#lying is trump’s language

[isawthismeme]

Sweet Potato Hitler 🤣

[wilwheaton]

This is what many of us have seen. If you look at the internals, the subgroups of the more reputable polls, and you look at their results after weighting and you're bewildered because those internals with the subgroups would auger for a result much stronger for Vice President Kamala Harris, this explains it. Nate Silver has admitted that herding is taking place. He says the odds against so much close agreement is 1 in 9.5 trillion. Almost everything else would say this is not the toss up that polls are saying. Objectively, she is the better candidate. She is younger, more dynamic, more vigorous, younger, more mentally sharp, more experience, a better communicator, giving a better message. He is pushing weird and dangerous conspiracy theories, he is much, much older, he is plainly lying, he isn't disciplined, he faces 3 indictments, he has been convicted of 34 felonies, he was found liable for sexual assault by a jury, he has other legal challenges, he is pushing a dark vision, he is talking about using the American military against the American people and using the language of Adolf Hitler, he is expressing his bigotry. She has run a better campaign than he has. She has a far better ground game. She has more paid staff. She has more volunteers. She has raised more money. She has better surrogates. She has a better message. Again, Donald Trump is using the language of Adolf Hitler. Do we really believe that the Adolf Hitler message is competitive with the inclusive, centrist, normal, smart campaign and message of Vice President Kamala Harris? It just doesn't make sense that they would be tied.

J Ann Selzer Busts Emerson and others for manipulating their polls on tv!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 11: The Innocent Can Never Last]

A/N: Below are your guesses…let’s see how you did!!! 🥰😘 Only 2 chapters left 🥳

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Wake Me Up When September Ends” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.3k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

“You could have gone to California with them,” Rio says as he flips open the fuel cap of a black Nissan Frontier, parked in the driveway of a two-story brick house on National Avenue, not far from where Route 95 branches north of Winnemucca like an artery from a heart.

You squint up at the cumulus clouds to avoid meeting his eyes. You keep thinking you’re going to cry and have to suffocate it, drown it, slit its throat. “I didn’t want to.”

“Sure you didn’t.” Sweat runs in rivulets down his face as he slides in the semitransparent siphoning hose, the one with the little pump on it that Jace had when you found him in Iowa. Aemond gave this to Cregan; he kept the hose without the pump for himself. A small, curious sacrifice. You are fanning Rio with a magazine, Bow International. You had grabbed it thinking of Daeron, then remembered he wasn’t here to give it to. “Jesus Christ, it’s so fucking hot…”

“Djibouti was hotter.”

“Djibouti had a beach. And an air conditioning unit in every window.”

Cregan is waiting by the Tahoe and leafing through a guidebook he found at the Maverik gas station. Ice is lying on the ground and panting beside him, her shaggy grey coat filthy with dust and sand. “The town was named for Chief Winnemucca, who was born in the 1820s in what would later become the Oregon Territory. It either means ‘the giver of spiritual gifts’ or ‘one moccasin,’ depending on the interpretation.”

Rio says: “Damn Cregan, you can read?”

Cregan frowns down at the guidebook with feigned regret. “I really wish Trump had built that wall.”

Rio guffaws. “Cregan, man, I told you. I was born here!”

He continues: “Winnemucca was a stop on the transcontinental railroad.”

“Great. Let’s get that up and running again.” Rio groans as he squeezes the pump on the siphoning hose with increasing frustration. “Absolutely nothing. Not a drop.”

“We probably have enough to get to Denio Junction,” you say gingerly, knowing he’s suffering. It has to be over 100 degrees.

“Yeah, and what if there’s no gas there? How the hell are we going to get to Adel, Oregon?”

“We could walk if we have to.”

“85 miles? In heat like this?”

“In basic training we had to run—”

“We had water in basic training, Chips!” he snaps; and Rio never snaps. “And real food, and corpsmen for if we passed out, and also there were no fucking zombies running around eating people, remember that part?!”

You stare down at the dirt. You can’t cry; you can’t waste the liquid.

“Wait, no, no, no, I’m sorry.” Rio lifts your chin so you aren’t able to hide from him. “I’m…you know…I should already be there. I could be in Odessa in six hours, I could be with Sophie and the baby before sundown, and instead we’re stuck here in the desert and I’m thinking…what if what should take hours ends up taking weeks? What if when I get there, I’m too late?”

You nod, you understand. Out on the road, Cregan keeps his face buried in his guidebook, trying to be polite and pretend he can’t hear you.

“And, I’m also thinking…” Rio says, soft and low. “That I don’t want to be the reason why you miss out on a chance at happiness when the world could literally be ending.”

You gaze up at him, dejected, pathetic. “I can’t handle any virgin jokes right now.”

“I know. I wasn’t going to make one.”

“I didn’t want to go with them to California,” you lie. And then a truth: “And I would never leave you. I promised.”

Rio smiles. “You promised not to let me die alone, and I don’t plan on dying. You’ve gotten me most of the way already.” He glances towards the Tahoe. “I think Axe Boy would have rather stayed with them too. When he was asleep last night I heard him mumbling something about Helaena.”

Cregan? Helaena? Interesting. “Aemond doesn’t want me.”

“Oh, come on. You know he and his one eye are sobbing into a can of SpaghettiOs right now.”

“Be nice,” you murmur morosely.

“Why? He can’t hear me,” Rio says. “Look, Aemond’s fucked up. And of course he is. He went from learning how to save lives and deliver babies to watching his friends die horrible, preventable, completely meaningless deaths. That’s gotta suck. It sucked for me, and I barely even knew them, and no one expected me to be able to do anything about it. Aemond’s the one people trusted to protect them, and he couldn’t. So why would he be able to protect you?”

I never wanted Aemond to protect me. I just wanted him to take me away from here, even for a minute, even for seconds, one hushed stolen moment at a time. “I wish I had said something different back in Battle Mountain.” I wish I had told him I love him. But I didn’t, and now it’s too late.

“You deserve to have the whole wholesome normal family thing, the husband and the kids and the warm fuzzy holiday traditions. I know you’ve always wanted that.”

“If I choose the wrong person, I’m going to end up alone and miserable. And I’ll turn into a monster like my mother.”

“Hey,” Rio says, like he’s ready to fight you. And then he uses your real name, something he’s done maybe five times since you met him, just like you almost never call him Bryan. “You will never be like your mother. Okay? It’s not possible. You don’t have it in you. You’re not a parasite, you’re not mean.”

You want to believe him. “Okay.”

Then Rio chuckles. “Actually, you’re going to end up like my mom. Living in the middle of the woods, making your own soap out of goat milk, growing weed and knitting sweaters.”

You smile wistfully. “I have no idea how to knit. I want to build things.” Then you remember something from when you were fishing on Lake McConaughy in Nebraska. “Aegon said I look like someone who knits. Whatever that means.”

“It means you’re from Kentucky.” Then Rio asks, tentative: “So…what do you think about Aegon?”

This seems random. “He’s cool. I like him, obviously. He’s, um…I don’t know how to describe it. He’s so sad but so warm. It’s impossible to feel nervous around him, which is nice.”

Rio nods, giving you a teasing smirk. “Alright then.”

“Why?”

“Well I was just thinking that if he grows up a little more, he might be good for you.”

“Rio, he’s thirty.”

He bursts out laughing. “So give it another decade and he’ll finally be baby daddy material.”

“I’m sure he’ll be preoccupied with his drug dealing and brothel empire by then.”

“You aren’t even the tiniest bit intrigued?”

“I’ve never really thought about him that way.” And there’s another dimension to it that wouldn’t occur to Rio: Aegon is an addict. You know what it’s like to have to depend on somebody like that. You would never allow yourself to fall in love with him, not the way he is now.

Rio sighs and pivots. “You want me to give you a baby?”

Now you’re giggling. Of course, he’s not serious, just like he wasn’t serious when you were trapped on that transmission tower together back in Pennsylvania. “Stop.”

“I’m super tall and charming, and I was a great electrician back when electricity existed, and I have luscious curly hair that you can readily observe since the U.S. Navy isn’t around to make me shave it off anymore.”

“Sorry, I don’t reproduce with Enrique Iglesias fans.”

“You are so racist, and yet I’d still be willing to help you out with a sperm donation. I’d blindfold myself and struggle through it somehow.” He’s grinning, but his dark eyes are kind. “As long as I’m alive, you will always have a family. And Sophie gets that. Her parents were fuckups too. That’s why she’s so close with mine even though they’re insane.”

“They’re exactly the right kind of insane for the way the world is now.”

“Remember when my dad went through his ‘wifi gives you cancer’ phase and would only communicate with me via Republican-president-themed postcards?”

“The Ronald Reagan one was neat. So many eagles.”

“Truly an excessive amount of eagles.” Rio goes for the porch. “I guess we’ll scrounge whatever we can inside and check the rest of the cars on the street before we head north.”

“I ain’t seen any others without the fuel cap already open,” Cregan says from the Tahoe, dispirited but trying not to show it.

“If we end up having to walk, we’re going to need water or Hawaiian Punch or something. A lot of it. Maybe we can find some of that Pedialyte stuff Aemond got for Jace when he was sick.” Rio pounds one closed fist against the front door. “Hey! Anybody home? We’re looking for supplies. Not trying to cause any problems. If somebody’s in there, just give a shout and we’d be happy to keep moving.”

