#it was cut

[bozo4michael]

[ladamedemartel]

As someone who ships Klebekah but who would also be crucified if I wrote it on dash, have you ever had any issues with people giving you shit for your main ship?

Jules gets Anons

I think I've maybe gotten one or two throughout the history of this blog (and I've had the same blog since November 6, 2015 (and the first post I made was reblogging a Tristora set))? I honestly don't really remember ever having a serious problem with anons but that could be because I got far more hate when I wrote Cersei Lannister.

If you want to write Klebekah, write it. It's your blog. And the thing about anons, you can always just delete them. There's no requirement that you answer them. Just delete them.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Knowledge Revenge.

[bob-artist]

I had an upsetting dream last night.

[marlynnofmany]

Add another one to the list of hilarious examples of why generative AI doesn't produce correct answers, just statistically likely ones.

(Customers asked for how-to videos, which the company doesn't have. The AI chatbot decided that a million internet users linking to this video after similar requests couldn't be wrong.)

[calamitys-child]

What's everyone's favourite flowers that aren't like. The normal ones. Like everyone's a fan of roses and sunflowers what's a more niche one. One you don't get in gift sets. Mine's sweet peas

[problemnyatic]

the steven universe hate is insane bc people are (or at least were) more upset that fictional war criminals got fictional hugs than they recognize that it singlehandedly advanced queer rep in children's media by lightyears and then straight up ate heavy retaliation for the nerve.

It does have real flaws that are worth discussing, but it also put their male protagonist in dresses and skirts and played it straight and even empowering, they aired a lesbian wedding on television, it was a genuinely queer, genuinely diverse piece of media through and through. It did a lot of real good for the real world.

But also the fictional characters caused fictional harm to other fictional characters, and didn't get an onscreen firing squad sentence. So, you know, it's basically ontologically evil in real life.

[ayo-edebiri]

When's the new season of Séance Dog coming out? You mean the show? Probably not for another year.

INVINCIBLE (2021 - ) I 2.07

[xxlunawarriorxx]

this alien shit get serious

[gallusrostromegalus]

Move To A Darker Place

This is a story of Man Vs. Machine.

---

Last March, my father attempted to file his Taxes.

My beloved father is a Boomer. Unlike most Boomers, my father is rather handy with technology because he was one of the people that had a not-insignificant hand in Developing a hell of a lot of it. He was studying Computer Science at Cal Poly before the computer science degree existed. I have many fond childhood memories of skipping through the aisles of various electronic and computer part warehouses while Dad described something that either terrified the staff or made them worship him as a God.  He taught himself how to use his smartphone.  Internationally.

So when he saw the option to file digitally with the IRS through the “ID.me” program, he leapt at the chance to celebrate the Federal Government finally entering the Digital Age.

It was all going swimmingly for about six hours, until he was ready to file and the system told him that it needed to verify his identity. 

“Very Well.” said my father, a man unafraid of talking to himself and getting something out of the conversation. “It wouldn’t do for me to get someone else’s return.”

The System told him that it needed him to take a “Digital Image ID”.

a.k.a: A Selfie.

“A-ha!” Dad beams. Dad is very good at taking selfies. He immediately pulled out his phone, snapped one, and tried to upload it.

Please log into your Id.me Account and use the provided app to submit your Digital Image ID. The System clarified.

“Oh. You should have said so.”  Dad pouted, but used his phone to log onto the ID.me account, do the six security verification steps and double-checked that the filing looked the same as it did on the desktop, gave the IRS like nine permissions on his phone, and held up the camera to take his Federal Privacy Invasion Selfie.

Please align your face to the indicated grid. Said The System, pulling up a futuristic green-web-of-polygons approximation.

“Ooh, very Star Trek. Gene Roddenberry would HATE this!” Dad said cheerfully, aligning his face to the grid.  My father is a bit… cavalier, when it comes to matters of personal information and federal government, because he’s been on FBI watchlists since the late 60’s when he was protesting The Vietnam War and Ronald Regan before he’d broken containment. Alas.

Anyway, there is very little information the federal government does not have on him already, but he’s as good at stalking the FBI as they are at stalking him, and had worked out a solution:  He has something approaching a friendship with the local Federal Agent (Some guy named “Larry”. Allegedly), and got Larry hooked on Alternative Histories and Dad’s collection of carefully-researched “there is very likely buried treasure here” stories, and Larry is loath to bother his favorite Historical Fanfiction author too much.

But I digress.

After thinking for a minute, The System came back with an Error Message. Please remove glasses or other facial obstructions.

And here is where the real trouble began.

See, my father wears glasses that do substantially warp the appearance of his face, because he is so nearsighted that he is legally blind without them. His natural focal point is about 4 inches in front of his nose.  While Dad can still take a selfie because he (approximately) knows where his phone is if it’s in his hand, he cannot see the alignment grid.

He should ask someone to take it for him! I hear the audience say. Yes, that would be the sane and reasonable thing to do, but Dad was attempting to do taxes at his residence in Fort Collins, while his immediate family was respectively in Denver, Texas and Canada.  He tried calling our neighbors, who turned out to be in Uganda.

