you suppose; sex appeal sells, and the prestige of an established name and old money that lend him an air of modern-day Gilded Age aristocrat surely can’t hurt.

Not that it's of particular interest or importance to you; you're a member of the hoi polloi through and through.

The closest to celebrity you've ever come is being mistaken as Bruce’s latest paramour in some of your more extravagant efforts trying to prevent his sartorial and interpersonal disasters before they happen.

Speaking of which; as he goes to apply his cologne, you drop the lint roller you're passing over his broad shoulders and the elegant lines of his Kiton suit and grab his wrist before he can douse himself in the strong scent, aghast.

“You’re not putting cologne on like that, surely?”

Bruce quirks a dark eyebrow. "Unless you're expecting me to break the bottle over my head, sweetheart, there's not really another way to apply cologne."

“I am choosing to ignore that nickname, because unlike you, I am a consummate professional.” You inform Bruce, tone somewhere between haughty and resigned. “I know you know how to wear cologne. Mr. Pennyworth is the gentleman’s gentleman, there’s no way he didn’t teach you.”

“Oh, Alfred gets Mr. Pennyworth, but I get Bruce?”

“Mr. Pennyworth doesn’t tear loaned formal wear, disappear at inoppurtune moments, or make a tit of himself at networking events.” You huff. “You, however…”

Bruce chuckles, all baritenor delight at your insouciance towards him.

You roll your eyes.

Spray some on your wrists and dab them together, then come here and loosen your tie."

“Not that I'm not flattered, but I really don’t think we've got the time." He teases, daubing the cologne on his wrists, long fingers of his unoccupied hand working the Windsor knot of his tie loose.

Immune to his affected charm through long exposure, you sigh.

“Keep it in your trousers, Bruce. Tonight, you're learning how to wear cologne properly, again. Do you mind if I unbutton your collar?"

Bruce hums a permissive note, gaze hawkish as you step into his personal space.

“Right. So, as you already know, you want to put cologne at the pulse points on either side of your neck; your body heat will help the alcohol carrier agent evaporate faster. If you're using a lighter fragrance or a perfume oil, you'd put it behind your ears." You explain.

As you speak, you pluck the bottle of fragrance from his grasp with your unoccupied hand, and spritz his neck with it, swapping hands to hold his collar away and do the same the other side of his neck.

Finally, you spray the base of his neck; the mist of cologne gathers into a single small droplet that traces down into the hollow of his suprasternal notch.

“(All done.” You announce, stepping back.

Bruce buttons up his collar, works the silk of his tie back into a Windsor knot with infuriating ease.

“I still think it would have been less fuss to just spray it on over the fabric.”

“Lazy. Just be thankful you don't have to do your ankles." You say as you turn to put the bottle back on the dark oak of his dresser.

Heinously late, cognition kicks in, and the realisation of what you’ve just said strikes you like a thunderbolt. You close your eyes briefly, hoping against hope that Bruce’s more airheaded tendencies have kicked in, and the context has flown over his head.

When you finally steel yourself enough to turn back to face him, you find that the universe has not been so merciful; Bruce is staring at you, a wicked glee in his expression.

"Anyway! That’s specifically to perfume." You obfuscate. "The car is probably out front by now; if you're done, let's head out."

“No, no; you’re going to explain that delightful little tidbit before we go anywhere.”

Heat floods your face.

“You clearly know exactly what I meant. Let it go, it was a faux pas.”

Bruce says your name in a low rumble.

You parrot his name back at him in a faintly beseeching tone, begging him not to choose this moment to be a petty tyrant.

Bruce’s response is to raise an expectant eyebrow.

The standoff lasts as long as it takes you to check your watch, your resolve fracturing at the first hint of threat to your meticulously crafted schedule.

“Fine!” You snap, stepping close and dropping your voice to a murmur, to minimise the odds of anyone overhearing the frankly mortifying disclosure.

“You spray perfume on your ankles so that when you've got them over your partner's shoulders, they'll associate the perfume with you."

A faint flush floods the high planes of Bruce’s cheekbones, even as his smile turns gloating and distinctly carnivorous.

C Caught up in your own humiliation, you push past him, out of the dressing room, and quite miss the way his eyes trail down your legs to where the jut of your ankle bone is emphasised by your heels, and the considering smirk that his mouth pulls into as he follows you.

[zhnnveuxpasdrmir]

as far as trivialization of storytelling goes, though you're certainly not without your share in responsibility, I blame Joseph Campbell.