You’ve followed Rio up onto the porch. “If there’s no water inside, canned fruit will work. You can drink the syrup for hydration, and all the sugar gives you calories.”

Back by the Tahoe, Cregan is leaning down to pet Ice. She’s still panting hard, foamy saliva dripping from her muzzle. “Y’all, we gotta get moving,” Cregan says. “Princess needs to be back in the truck with the AC, and I don’t want to waste gas by letting it idle.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re working on it.” Rio kicks the door once, hard enough that you hear the wood split near the hinges, dry and cracking. He backs up to prepare to give the door another blow, which is all it will take. Then there is a muffled voice from inside the house.

“Get the hell off my property!”

Immediately, you are stunned by the boom of an explosion, shards of wood flying like shrapnel, the steel barrel of a shotgun jutting from the fresh hole in the center of the door. Rio is scrambling off the porch and dragging you with him. With your free hand, you grab your M9 from its holster and begin shooting before the man inside can fire again, before he can kill Rio or Cregan or you. Your bullets pierce through the blackness of the gaping wound in the front door. You hear shrieks of agony; you see flecks of blood painting the wood. Now there are people shooting from the second-story windows, and you feel the wind of bullets clip by as Rio pulls you towards the Tahoe. The engine starts; Cregan is already in the driver’s seat. You return fire until your M9 makes only small, hollow clicks when you pull the trigger. And by then Rio is shoving you into the truck.

“Go, go, go!” Rio yells at Cregan the second he crawls in behind you and slams the door shut. Cregan swerves away from the curb and barrels down the street, tires squealing, gunshots still ringing out from the house. Ice is barking franticly.

“Rio, I’m out,” you say, terrified.

“What?”

“Bullets. I’m out of bullets.”

“We gotta go,” Rio concedes. There are scratches on his cheeks from splinters of wood, sweat turning from clear to blood-tinged pink as it drips down onto his shirt. “We gotta get out of Winnemucca. If we have to walk, we’ll walk. At least there’s no one north of here to worry about for a hundred miles. Not living and not dead either.”

From the backseat, you glance over at Cregan. “Oh my God, Cregan, you’re hurt.”

“I know.” His right forearm is covered in blood. It’s a graze wound, but deep; when he turns the steering wheel, you can glimpse the white of bone as his shredded muscles open like a mouth.

“You need stitches!”

“Oh yeah?” Cregan replies as the Tahoe bumps over corpses in the street, bodies mummified by the wind and the sun. “And which of you two would be better at that, you think?”

“We’ll get supplies to patch you up,” Rio says, peering out the window, searching for someplace to stop. “And enough food and water to last us through the desert. Right there, hop on Route 95, and we’ll find a store at the edge of town before we’re in No Man’s Land.” Cregan jerks the wheel; the Tahoe veers onto Route 95 heading north. Boarded-up houses and graffitied overpasses and gnarled bristlecone pine trees and lifeless traffic lights and looted storefronts pass by in a blur.

You turn to Rio. “What if those people try to follow us?”

“It’ll only take five minutes.”

“Rio…”

“We don’t have enough to drink. If we get stranded in the desert, we’ll die. I’m not dying out there. I didn’t cross 3,000 miles to drop dead just a few hundred away from Sophie.”

He’s right. There’s no other option. North of Winnemucca is a wasteland, a boneyard. “Okay,” you surrender, helping him look for stores. “But we have to be quick.”

“I can be real quick, baby. You’d know that if you took me up on my very selfless sperm donation offer.”

Cregan raises his eyebrows; you can see his reflection in the rearview mirror. “Y’all have a mighty strange relationship.”

Rio is pointing. “Right there, Riverside Grocery & Liquor. Let’s give that a try. Cregan? You see it? By the Taco Bell.”

“Of course you’d be attracted to Taco Bells,” Cregan says as the Tahoe zigzags across the parking lot, but his voice is woozy. Blood pours from the gash in his arm. What if the bullet severed a major artery? What if he’s bleeding to death?

You ask: “Cregan, do you feel okay?”

“I’m alright. Don’t you worry about me, Miss Chips. You got enough worries already.”

“You don’t look alright.”

His eyes meet yours in the rearview mirror; they are fearful. “I think I need to get pressure on it.”

“We’ll take care of you, buddy,” Rio says. And as soon as Cregan shifts the Tahoe into park, Rio is out the door and striding into the small grocery store, his Remington 12 gauge in his hands. It’s unloaded, but still good for blunt force trauma. The glass of one of the front doors has been shattered. Rio steps inside, his boots crunching on broken glass. You are right behind him; Cregan lifts Ice with his uninjured arm so she can get inside without cutting her paws.

Harsh desert sunlight streams in bright enough that you can see reasonably well, dusk or dawn instead of midday. The air tastes like dirt and decay. The shelves of alcohol have been picked clean, but cans and bottles and cardboard boxes have been left strewn haphazardly around the rest of the store. There are several circular racks of souvenir t-shirts: horses, mountains, pine trees, I was a buckaroo on the Cowboy Corridor, #DesertLife, Straight Outta Winnemucca. You yank a white shirt with a rattlesnake on it off its hanger and tie it tightly around Cregan’s bleeding forearm, closing the ragged ends of his wound.

Ice is whining and nudging at Cregan. “There’s one in here,” he warns.

“Yeah, I got it,” Rio says. She staggers out of the stockroom hissing and growling, the flesh on her face almost completely gone, her exposed skull stained with clotted blood, her teeth chattering. Long strands of blonde hair hang in patches from the back of her head. She is wearing a red vest with a nametag on it. Once upon a time, her parents called her Jasmine. Rio strikes the zombie with his Remington so hard it is decapitated, and the corpse crumples to the filthy tile floor as its head rolls over towards the cash register. Then he slings the shotgun over one of his shoulders and begins shopping.

Cregan is tall enough to see the tops of shelves where items have been missed; he pulls down bottles of Snapple, Gatorade, Yoohoo, Jarritos soda and stuffs them into his backpack. You are on your hands and knees sorting through the debris on the floor, everything coated with a layer of dust and sand. You find cans of mandarin oranges, boxes of graham crackers, tuna pouches, and packets of Tylenol. Cregan will need them. He needs more than that, but you can’t give it to him. You’ve never been to medical school. You grab more souvenir shirts to use as bandages later.

Maybe there are doctors in Odessa.

Rio says excitedly from the other side of the store: “Chips, they got Cheddar Whales!”

Maybe there’s a life worth living in Odessa.

“Just hurry up so we can go.”

“Yeah, yeah…” He’s filling his arms with boxes and bottles, making a lot of noise. Ice is pacing and whimpering, panting like she can hardly breathe, drooling gluey strings of saliva. The grocery store is an oven. Cregan pops open a can of Arizona iced tea and pours it into her mouth to be gulped greedily down. Still, Ice’s yellow wolfish eyes dart around the room, vigilant, rattled.

“I think there’s another zombie,” you say, watching her. You reach for your M9 before remembering it’s unloaded.

Cregan replies: “Sure she ain’t just overheated?”

Somewhere close, less than a mile away: gunshots out on the streets of Winnemucca.

“Ready, kids?” Rio says, his arms overflowing, half a Slim Jim hanging out of his mouth like a cigarette.

“Yes sir,” Cregan agrees. The t-shirt you knotted around his forearm is splotched with crimson, but the bleeding appears to have slowed. Fragments of glass shatter as he crosses through the doorway and out into the parking lot, carrying Ice as she struggles and barks.

Rio pauses as he passes one of the other t-shirt racks, circles of metal that gleam like halos. He’s rearranging his supplies so he has a free hand to grab a shirt he likes. There are more distant gunshots outside, and the squealing of tires. In the parking lot, Cregan is starting the Tahoe.

You say distractedly, noticing an empty Twizzlers wrapper on the floor and thinking of Jace: “Rio, let’s go.”

“Hold up, this one has an elephant on it—”

The hand juts out from below the rack and seizes his ankle, claws up his legs, rips and tears at him, grey flayed flesh and screeches from rotting vocal chords, something that used to be a man or a woman and is now only a monster, half a body, nothing from the waist down but shred of black necrotic muscle, skin, intestines, too close for Rio to push away, already clinging to him like graffiti on concrete, like a pair of stainless steel dog tags hanging from his neck. Without thinking, without hesitating, you are across the store and trying to get it off him, screaming as your fingers rake through disintegrating gore, so deep you can feel the zombie’s ribs like rungs of a ladder, trying to get a grip on it, trying to kill it. Now Cregan is back with his axe and he’s hacking at the skull as best he can without hitting Rio, and Ice is barking, and Cregan is yelling for you to get away before you’re bitten, but you don’t listen, you don’t care; all your life you were homesick until you found homes with Rio thousands of miles from where you were born, and if he’s gone then so is the only place you’ve ever belonged. There is a surge of blood, hot and metallic, rot and iron in the air, and you don’t know whose it is.

He can’t be gone. If he’s gone, who am I?