He looked down at the dog, Arwen, and her little criminal paws that can open doorknobs, but not operate cell phones.

She looked back at him, and farted.

“Well, I’ll give it a try, but if it gives me too much trouble, I’ll call Larry, and Larry can call the IRS about it.” Dad told her. 

She continued to watch him. Arwen is an Australian Kelpie (a type of cattle-herding dog), going on 14 years old, deaf as a post and suffering from canine dementia now, but she still retains her natural instinct to Micromanage. She was also trained as a therapy dog, and even if she can’t hear my dad, still recognizes the body language of a man setting himself up for catastrophe.

So, squinting in the late afternoon light next to the back door, Dad attempted to line his face up with a grid he could only sort-of see, and took A Federal Selfie.

The System thought about it for a few moments.

Image Capture Failed: Insufficient Contrast. The System replied. Please move to a darker place.

“...Huh.” Dad frowned. “Alright.”

He moved to the middle of his office, away from the back door, lit only by the house lighting and indirect sunlight, and tried again.

Image Capture Failed. Please move to a darker place.

“What?” Dad asked the universe in general.

“Whuff.” Arwen warned him against sunk costs.

Dad ignored her and went into the bathroom, the natural habitat of the selfie. Surely, only being lit by a light fixture that hadn’t been changed since Dad was attempting to warn everyone about Regan would be suitably insufficient lighting for The System.  It took some negotiating, because that bathroom is “Standing Room Only” not “Standing And Holding Your Arms Out In Front Of You Room”.  He ended up taking the selfie in the shower stall.

As The System mulled over the latest attempt, Arwen shuffled over and kicked open the door to watch.

Image Capture Failed. Please Move to a Darker Place.

“Do you mean Spiritually?” Dad demanded.

“Whuff.” Arwen cautioned him again.

Determined to succeed, or at least get a different error message that may give him more information, Dad entered The Downstairs Guest Room.  It is the darkest room in the house, as it is in the basement, and only has one legally-mandated-fire-escape window, which has blinds.  Dad drew those blinds, turned off the lights and tried AGAIN.

Image Capture Failed. Please Move To A Darker Place.

“DO YOU WANT ME TO PHOTOGRAPH MYSELF INSIDE OF A CAVE??” Dad howled. 

“WHUFF!” Arwen reprimanded him from under the pull-out bed in the room. It’s where she attempts to herd everyone when it’s thundering outside, so the space is called her ‘Safety Cave’.

Dad frowned at the large blurry shape that was The Safety Cave.

“Why not?” he asked, the prelude to many a Terrible Plan.  With no small amount of spiteful and manic glee, Dad got down onto the floor, and army-crawled under the bed with Arwen to try One Last Time. Now in near-total darkness, he rolled on his side to be able to stretch his arms out, Arwen slobber-panting in his ear, and waited for the vague green blob of the Facial grid to appear.

This time, when he tapped the button, the flash cctivated.

“GOD DAMN IT!” Dad shouted, dropping the phone and rubbing his eyes and cursing to alleviate the pain of accidentally flash-banging himself. Arwen shuffled away from him under the bed, huffing sarcastically at him.

Image Capture Failed. Please move to a darker place.

“MOTHERFU- hang on.” Dad squinted.  The System sounded strange. Distant and slightly muffled.

Dad squinted really hard, and saw the movement of Arwen crawling out from under the bed along the phone’s last known trajectory.

“ARWEN!” Dad shouted, awkwardly reverse-army crawling out from under the bed, using it to get to his feet and searching for his glasses, which had fallen out of his pocket under the bed, so by the time he was sighted again, Arwen had had ample time to remove The Offending Device.

He found her out in the middle of the back yard, the satisfied look of a Job Well Done on her face. She did not have the phone. 

“Arwen.” Dad glared. It’s a very good glare. Dad was a teacher for many years and used it to keep his class in order with sheer telepathically induced embarrassment, and his father once glared a peach tree into fecundity.  

Arwen regarded him with the casual interest a hurricane might regard a sailboat tumbling out of its wake. She is a force of nature unto herself and not about to be intimidated by a half-blind house ape.  She also has cataracts and might not be able to make out the glare.

“I GIVE UP!” Dad shouted, throwing his hands in the air and returning to the office to write to the IRS that their selfie software sucks ass. Pleased that she had gotten her desired result, Arwen followed him in.

To Dad’s immense surprise, the computer cheerfully informed him that his Federally Secure Selfie had been accepted, and that they had received and were now processing his return!

“What the FUCK?” Dad glared. “Oh well. If I’ve screwed it up, Larry can call me.”

---

I bring this up because recently, Dad received an interesting piece of mail.

It was a letter from the IRS, addressed to him, a nerve-wracking thing to recessive at the best of times.  Instead of a complaint about Dad’s Selfie Skills, it was a letter congratulating him on using the new ID.me System.  It thanked him for his help and expressed hopes he would use it again next year, and included the selfie that The System had finally decided to accept.