An arm hooks around your waist and drags you backwards, so roughly you lose your breath for a moment and cannot fight them; over your right shoulder, you see a hand holding a Glock. Aemond pulls the trigger and the zombie falls to the floor, a mangle of decomposition and exposed bones, because wherever the others ended up they found bullets and gasoline…and then they came back for you.

Aegon is stumbling over the rubble that litters the floor to get to Rio. You can hear Daeron and Rhaena’s voices out in the parking lot, and the blasts of Rhaena’s Ruger, the revolver she once didn’t know how to use. Cregan is trying to help Rio up, but he can’t stand. He is slumped against bare shelves and holding a hand to his throat, where he’s hemorrhaging from a gaping, ragged wound, torn arteries and lacerated veins. He’s been bitten, but his transformation won’t take long. He’s bleeding out. His dark eyes are on you, and beneath the glassy sheen of catastrophic blood loss is disbelief and fury and grief. He will never see Sophie again; he will never meet his child.

Your voice is a whisper, a phantom. “Bryan…”

“It only takes once, right?” he says, weak and guttural, already fading, blood on his lips. Then his eyes drift to Aemond. “Get her out of here.”

“No!” you shriek as Aemond pulls you towards the door, his arms locked around your waist, his lips to your ear as he begs you to come with him, that you have to leave, that it’s not safe here, that Rio doesn’t want you to see what has to happen next. Aegon is sobbing as he touches Rio’s face. Cregan bows his head; but he’s already looking at the Marlin .22 that hangs by its leather strap from Aegon’s shoulder. “No, I promised, I promised! I promised I wouldn’t let him die alone!”

“He’s not alone,” Aemond tells you, and he doesn’t let go when you struggle, when you scream. Burning sunlight floods over you, and you are in the parking lot. Rhaena and Daeron are shooting down zombies as they lurch towards the grocery store, drawn by the commotion, the symphony of the dead and dying. Luke is using a siphoning hose to fill the Tahoe’s tank with the remaining fuel in the Ford Expedition. Helaena is moving their supplies into the Tahoe, weeping softly to herself, her long ghost-pale hair flowing in the desert wind.

The racks, you think, you remember. You can see Helaena shining the flashlight into your eyes like you’re back on a living room floor in Iowa. I forgot to remind Rio to check under the racks. And now he’s gone.

You’re screaming that it’s your fault as Aemond forces you into the Tahoe, and you don’t care what anyone says to you: Luke trying to tell you that’s not true, Rhaena swearing that you’re safe now. There is a gunshot from inside the grocery store. Your heart and lungs have turned to iron like the anchor of a ship, cold and still and heavy, unmovable, unbearable. You cannot breathe through your sobs; you cannot see, cannot speak. You curl up on a seat and wish you were dead. All your life you have been compelled by a blind belief that there are better places even if you cannot imagine them, that sometimes when it feels like the world is ending the only way out is through. For the very first time, you want to give up. You want to let all the poisons of this earth seep into your bloodstream until they stop your pulse and everything goes quiet, quiet, quiet.

Aemond is pouring bottles of water over you so he can wash away the blood and sand and gore. He is searching your skin for bitemarks. People are climbing into the Tahoe and a key turns in the ignition. The wheels are spinning; shadows fall over your face through the windows as you sail beneath overpasses. You hear voices but not words. You feel Aemond’s hands on you and do not flinch away.

Someone is putting pills in your mouth and telling you to swallow. “What is it?” you ask.

“Tramadol,” Aegon says. “It will take you somewhere else.”

And it does, this poison he doesn’t know you are starving for; it erases the future and the past until you don’t exist, you never have, and this is a relief.

~~~~~~~~~~

Glimpses through fogged vision, disjointed flashes like dreams: Aemond cleaning and suturing Cregan’s arm, Helaena’s fingers threading through Ice’s shaggy grey fur, smoke from smoldering Marlboro Golds billowing from Aegon’s lips and out through an open window, coyotes watching the Tahoe pass from the shoulder of the highway, mountains and barbed wire, clouds and useless power lines, land that turns from flat and vast and vacant to steep hills thick with pine trees, so many they block out the sun.

You are dimly aware that the Tahoe is stopping frequently, long lulls to hunt for gasoline in small towns, one gallon here, three gallons there, discussions over which routes to take as Aegon scrutinizes his map. Aemond is always with you, coaxing you to take sips of Gatorade and nibbles of Ritz crackers, feeding you spoonfuls of chicken noodle soup straight from the can, and each night when you fall into numb unconsciousness in a dead stranger’s bed he sleeps on the floor in case you need him, and eventually you do. You jolt awake from a nightmare, not death but cursed immortality, a bite he missed somehow that turned you into a monster, into a murderer, your raw skin and muscles sloughing off your bones.

“You’re fine, you’re fine, look at your hands,” Aemond says, taking your wrists and holding them gently. “No bites. You’re going to be okay, I promise. Hey, hey…” He cradles your face, he pleads for you to believe him. “I swear to God, you’re going to be okay.”

“It should have been me,” you whisper in the red glow of the candlelight. “I don’t have a family that would miss me if I was gone.”

“Yes you do,” Aemond says fiercely; and it takes your drugged, horrorstruck mind a moment to realize who he means.

The next day the Tahoe runs out of gas, and you know this because Aemond wakes you with a palm resting lightly on your forehead and an apology sighed through your hair. “What’s wrong?” you murmur.

“We have to get out and walk for a while. Can you do that?”

You force yourself to sit up, blinking at him. “Where are we?”

“Kingvale, California. In the Sierra Nevada Mountains.”

“We’re going to the beach house,” you realize.

“Yeah,” Aemond says, smiling a little. “Yeah, we are. We’re going home.”

On Donner Pass Road, following in the centuries-old footsteps of doomed westward migrants, someone always walks with you as you shuffle along in a daze. Aemond tells you about California, Rhaena reads aloud from Mockingjay, Ice licks your knuckles, Aegon talks endlessly about golf and yachting even when you can’t respond. His burned leg is still bandaged, but healing, and he’s found a Converse sneaker a few sizes too big to wear on his left foot; Aemond treats and wraps his wounds each morning and night, and Rhaena observes and takes notes so she can learn how to do it.

One afternoon just north of Beale Air Force Base, Daeron sneaks a Marlboro Gold out of Aegon’s backpack when no one is watching and lights it as he lingers in the back of the group. Aegon smells the smoke immediately and whirls, runs to him, snatches the cigarette from between Daeron’s lips and stomps it into the pavement.

“You’re not going to be like me!” Aegon shouts at him in the middle of the road. “Goddammit, you’re going to be safe, and you’re going to be happy, and you’re going to know that people care about you because I’ll break your fucking arm if I ever see you smoking again. You don’t get to poison yourself. You’re going to live to be a hundred years old. Got it?”

“Got it,” Daeron echoes, startled, petrified; and then Aegon hugs him, hanging on for a very long time.

~~~~~~~~~~

It is midnight in Meridian, a miniscule town founded in the 1850s on the banks of the Sacramento River, a relic from a time when travel meant ferries and railroads and wagon trains. Here, well outside the state capital, there are no sounds except the breeze through the trees—blue oaks, sycamores, willows, white alders—and the hoots of owls. The house is old, built in the 1950s or 60s, creaking steps and a screened-in front porch where Cregan and Daeron are playing Uno while keeping watch. The moon is new and invisible. The stars are bright.

Aemond appears in the doorway of your room. You are on the edge of the bed and staring at the wallpaper, flickering candlelight and scenes of galloping horses. Aemond is not letting you have any more Tramadol. He’s also not letting anyone load your Beretta, although you saw a box of 9mm bullets in Helaena’s burlap messenger bag. Maybe he’s worried you’ll try to shoot yourself. Maybe he’s not too far off.

He closes the door, crosses the room, and sits down on the bed beside you. In the firelit quiet, Aemond says: “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to help you.”

“I can’t stay here. Take me somewhere else.”

At first, he doesn’t understand what you mean. Then you reach for him—for a life raft, for something to tether you to the earth—and the lines of your palm press against his scar, flesh he stitched back together himself, proof he can heal people, a reminder of how temporary any of you could be. Aemond lays his hand over yours and closes his eye, holding you there against his face, feeling your warmth and your forgiveness, your need to be close to him in a way that is suddenly so uncomplicated. There is no fear left in you. Perhaps there’s nothing left at all.

Aemond kisses you, and there are blooms of golden light through your darkness like what you call lightning bugs and he says are fireflies. You are entangled on the bed together, and all the sounds still ricocheting in your memory—screams, gunshots, bloodlust, hunger, anarchy—fade until they cease to exist. He is touching you, and you can feel lost pieces of yourself returning to you like rain soaking through parched earth, faith and resolve and desire. And now, and now…

Now Aemond is taking you far, far, far away, to bottomless blue water you can drown in, to where Diego Garcia lies marooned in the middle of the Indian Ocean, to the sun-glinting waves off the coasts of Chinhae, Corpus Christi, Key West, the Horn of Africa. He is between your thighs, and you want him through the pain, a razor-sharp fullness that seems so immaterial and so fleeting; and you lie to him over and over again because if he knows he’s hurting you he’ll stop, and in this world one cannot assume there will be second chances. Aemond stills once he’s inside you, giving you time to adjust but also overwhelmed by the intensity of it, his hands in your hair and trembling all over, kissing your face as the pain bleeds away and leaves a shade of craving you’ve never felt before, something deep and indistinct, something intangible like a spell or a myth. You move first, rolling your hips with a slow, cautious rhythm, and only then does Aemond follow you. It’s in his voice, in the reverence of his hands, in his iris like a clear secretless sky; you have taken him far away too.

“I love you,” Aemond says afterwards as his head rests on your belly, your fingers tangled in his damp hair and your skull hushed like calm seas. “And I can’t pretend I don’t anymore.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want you to.”

And in the morning, there is something different about the world: a hopefulness that makes you want to wake up, a radiance like moonlight on the wave crests of the Indian Ocean.

[robertreich]

Five Biggest Border Lies Debunked 

Republicans are lying about immigrants and the border. Here are five of their biggest doozies.

1. They claim Biden doesn’t want to secure the border

Well, that’s rubbish. Biden has consistently asked for additional funding for border security.

Republicans have just as consistently refused. They’re voting to cut Customs and Border Protection funding in spending bills and blocking passage of Biden’s $106 billion national security supplemental that includes border funding.

2. They blame the drug crisis on immigration

That’s more rubbish. While large amounts of fentanyl and other deadly drugs have been flowing into the U.S. from Mexico, 90% arrives through official ports of entry, not via immigrants illegally crossing the border. In fact, research by the Cato Institute found that more than 86% of the people convicted of trafficking fentanyl in 2021 were U.S. citizens.

3. They claim that undocumented immigrants are terrorists.

Baloney. For almost a half century, no American has been killed or injured in a terrorist attack in the United States that involved someone who crossed the border illegally.

4. They say immigrants are stealing American jobs.

Nonsense. Evidence shows immigrants are not taking jobs that American workers want. And the surge across the border is not increasing unemployment. Far from it: unemployment has been below 4% for roughly two years.

5. They blame crime on immigrants

More baloney. This has been debunked by numerous studies over the years. In fact, a 2020 study found that undocumented immigrants have "substantially" lower crime rates than native-born citizens and legal immigrants.

Notwithstanding the recent migrant surge, America’s homicide rate has fallen nearly 13% since 2022 — the largest decrease on record. Local law enforcement agencies are also reporting drops in violent crime.

Who’s really behind these lies?

Since he entered politics, Donald Trump has fanned nativist fears and bigotry.

Now leaning into full neo-fascism and using the actual language of Hitler to attack immigrants.

Trump wants us to forget that almost all of us are the descendants of immigrants who fled persecution, or were brought to America under duress, or simply sought better lives for themselves and their descendants.

Know the truth and spread it.

[samueldays]

I see this shit and I wonder: is there, even theoretically, anything which can be done about it in general?

(To back up Domenech, here is the 2021 interview, the clip is taken from about twentyfive minutes in.)

The obvious first problem is the lying. Legally, this is protected by the First Amendment, and one has to clear a high bar of showing specific harm (such as being defrauded) to prosecute lies in America. Socially, it is one of a great many lies being told by a great many liars. Getting just one to stop would be ineffective, getting them to stop en masse would be a Herculean task. Specifically a task like cleaning the Augean Stables.

The second problem that comes to mind is that even if there were a remedy like "Legally compel @harris_wins to issue a correction", such remedies are extremely prone to abuse as a class. It would take law-writing that is both unusually clever and unusually moral to give Vance some way of punishing @harris_wins for this, without also risking collateral damage to speech protections, and exploitations of the power to punish.

The third problem is that an account like @harris_wins is disposable and replaceable. It is not the official Kamala Harris account. It's a sort of credibility-printer or the product of one, that can be spun up, tell loud and flashy lies, and be ditched when it comes under fire. It's cheap chaff, it's moderately polished with the signs and language of journalism like screaming "BREAKING" on everything, and it gets a million views.

The sort of punishment one can practically inflict on an account like this is only a cost of doing business for whoever's paying the cut-outs and interns and troll farms for Kamala's campaign.

Fourth, I think, is the aggravating nature of this particular lie.

Trump's lies usually involve saying he's the best, he's the greatest, everyone loves him, he'll fix all your problems, et cetera, which are colloquial English for him being moderately above average, some people love him, he might mitigate a couple of problems. I'm autistic and I dislike the way people casually lie in ordinary speech and say "it's hyperbole", but it's hard for me to feel any extra hate for Trump over exaggeration-to-the-point-of-falsehood when it's so common.

Whoever is running @harris_wins does not have the hyperbole excuse. This is not partial support for Project 2025 being exaggerated into complete endorsement, this is a false source and they're claiming it contains something it does not contain at all. Vance never mentions Project 2025 at all (how could he, in 2021?) in the clip, he is saying routine politician things about taking power and replacing the existing ruling class, that is not "Vance completely endorses Project 2025".

[reading-writing-revolution]

Fact-Checking the Narrative

Here's a thought. Who cares what anyone thinks about the fairness of fact-checking? Who cares? That's not a story. Everyone knows the story of fact-checking One side thinks the truth matters, even when it's not pretty. One side doesn't care what's true as long as it benefits them. Think about that. That's the story, and that's the story that should be told a thousand times.

The story is about Trump and the Republican Party and Fox News, TruthSocial and MAGA and how their entire existence now is based on lying to the public in order to get power.

It's disinformation, sure, but really, it's lying. It's falsehoods. It's misleading. It's blah fucking blah. It's fucking lying people. It's a few lies, then a bunch of lies, then lying as a way of life, then lying so much and so egregiously that it changes the course of a nation, and eventually lying to the point that it gets millions of people killed.

We saw the lie during the 2020 campaign and the attempted overthrow of the government of the United States of America. Before that we saw the lie that led to a million Americans dying from Covid. And let's don't forget about all the lies from 2016 to 2020 and from 2020 to 2024, and all the lies that everyone is already hearing now, all of it supported by people who have no interest in serving the people. They are happy to lie to get what they want, even if you die.

Who cares what either side thinks about fact-checking. We already know. And we already know what's true. Focus on that. Say what's true, and use plain, simple language (thank you, George Carlin) to say it. It's lying, and all that lying is going to get a lot of people hurt if we're not going to just say it out loud and say it every fucking time it happens.

[brazenautomaton]

so here's a conversation I had with a friend just now that sums up a lot of what I think so well I don't want to bother rephrasing it

them

Oh boy are we ready for 48 more months of hearing the Most Sanest Normalest People on the internet act like a right-of-center candidate getting elected when put up against another nagging scold of a progressive "It's Her Turn"-er was a surprise

me:

The Democrats and their wider supporters don't seem to realize people can remember the things they say. They said Biden was fine, it was a wild right wing conspiracy to think he was unfit for office. Then he is clearly, actively disintegrating on stage at the debate, so now it's Harris! Of course it's Harris, what are you talking about, we've always been about Harris! Harris who was, it's important to note, a diversity hire. She was not a popular candidate. She did dismally in the primary, and was chosen as VP because it was Time For A Strong Woman Of Color

them:

Y-E-P God imagine taking the VP of an unpopular incumbent and saying "Yep, she's the one" and being surprised when that goes poorly It is genuinely alarming, though, how absolutely temporally untethered a lot of the discourse coming from the left is. Like, genuinely just "don't believe your lying memories" level of attempt to disregard stuff that happened not just in living memory, not just in the last decade, but happened during the current presidency. The lack of humility is also not just distasteful, but actually alarming. If you make predictions that are wildly off the mark to try to get people behind your candidate, you cannot then treat your wildly off-the-mark predictions as if they did not matter.

the primary strategy of the "guys who spent five years using 'gaslight' to mean 'disagree with'" appears to be attempted gaslighting. you just aren't allowed to notice things they say and do. every time someone is like "I don't like this thing you're doing," the democrats as a whole are all "That didn't happen and you're a bad person."

this is an effective strategy for winning conversations with people and a very bad strategy for winning elections. when people are upset about things you did or allowed to happen, "nuh uh you bad person" is not a response. "that shouldn't count" is not an effective counter even if you genuinely believe it should not count. a million morlocks-holmes saying "this has nothing to do with the democrats because no democratic holder of office has introduced a bill with explicitly racist language" isn't going to convince anyone who wasn't already convinced. you are not entitled to votes, you have to actually do things to win the election.

focusing on how bad and threatening Trump is is a losing strategy when we had a term of Trump and none of the fascist future we were warned of came to pass. Trump had a fucking vision of the future to really behind that more than zero people believed in. Now, I'm not a "typical" ad-watcher because I only saw campaign ads on YouTube (but I feel like this is not super atypical any more), but I saw a lot of Kamala Harris ads, and zero of them were about any of her plans or ideals or vision and all of them were about "You need to give us money right now to win the election." Like if you're using the money to make ads like this, that's kind of like a one-person pyramid scheme.

the Trump presidency will be terrible in a predictable, expected way. there will be no fascism, just a slow crumbling of our already-dismal institutional competence. I don't think the Democrats would have been much better. They'd still be beholden to an activist core of psychopaths and doing everything they can to cover for those people, while also governing incompetently and completely unable to capitalize on or draw attention to any good things they actually manage to do. Leftists and progressives are already going through the whole "the Democrats move us all to the right they only want to move to the right!" but the Democrats don't move at all; they don't think they should change their behavior, because when they lose an election it is because the voters failed them and not the other way around.