“You know, my dad used to complain about automation.” Dad sighed, staring at the image. “Incidentals my boy!  My secretary saves the state of California millions of dollars a year catching small errors before they become massive ones! He’d say. Fought the human resources board about her pay every year.  I used to think he was overestimating how bad machines were and underestimating human error, but you know? He was right.”

He handed me the image.

My father was, technically, in the image.  A significant amount of the bottom right corner is taken up by the top of his forehead and silver hair.  Most of the image, the part with the facial-recognition markers on it, was composed of Arwen’s Alarmed and Disgusted Doggy face.

“Oh no!” I cackled. “Crap, does this mean you have to call the IRS and tell them you’re not a dog?”

“Probably.” Dad sighed. “I know who I’m gonna bother first though.” he said, taking out his phone (Dad did find his phone a few hours after Arwen absconded with it when mom called and the early spinach started ringing). 

“Hey Larry!” Dad announced to the local federal agent. “You’re never gonna believe this. My dog filed my taxes!”

Larry considered this for a moment. “Is this the dog that stole my sandwich? Out of my locked  car?” he asked suspiciously.

“The very same.” Dad grinned.

“Hm. Clever Girl.” Federal Agent Larry sighed. “I figured it was only a matter of time before she got into tax fraud.”

---

I'm a disabled artist making my living writing these stories. If you enjoy my stories, please consider supporting me on Ko-fi or Pre-ordering my Family Lore Book on Patreon. Thank you!

[gael-garcia]

Les Femmes Palestiniennes (1974, Jocelyne Saab)

youtube (eng subs). vimeo (spanish subs) / runtime: 10mins

Palestinian women share with men this role in the armed struggle. […] We run our suicidal operations, they attack us from airplanes. It’s easy to fight, using aviation when one is up against simple armed Fedayeen. They attack us with American and French airplanes. It’s not just Israel who’s at war with us, but also the United States and France and all the other countries. We’re not afraid of Israel. We fight at broad daylight, face to face. The coward ones fight with their aviation. The brave ones fight on foot to free their land. […] And if there’s a political (two-state) solution? There won’t be any political solution. The only thing there will be is Palestine. As long as there’s at least one of our children left alive, there won’t be any political solution. There will only be Palestine, in its entirety.

[psych-is-the-name]

[evermoreal]

thinking abt some kind of outlaw!au where the 141 walk away from a raid with a lot more than they bargained for.

౨ৎ *· edit: this is now a series!

a few weeks back they’d received word of a nobleman and his wife who’d be leaving for their honeymoon, valuables aboard the carriage. after a bit of lurking and bribing, they’d narrowed down just which road was desolate and wild enough to get away with the raid.

concealed by the bordering forests, they’d waited. an embarrassingly opulent carriage came dawdling down the road (polished wood, velvet curtains, ostentatious engravings) & they pounced.

the drivers & guards, they’d expected. the gunshots, the shouting. what took them by surprise, though, was the wife, who did not fight as gaz wrestled her into his arms. who watched a little too closely when ghost dragged his blade across her husband’s chest, demanding the location of their funds.

“where’s’a money?” price questioned, moving towards the woman when her husband’s pride weighed heavier than his cowardice. his broad palm gripped her jaw as gaz held her arms behind her back. “hm, lovey? y’speak english? y’better tell me, or your sweetheart ‘ere ‘ll be gutted before tha night’s over.”

she watched her husband writhe for a long moment, before meeting price’s gaze. her voice was flat, steady. “kill him.”

soap barked a laugh. ghost cocked his head.

price, though, was intrigued.

“kill ‘im?” he echoed. then, he lifted her hand, yanking the diamond ring off her finger and pinching it between his fingers. “wha’ bout this? just a rock, is it? ‘till death do us part’ mean nothin’ to ya?”

“words don’t mean much when you’re forced to say them, sir.”

“forced?” price questions, narrowed eyes flicking across your features. he looks to your husband, then, who’s soiled his pants. “tha fuck is this muppet forcin’?”

price is quiet for a while, watching your husband as he wriggles in ghost’s grip. when he meets your gaze, there’s a small, barely-there curve to his chapped lips. “you really want ‘im dead?” there’s an amusement to his tone, a disbelief.

you steel your gaze. “yes.”

the curve of his lips bends into a grin, and you’ve barely exhaled before he’s lifting his pistol, aiming it at your husband’s head, and shooting.

limp, he falls to the ground.

you don’t flinch. in fact your voice is steady when you state, “the money’s in the chest, beneath the seats.”

once again, price approaches you. grips your jaw, tilts your face this way and that. he taps your cheek twice, and says, “you heard the woman. soap, get the money. gaz, tie ‘er up, she’s with me.”

[sparrowlucero]

found an old bit of animation from a short film I never finished (about a dog that steals a deer bone from the woods and is haunted by the ghost of the deer). Don't think I ever posted it.

[eyerealm]