[yourtoradorasextendedwarranty]

Watching Walz say Trump lost the election is funny.

Did Trump lose? Yes. Did he lose in a fair fight? No. A couple of interesting facts.

Most all cases of fraud were denied based on standing not merit

The Electronic voting machines were allowed to be observed from a distance, not actually investigated

Fraud was detected and admitted to

Several machines were found to switch votes though supposedly switched back but we have no proof

News media came out admitting to a "Shadow campaign to fortify the election" including suppressing information about Hunter Biden's laptop.

Google, during Trump's first presidency as well as other tech agencies came out openly saying they would stop Trump winning again

We need to understand what all this means. And it's about time people stop lying about all this.

And to address the first point. Dismissing cases on standing was complete technicality. Reps sued before the votes because they knew problems exists. The judges said, "there aren't damages so you can't sue" then they sued after the fact, and the judges responded with, "it's too late to sue". That's not justice. That's not an investigation. That's not proof. Proof would have been judging based on the merits. Proof would have been an investigation into the voting machines. Not an at a distance observation.

Why am I taking about this? Because Walz is a liar. And Vance royally fucked him, while being gentle enough to let him leave the stage with some dignity.

Lastly, Vance was correct. Doctors in Walz State are allowed to let children who survive botched abortions die. That is the language of the law.

[txtmetonight]

Garlicky Revenge ✆

call summary ⋆ ★ Jungwon hates your new punishment

pairing *. * Vampire! Yang Jungwon x Fem! Reader

genre⋆ ★ Fluff

warnings *. crude language, it's just really fluffy lol, grammar mistakes

call duration⋆ ★ 824

a/n*. * I loved this one but please tell me why it took me forever to find a pic for the banner oml and he's so cute i'm gonna cry help me

taglist ⋆ ★ @kflixnet

“(Y/n), you’re not serious, are you?”

“As serious as I can be, Jungwon!” You scoff, turning away to withhold a growing smile on your face, yet it slowly diminishes when your eyes water from the intense smell, strung upon your neck.

“You can’t refuse me like this, love! You… you don’t even like it either, I can see it on your face!” He points an accusatory finger at you, making you burst into loud chuckles before you shake your head.

“You told me that you would stop sneaking behind me like that when I was in the bathroom. I almost had a fucking heart attack because of you yesterday. This is what you get now.”

Jungwon cringes at the way garlic moves when you sway back and forth, waiting for him to take a step closer, a rather smug grin on your face when his lips quirk down into a nastier grin. “This isn’t fair!” He whines, sounding like a petulant toddler. “I’ve missed you so much and you won’t even let me hug you?! I think I might actually die.”

“You’re not going to die, Wonnie. Plus, you’ve lived without me for like… 400 years before. What’s another week?” You’re teasing; the stench was already giving you a well-deserved headache, so it wouldn’t be long before you took the odd neckwear off. But it was still amusing to see the way that he freezes completely, going paler than he was before.

“You–you’re kidding? A week?! I’m not waiting for that long!” He cries, and before you know it, a small black cat appears just where Jungwon stands, its eyes already pulled to mimic great sorrow.

It meows and wails pitifully, pawing the living room carpet, knowing well enough that cats were preferably your biggest weakness. A trump card played well by your boyfriend whenever times become desperate.

“Oh, you can’t do that to me!? That’s so not fair!”

The cat (Jungwon) rolls over in despair and raises a furry paw over its head to mimic death, letting out a shrill cry. Rounding the island countertop, you finally sigh and give in by taking off the garlic and wiping your neck and hands with a wet washcloth while you try to trap some of the anger you were feeling before.

But how could you even be furious at him, even when he transforms back into his normal self, sharp canines glinting while he happily smiles at you, his back on the ground? Your heart swells at the sight, and butterflies skim your stomach. “I fucking hate you, Yang Jungwon,” you grumble, yet you couldn’t help but scoot a little closer to him sheepishly.

Perhaps you did miss him more than you wanted to admit.

“Really? Well, that’s a shame because I really love you, pretty girl.” Jungwon pats next to him, and when you point at your neck, where the spice left its odor on your skin, he waves it off dismissively. “A really big shame,” you giggle when he slightly gags at your arm touching his cheek. Nevertheless, he pulls you closer and pretends to chomp on your hand, your cheeks turning red as he puts a soft kiss to where he bit you.

“I wasn’t lying when I said that I was going to die if you weren't in my life anymore.”

You shake your head and press a chaste kiss to his jaw. “Me too. I don’t think I can imagine my future without you.”

“Yeah, but would you drive a stake through your heart for me?” He jokes but then goes silent when you just stare at him, eyes swirling with so much love, his non-beating heart thrumming alive for a few moments, just under your gaze.

“I would willingly live with you for eternity.”

Jungwon’s eyes grow wide as he gets up from his position to look at you in awe. “No, you woul–”

“I would really. For you, Wonnie… I suppose I would do anything,” you say, and before he could say anything, you pull him into a kiss, soft and sweet. His fingers cascade the side of your face gently, and your hand encases itself in his hair, tugging it lightly when he wouldn’t let you take a breath.

“I love you. I really do,” he quietly says.

“I love you too.”

And the moment goes silent for a while, your lips just ghosting over him in a tender peace you wished would last forever. With him by your side.

But then the gentle second is lost when Jungwon opens his stupid mouth, earning a hit from you.

“You said you would do anything, yeah? First off, please don’t ever punish me with garlic ever again; I was seriously going to cry!”

“Really? Next time, I’m going to move houses and never ever invite you inside!”

Jungwon gasps and clutches his shirt dramatically. It makes you roll your eyes, but you rub your cheek over his chest in affection.

“You wouldn’t dare!”

[pudding-parade]

Sorry, but I have to get political on all your asses, at least those of you who live in the US. It will be a one-time thing on this subject, the only thing that I will say here about the election before it happens. And yeah, I'm going to say this on a blog devoted to a stupid video game. Why? Because I know that I have younger American people who follow me here, and if y'all are like some of the younger people I've talked to in real life and online in other venues, I have concerns. So I'm going to say all this as an old-ass, progressive American. Because if I can wake up one apathetic mind out there, it will be worth it. And if you're pissed at me for making a single political post at this important juncture, then fuck off and unfollow me or send me nasty messages or whatever you want to do. I don't care. And I'm not cutting this, either.

My dear followers: Donald Trump cannot -- CANNOT -- become president again.

Late last night, Trump posted on his Truth Social account a video containing language and images reminiscent of the World War era. It was about his fantasies of what America would be like, should he win the general election in about five months. It contained suspicious imagery and phrases like "creating a unified Reich." Does that sort of language sound familiar? Especially when combined with his rhetoric about immigrants being "vermin" that "poison the blood of our country?" Ring any bells? I'm sure it does for any German folks who might read this.

Trump's post was only taken down about 12 hours later, after backlash over it, and then Trump claimed that a "low level staffer" posted it, not him. Which is either a lie OR he was lying when he said previously that only he and his campaign's communications director have or will ever have access to that account. If you want more info about this, here's a short video from Jesse Dollemore, an independent commentator:

This election isn't about liberal/progressive vs. conservative. It truly doesn't matter what your personal ideology is because this election is about saving democracy. This is about preserving your freedoms, because we won't be able to do anything about any other issue, whatever our individual ideologies and pet issues are, if our basic freedoms upon which this country was founded -- freedom of speech and to protest, freedom of (and from) religion, freedom of the press -- are chipped away until they are gone. Because that's what autocrats do. They want freedom only for themselves, and Donald Trump and his cronies and hangers-on are all autocrat wannabes.

And if you -- Yes, you, even if you're sitting in the middle of blood-red state -- don't vote for Joe Biden, you will be doing your part to hand the autocrats what they want, because a non-vote or a vote for anyone other than Biden is in fact a vote for Trump and autocracy. Similarly, you must also vote for Democrats for all other positions, local, state, and federal so that America's overt flirtation with autocracy that's been going on since at least the 1990s might finally end once and for all.

Yes, yes, I know: "But Genocide Joe!" Think about it: Do you seriously think that Trump, who licks Netanyahu's asshole because he sees him as the kind of "strong man" that Trump wants to be, is going to help Gaza? Or that he'll go against Putin and continue aid to Ukraine? Because if you think that he will do either of those things, I have several bridges I'd like to sell you. No, Trump is going to "put America first." He says it all the time, and what he means by that is that he will do nothing except whatever it takes to keep himself and his cronies in power while also isolating America by severing ties to our allies. Gaza will be given to Netanyahu just as Ukraine will be given to Putin, should Trump win, and he won't give a shit. In the end, Biden (and Harris, should she have to take over) will listen and help Gaza, maybe not as much as we'd like because the Middle East situation is complicated and there are no simple solutions, but a Biden-led government will certainly help more than another Trumpian government would. And Biden will definitely continue to aid Ukraine, because that situation isn't complicated at all.

And in the end, it's not really about Ukraine and Gaza, though they are of course important. It's about us. Should Trump get into the White House again, he will surround himself with people who want America to be a plutocratic and authoritarian autocracy, very similar to Putin's Russia. This is not hyperbole. This is fact. A vote for Trump -- either actual or de facto by fucking around with not voting or voting for a third party because you think it's a "protest" -- is a vote to end democracy, plain and simple, which might very well mean that you'll never be able to protest again another day.

How bad could Trump be, you ask? Who cares who is president? Well, have a look at Project 2025. It's a 900-page "playbook" for the next "conservative" administration. (In quotes because there is nothing "conservative" about these people, including Trump and his cronies; they are radicals.) It is nothing less than a plan to destroy the federal government, the Constitution, and the freedoms that it enshrines and protects, which means the end of democracy. They published a similar tome before Reagan was elected, and once he was in, Reagan followed through with a lot of it. I have no doubt that Trump would, too, given that his "Agenda 47" platform is basically the same. Here is an article that summarizes Project 2025 and details some of its directives. And here is an article from Time Magazine, of all things, where the writer of it interviewed Trump about his vision for America, should he win. The first line of the article is, "Donald Trump thinks he’s identified a crucial mistake of his first term: He was too nice." You can read the transcripts of the interviews, too, so you can rest assured that the interviewer isn't being hyperbolic.

It ain't good, folks. Part of this extreme-right agenda is ridiculously expanding the power of the executive branch so that it would no longer be checked and balanced by Congress and the Supreme Court, which effectively turns the presidency into a dictatorship. And if Biden does not win, at least some of this bullshit will come to pass, especially because Trump already has the Supreme Court in his pocket. And he'll be able to appoint more young, far-right lunatics to that, too, should he win.

I'll repeat that Trump CANNOT win. I'll be the first to say that, as a pretty extreme (but also pragmatic) progressive, I'm not Biden's biggest fan, for various reasons. He is way farther right than I am, though he has been far more progressive-friendly than I expected and he has gotten some very good things done. But even if he wasn't and hadn't, he will preserve democracy and because of that, I will be voting for him without hesitation. I won't even have to hold my nose. Trump and his cronies in Congress and the Supreme Court will destroy democracy if you -- Yes, YOU! -- let them. And if you let them by deciding not to vote or doing some sort of lame "protest" vote, especially if you live in that handful of states where every presidential vote matters, you will have no one to blame but yourself and others like you. People being apathetic or doing "protest" votes is what got us Trump the first time around.

For fuck's sake, do the right thing.

[vavuska]

Imane Khelif reacts to the cyberbullying campaign spread by Elon Musk: 'You hate me but you don't even know me'

An emotional Imane Khelif has taken aim at Elon Musk for leading the cruel campaign against her we all know about during this summer's Olympics.

Imane Khelif was able to win a gold medal in boxing out in Paris, despite the huge impact of the cruel lies surrounding her gender, that dominated headlines throughout the Games, had on her psychological well-being and her family's concerns.

Khelif is a cisgender 25 year-old girl, but was subjected to a massive campaign of hate online - mainly conducted by far-right politicians and propaganda players - and has been harassed by million of strangers for her physical appearance and baseless and harmful rumors about her gender identity throughout the Olympics, with Elon Musk, Donald Trump and J. K. Rowling even joining the pile-on at one stage.

« Immediately after there was a lot of noise from politicians, athletes, stars, artists — Elon Musk and Donald Trump and that hurt me a lot, I cannot describe how scared I was, »the 25-year-old said.

« This affected me. I'm not lying to you, it affected me a lot. It hurt a lot. I can't describe the fear I had but thank God I was able to overcome it. Thank god, all the people of Algeria and the Arab world knew Imane Khelif with her femininity, her courage, her will. »

Imane Khelif, not only didn't permit to the responsible of the cruel attacks to break her concentration in training, but also fought back: she responded to the Golden Trio - Trump, Musk and Jo - by filing a cyberbullying lawsuit against all of them.

In an interview on French TV show CLIQUE, Khelif fought back the tears after being asked about Musk inviting further abuse with his post about her on Twitter/X:

« Elon Musk was one of the first to attack me during this hate campaign. He posted this video and it was retweeted. So, he was one of the first to have spread this buzz, this campaign against me. I would say... you hate me but you don't even know me. I don't even know why you led this attack. You have been cruel to me, cruel to my family, to my mother. At that time, my mother was going to hospital every day.»

Khelif then paused to wipe away the tears before adding: «So I don't understand the behavior of people today. God is my guide, I am a practicing Muslim woman. I am a Muslim Arabic woman and I got through this moment. 'I hope I will be even stronger in the future and come back even more motivated.»

It's important to put in lights, that Trump has long criticized transgender people as part of his rallies and focused specifically on transgender athletes, using language about gender identity that is wrong and harmful. Transgender-related issues have become perhaps the biggest rallying call to Christian conservatives, more than abortion rights or same-sex marriage. That shift worries advocates who note transgender people are already disproportionately prone to stress, depression and suicidal behavior when forced to live as the sex they were assigned at birth. The former president has repeatedly mocked transgender people during his campaign, using this poor, innocent girl, as scapegoat and target to show HOW her really cares of women's spaces and rights - by bullying a young cisgender woman.

Source - video has been downloaded from muzammilvagozz on Threads

[Off-topic: Am I the only that finds Imane's eyes gorgeous? She looks stunning in light blue.]

More links:

- My previous post in which I spoke about all the harmful situation caused by mean rumors to Imane Khelif and other non-white athletes

- Imane Khelif spoke against cyberbullism

- Imane Khelif sues both JK Rowling and Elon Musk for cyberbullying her and spreading hate online

[isawthismeme]

A grifter’s gotta grift.

[contemplatingoutlander]

Trump’s fascist talk is what’s ‘poisoning the blood of our country’

No, Trump isn’t Hitler. But his copycat words lead nowhere good.

Dana Milbank does a great job of explaining why the use of fascist language and symbols in Trump's communications (often followed by denials) is really a way of "dog whistling" to his fascist followers, as well as giving clues to the rest of us about what he plans to do if he has a chance in a second administration. This is a gift🎁link, so you can read the entire article, even if you don't subscribe to The Washington Post. Below are some excerpts from the column:

As you’ve probably heard, Donald Trump has once again raised a führer. The former president’s Truth Social account posted a video posing the question “What happens after Donald Trump wins?” and providing a possible answer: In the background was the phrase “unified Reich.” This follows Trump’s echoing Adolf Hitler in campaign speeches, saying that immigrants are “poisoning the blood of our country” and calling his opponents “vermin.” And that, in turn, followed Trump’s dining at Mar-a-Lago with high-profile antisemite Ye (Kanye West) and white supremacist leader Nick Fuentes, who likened incinerating Jews to baking cookies. Under the three-Reichs-and-you’re-out rule, Trump should be on the bench. Yet he keeps swinging — and this week provided a sobering measure of how numb we have become to his undeniably fascist rhetoric.

Milbank goes on to talk about how Trump will famously post something outrageous and then claim it was an accident.

During the 2016 campaign, Trump tweeted an image that had been used by white supremacists of a Star of David atop a pile of cash. The campaign removed the offending post and Trump said it had been posted by a staffer. He later told a crowd that his aides “shouldn’t have taken it down.” During that same campaign, Trump also tweeted an image of an American flag containing an image of what appeared to be Nazi Waffen-SS soldiers. The campaign removed this post, too, and blamed an intern. The disavowal is part of the game, says Jason Stanley, a Yale philosophy professor who specializes in the rhetoric of fascism. “You do it and then you deny it and it’s just systematic, over and over and over again,” he told me in a phone call. “The people who want to hear it hear it, and it signals the direction you want to go in.” And for those uncomfortable with the extremism, the denial provides “a way of lying to themselves and telling themselves this is not what’s really going on.” But it is. From Nazi Germany to Viktor Orban’s Hungary, Stanley says, people invariably thought the rhetoric of the rising authoritarian was exaggerated and just for dramatic effect. “Historically, people always, always don’t take it seriously,” he said. Perhaps they don’t realize that Trump is deploying the exact same tropes — against migrants, judges, gender nonconforming people, universities, the media, “Marxists” — now being used by autocrats in Russia, India and Hungary. “If you look at what Trump is saying … everywhere in the world the authoritarians are saying that.” And yet we drift, placidly, into autocracy. Okay, Trump is unifying the Reich. But Biden is so old!

I recommend you use the above gift link to read the entire column, which goes on to talk about how Trump and those who are planning his administration have a slew of policies that fit right in with the fascist/ authoritarian playbook.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Jessica Valenti at Abortion, Every Day:

Last night, Donald Trump attacked Vice President Kamala Harris on abortion rights for the first time since she became the presumptive presidential nominee, declaring her “a radical crazy person.” The good news is that Trump used language that’s not just predictable���but beatable. The only question is whether Harris’ campaign is willing to break with Democrats’ standard messaging to make that happen.  Trump’s regular refrain on abortion is to claim that Democrats support “late” and “post-birth” abortion, and his attack on Harris at a North Carolina rally was no different:

[“She is so radical, she wants abortions in the eighth and ninth month of pregnancy. That's fine with her. Right up until birth, and even after birth. The execution of a baby, because that's not abortion, that's the execution of a baby.”]

As dangerous as the lie is—after all, we know what this kind of rhetoric leads to—Harris has an opportunity to hit back at Trump in a new way. For too long, Democrats have relied on saying that Republican claims about abortion later in pregnancy are myths, if they’re not ignoring the attacks altogether. That timidity is a huge mistake.

If the vice president is willing to leave behind Biden-era defensiveness, she can destroy conservatives’ most powerful abortion talking point once and for all. After all, Americans support abortion rights because they oppose government interference in pregnancy, but also because they’re horrified by the cruelty of abortion bans. Harris should remind voters that when Trump talks about ‘executions,’ he is talking about real people who have been through real traumas. She needs to make him eat his words.  Most people don’t know, for example, that conservative claims about ‘post-birth’ abortions didn’t come out of nowhere. They originated from an interview with former Virginia governor Ralph Northam, who answered a question about a (highly insulting) hypothetical scenario in which a woman in labor wants an abortion. Northam replied that third trimester abortions are largely done in cases of severe fetal abnormalities or when a fetus is nonviable.

[...] Northam was referring to the very real decision some parents have to make about whether or not to decline extreme life-saving measures for fatally-ill newborns. When babies have lethal conditions or are born too early to survive, many parents would understandably prefer to spend those last precious moments with their children peacefully—without doctors performing medically invasive, painful, and ultimately futile procedures.  It’s not uncommon for NICU nurses to help parents set up in a private room, maybe with a chair and blanket, so they can say goodbye to their baby without wires, breathing tubes or beeping machines. In these final minutes, families want to give their children peace and dignity. That’s what Trump means by ‘post-birth’ abortions. Those are the parents he is calling executioners. Americans should know that. Parents who’ve had to make this impossible decision have already been speaking out against Republican ‘Born Alive’ bills, which would prevent families from having those last quiet moments with their babies. Their stories are out there, and deserve to be heard.

[...] If Democrats want abortion to help them win this November, they must go on offense. Those still worried about seeming ‘extreme’ should consider that Americans largely understand that pregnancy is too complicated to legislate, that Trump will call them radicals regardless of their messaging, and—most of all—remember that it wasn’t so long ago that abortion itself was seen as a third rail issue. Besides, nearly all of Republicans’ messages on abortion, from their focus on ‘exceptions’ to lying about the word ‘ban,’ are barely-disguised defensive crouches. Accusations of extremism and ‘executions’ are Republicans’ last proactive abortion message. With Harris as the nominee—someone who knows about abortion rights and understands the issue deeply—we have a chance to shut it down for good.

Jessica Valenti explains how Kamala Harris and the Democrats need to diffuse the lies from Donald Trump about post-fetal viability abortions in which he rails against “late-term” and “post-birth” abortions.

With Harris as the nominee, the Democratic Party has a perfect messenger on abortion more in line with the post-Roe reality.

[mariacallous]

For the apotheosis of his entire “poisoning of the blood” campaign, Donald Trump has planned a spectacular extravaganza in Madison Square Garden on 27 October, a week before the election. When JD Vance sings Trump’s fulsome praises to introduce him, his ominous tribute will not inspire comparison to the night in the Garden of 19 May 1962, when Marilyn Monroe sang Happy Birthday, Mr President to John F Kennedy.

Trump’s climactic rally will not be in the spirit of any past presidential event ever held there. His gathering for the great racist replacement theory will be the culmination of his spiraling descent since the Charlottesville rally in 2017 when neo-Nazis chanted, “Jews will not replace us.” “Fine people on both sides,” Trump said then. Now, at his night at the Garden, Trump will revive the memory of the infamous American Nazi mass rally held there on 20 February 1939 through his reflected Hitlerian rhetoric.

In the last week, Trump has pledged to deploy the military against “the enemy within”, domestic opponents he claims are worse than foreign adversaries – those Hitler called “Feind des Volkes”, or “enemy of the people”. Trump has threatened to destroy CBS, ABC and the New York Times. About ABC, after it conducted the debate in which he performed disastrously, he called to “take away their license”. After Kamala Harris’s 60 Minutes interview, having refused his own, he tweeted on 10 October: “TAKE AWAY THE CBS LICENSE.” About the Times, he said on 9 October: “Wait until you see what I’m going to do with them.” He has singled out by name journalists for the Times and the New Yorker as “FAKE OBAMA LOVING ‘JOURNALISTS”. At every rally he denounces the “fake news”, a drumbeat for years, echoing Hitler’s pejorative slur, “die Lügenpresse” – “the lying press”.

Trump traveled on 11 October to Aurora, Colorado, where he claimed a Venezuelan gang had seized control, “scum” and “animals” who have “invaded and conquered” and “infected” the town, a description dismissed as false by its Republican mayor. “We have to clean out our country,” said Trump. His language represented the Nazi idea of “Rassenhygiene” – “race cleansing” that required purification, not an academic interest in genetics but a program of eugenics for designating inferior races to be isolated or eliminated.

As Hitler wrote in Mein Kampf, “A people that fails to preserve the purity of its racial blood thereby destroys the unity of the soul of the nation in all its manifestations. A disintegrated national character is the inevitable consequence of a process of disintegration in the blood.”

The former chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, retired general Mark Milley, according to Bob Woodward in his new book War, told the veteran journalist: “No one has ever been as dangerous to this country as Donald Trump. Now I realize he’s a total fascist. He is the most dangerous person to this country.” Trump had stated that for Milley’s communication with his counterparts in China on January 6 to reassure them that the US military was stable, he deserved “DEATH” – to be executed.

On 14 October, retired general Mike Flynn – Trump’s former national security adviser, whom he pardoned for failing to register as a foreign agent and obstructing justice – was asked at a Christian nationalist rally for Trump whether he would preside over military tribunals in a second Trump term to “not only drain the swamp, but imprison the swamp, and on a few occasions, execute the swamp”. “Believe me,” Flynn replied, “the gates of hell – my hell – will be unleashed.”

Trump has been inevitably drawn to the Garden, in the city that made and unmade him. He is irreversibly entrapped in his endless neurotic syndrome of desperately seeking approval there that he constantly repels and success he inexorably undermines, a cycle of failure, rejection and humiliation. He wants New York to love him unreservedly, but his relationship with the city has been one long unrequited romance. His true love affair has always and only been with himself. When he does not receive the adoration he feels he deserves, he hates New York. Then, he tries to win its love again by performing a disgusting act, which, when he is predictably rejected, triggers his anger once again. And, then, he engages in gestures of infantile defiance, like holding a Nazi-esque rally. Trying to show himself triumphant over the city, he invites its scorn once again, and again, and again. He never comprehends that he is the cause of his continuing narcissistic injuries.

Trump’s rally, through the rhyme of history, will be a rebuke to the greatest campaign speech delivered by Franklin D Roosevelt, which, though given 88 years ago in the Garden on 31 October 1936, rings remarkably contemporary, a speech for “the restoration of American democracy” and its “preservation”.

“We have not come this far without a struggle and I assure you we cannot go further without a struggle,” FDR said. “We know now that government by organized money is just as dangerous as government by organized mob. Never before in all our history have these forces been so united against one candidate as they stand today. They are unanimous in their hate for me – and I welcome their hatred.”

Three years after FDR spoke at the Garden, another rally was held there, on 20 February 1939, under the sponsorship of the German American Bund, raising the slogan of “America First”, to advance the great replacement theory that Jews and other “inferior races” were displacing white Aryans. The Nazis claimed the mantle of true Americanism and Christian nationalism. Swastikas framed a gigantic portrait of George Washington as the backdrop to the stage. From the balcony hung a banner: “Stop Jewish Domination of Christian America.” “Wake up!” shouted the Führer of the Bund, Fritz Kuhn, “you, Aryan, Nordic and Christians, to demand that our government be returned to the people who founded it!”

Gerhard Wilhelm Kunze, the Bund’s public relations director, declared that white supremacy was the essential basis of the nation. “The spirit which opened the west and built our country is the spirit of the militant white man,” he said, citing racial segregation and immigration quotas as its bulwarks. “It has then always been very much American to protect the Aryan character of this nation.”

In 2019, a seven-minute documentary about the Nazi rally of 1939, A Night at the Garden, was nominated for an Academy Award. To promote it, a 30-second TV ad was produced with the tagline: “It Can Happen Here.” The line was a reference to Sinclair Lewis’s 1935 novel, It Can’t Happen Here, about a populist demagogue defeating FDR and imposing a fascist regime. Lewis’s wife, the famous journalist Dorothy Thompson, a columnist for the New York Herald Tribune, who had reported on the rise of Hitler, pointedly attended the Nazi rally. “I saw an exact duplicate of it in the Berlin Sports Palast in 1931,” she wrote.

When the film distributor of A Night at the Garden sought to buy time for a spot on Fox News, its CEO, Suzanne Scott, rejected it as “not appropriate for our air”. After the 2020 election, during Trump’s ramping up to the January 6 insurrection, she ordered that Fox News suppress factchecking his lies because it was “bad for business”.

Now, in his announcement of his night at the Garden, Trump advertised a clipped version of the replacement theory, declaring that New York was “reeling” from “Kamala’s reckless open-border policies”, “flooding” the city with criminal “illegal migrants”. For nearly a $1m contribution to attend the event, the top tier, donors are promised an “Ultra MAGA Experience”, details to follow.

Trump’s Maga rally will be the first time since the 1939 Nazi rally that the same themes of the replacement theory will echo in the Garden. But his closing argument is more than Nazi cosplay. He cannot help but reveal his deepest desire to be loved and then to fling the middle finger to the city whose unconditional admiration he has sought since he first crossed the Queensboro Bridge.

Trump’s permanent physical move to Palm Beach after his failed coup in 2020 has not transformed him into a contented Florida Man. To the inveterate New Yorker, the Sunshine state is strictly for snowbirds, God’s waiting room for shuffleboarders. Mar-a-Lago, his winter escape, has become his unnatural embittering palace-in-exile. Florida represents disgrace to Trump.

Trump’s emotional journey back to the White House must travel through New York. He has nothing but contempt and indifference for Washington. He despises policy, flaunts his ignorance and detests anyone who has ever tried to temper him, from four-star generals to Republican congressional leaders. He wants the pomp without the circumstance. January 6 played out Trump’s true view of the capital.

Trump plots his night at the Garden as the climax of his comeback tour. He may have been president, but never top of the heap. Roy Cohn could tell him how to skirt the law and ingratiate himself with the mob, but Cohn was not a Virgil to guide his protege to respectability. Trump’s lowlife publicity antics, tutored by Cohn, made him into one of the revolving cast of characters populating tabloid trash. The larger the headline of the sordid story about himself, the bigger Trump’s delusion that kitsch burnished his class. He was always crestfallen when his frolics did not win his admission into the club.

Trump has only been truly comfortable strutting in his old New York, conning and threatening, greasing the palms of the mafia, stiffing his contractors and workers, while trying to buy his way into society affairs. Time and again, the city spat him out. He was ridiculed and reviled. He went bust six times. He defaulted on the Trump Shuttle. The banks denied him loans. He had to sell his yacht named for his daughter, The Princess. His brutish father, who financed his wild ventures, throwing good money after bad, had to buy chips illegally to momentarily float his sinking Atlantic City casino. He dumped two wives. He allegedly sexually assaulted dozens of women. When he tried to lowball Frank Sinatra, an idol, Ol’ Blue Eyes told him, “Go fuck yourself.”

After Trump had plunged in what seemed to be his final bankruptcy, he was rescued by a TV producer, Mark Burnett, who created the reality TV show The Apprentice, which depicted Trump as a business genius reigning over the Manhattan skyline. The sheer fiction was the veneer that enabled his grubby lucrative product placement side deals. His motive for running for president was a branding scam gone haywire.

Now, he has returned to the city on his road to redemption. Yet, so far, he has been held accountable for his vast crimes only in New York. He has been found liable for defamation and sexual assault and termed an adjudicated rapist by the judge in the E Jean Carroll case, and ordered to pay $83.3m in damages plus continuing interest; found liable of widespread financial fraud and ordered to pay $364m for ill-gotten gains plus continuing interest; and convicted of 34 felony counts of financial fraud for hush-money payments, to a porn star and Playboy model with whom he had affairs, in order to affect the outcome of the 2016 election.

Once again, he intends to prove himself in the city that never sleeps, the city that will give him another shot at murdering someone on Fifth Avenue and getting away with it. A star is reborn.

These little town blues are melting away I’m gonna make a brand-new start of it in old New York And if I can make it there, I’m gonna make it anywhere It’s up to you, New York, New York

Trump now says that if he loses he will blame the unappreciative Jews – he hasn’t been “treated right” by the Jews and their support for Democrats is a “curse”. But Trump, who has picked up a few Yiddish words, uses them unconsciously like a native New Yorker. On 2 January 2021, he displayed his proficiency in his notorious telephone call with the Georgia secretary of state, Brad Raffensperger, in which he sought to intimidate him into committing election fraud to switch the state’s voting results.

“So look,” said Trump. “All I want to do is this. I just want to find 11,780 votes, which is one more than we have.”

Raffensperger resisted Trump’s strong-arming, the Georgia outcome stood, and four days later Trump incited the assault on the Capitol in a last-ditch effort to thwart the certification of the election: “Hang Mike Pence!” Trump has since been indicted in Georgia for election fraud, a case in legal purgatory until after the 2024 election.

Twice, during his call with Raffensperger, Trump derided the Republican governor, Brian Kemp, who refused to be complicit in Trump’s scheme, by calling him a “schmuck”. Perhaps the word was lost on Trump’s listeners. According to Leo Rosten’s The Joy of Yiddish, it carries several meanings, including “penis” and “a dope, a jerk, a boob, a clumsy bumbling fellow”. Rosten wrote that “few impolite words express comparable contempt”.

Now, New Yorkers can only wonder, what kind of schmuck holds a Nazi-esque rally in Madison Square Garden?

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Republican presidential nominee former President Donald Trump speaks during a news conference at his Mar-a-Lago estate, Tuesday, Oct. 29, 2024, in Palm Beach, Fla.

Wednesday, Oct. 30, 2024 | 2 a.m.

Donald Trump’s racism, sexism, xenophobia and penchant for corruption have long made him unfit for any public office, let alone the presidency. But as he continues his bid for a second term in the White House, there is an unsettling and undeniable shift that is leading many experts, observers and even some Trump supporters to conclude that the former president’s mental acuity and sharpness are also in decline, that his physical health and stamina are waning and that his frustration and anger are boiling over.

Americans from both sides of the political spectrum should be alarmed by Trump’s words and behavior. The nation must confront the fact that beyond his hateful character, he is crippled cognitively and showing clear signs of mental illness.

There’s no need to resort to armchair psychology to interpret what’s apparent. If victorious, Trump would be the oldest president ever inaugurated. In recent weeks, he has canceled an increasing number of public appearances, with Trump’s own campaign citing the candidate’s exhaustion. When he does appear publicly, Trump struggles to complete sentences or sustain coherent thoughts, and has shown a pronounced difficulty concentrating and a tendency to repeat himself, sometimes within the same sentence.

At a recent rally in New Hampshire, for example, Trump began to discuss infrastructure and wound up segueing into a disjointed monologue about loyalty and perceived injustices against him, ending with a bewildering comment about windmills causing cancer.

This is not an isolated incident. A recent analysis by The New York Times noted that Trump’s rally speeches over the past eight years have become darker, longer, more profane and increasingly unfocused and unhinged — a troubling sign that he is no longer able to articulate ideas or reason in ways we expect of our leaders. This makes him prey to manipulations by his own staff or, worse, the control of foreign adversaries.

He shambles about aimlessly, slurs his words and sometimes speaks gibberish. Always an effortless liar, now that his speeches are nothing more than a series of lies tangled in a mass inside his head, it appears he no longer even knows he’s lying. 

He has called for the imprisonment of journalists, pledged to purge the government of “deep state” operatives he perceives as disloyal and is amplifying his tyrannical rhetoric. He has also increased his public praise for dictators like Russia’s Vladimir Putin and China’s Xi Jinping while using increasingly fascist language to describe those he deems political enemies. The former president has even suggested using the military against his domestic critics — an approach reminiscent of repressive regimes in history that has often been the precursor to creeping authoritarianism.

With Trump’s fragility comes an increasing dependence on enablers who show a disturbing willingness to indulge his delusions, amplify his paranoia or steer his feeble mind toward their own goals. Among these enablers is his running mate, Sen. JD Vance of Ohio. Should Trump be deemed unfit to serve, Vance would step into power.

Once a “Never Trump” conservative who openly criticized Trump as a danger to the republic, Vance has since fully embraced an extremist ideology, morphing into a vocal MAGA supporter who seems eager to emulate Trump’s worst instincts.

Beyond his weird obsession with childless women whom he says are “deranged” and “sociopathic,” and his penchant for spreading conspiracy theories about immigrants and other marginalized communities, Vance poses a different threat to democracy than Trump. He has repeatedly demonstrated that he is little more than a puppet of his billionaire hedge fund benefactors and has openly stated he would have refused to certify the 2020 election, suggesting he would subordinate constitutional principles for personal profit and power.

His willingness to discard any principles shows that he would likely not push back against Trump’s excesses or his deteriorating mental stability. Instead, he might embrace a Trumpian authoritarianism, exacerbating the very dangers we face with Trump’s current mental decline.

If history has taught us anything, it is that democracies are fragile. America’s founders designed the presidency to be a stabilizing force. Trump’s instability, paired with his and Vance’s increasing willingness to trample democratic norms and visible contempt of anyone not like him, has transformed what might have once been seen by conservatives as an uncomfortable leadership style into an existential threat to American democracy.

For those who believe in a country governed by checks, balances and the rule of law, a return to Trumpian leadership is dangerous in its own right. But to do so with an impaired leader who cannot govern competently and a fellow authoritarian waiting in the wings is perilous.

As voters consider Trump’s latest bid for the presidency, it’s essential to recognize that this election is not merely a choice between policy platforms or party loyalties. It’s a test of our willingness to safeguard our nation from leaders whose fitness for office is in serious question. This election is about protecting the integrity of our democracy from those who would let it collapse in the name of power, loyalty or expedience.

Donald Trump has never had the moral compass to lead this country. But even his supporters cannot afford to ignore the signs that he may no longer have the mental faculties to lead it either. The stakes are simply too high.