#me frothing at the mouth: it's the fucking EMPLOYERS

[queenerdloser]

every relative over 50 i've talked to since 2020: why are there so many jobs available and not enough workers? :( obviously the answer is no one is working and no one wants to work, everyone is lazily mooching off of their parents and aren't interested in REAL jobs.

me: yeah, why wouldn't they want to work a retail or food service job that gives them terrible benefits, horrible pay, in positions where a LOT of people in 2020 learned were essential but never going to be afforded the respect their necessity warrented. it's a complete mystery why people are not rushing to fill these entry-level positions after seeing firsthand how the job market imploded in 2020, at seeing firsthand how retail and food service people were treated as garbage, with their health put second to convenience. also, maybe instead of just assuming that people are lazy (they aren't) or deciding that living with your parents as an adult is somehow mooching (it isn't), it might be more helpful to honestly ask yourself: would you take that job? if you didn't have your job, would you sign up for the position that's paying at best minimum wage, no benefits, no perks, and also treats you like shit? people these days have a higher respect for what they deserve as workers and that's contributing to a shortage in food service and retail positions being filled bc those employers aren't keeping up with the demand for actual job security. the accusations should be at the fucking employers, not the potential workers. and, to whit, job unemployment is actually way down, so are there are actually a ton of people not working or are you projecting bc there were less cashiers than normal at your local walgreens?

[skaruresonic]

It’s not "schizoposting" if you’re replying to other people talking about Ian Flynn.

The term itself is ableist.

I'm not schizophrenic; I have garden-variety depression and anxiety. But even if I were schizophrenic, that wouldn't make it okay to act like I'm frothing at the mouth for stating opinions on my own blog.

I've noticed this habit amongst stans: they'll paint you as mentally unwell in order to discredit you. We've been called "conspiratorially insane" and "retarded" before. I've been told to seek therapy for being angry at the harassment I received. Hell, Kyle once told Greeny "I hope you get better soon" in response to her pointing out that Metal stated he rebuilt his body with his own two hands in the Metal Overlord fight, something that contradicted a claim Flynn made. It's just our old buddy ad hominem again, but ableism flavored.

And it's like, yeah, I am mentally unwell, no shit Sherlock, you've cracked the code. But regardless, I can still be mentally unwell and make a valid point. It's not like the mental illness completely short-circuits my ability to think.

Apropos of nothing, while I'm at it: people get really touchy if you say anything that can be skewed as "Flynn lies" or "Flynn is a liar," to the point of making sweeping grandiose claims that they'll automatically lose respect for you if you insinuate as much. (Which ofc begs questions of why.)

Lying isn't some binary yes/no type of thing. People can lie partially, lie out of ignorance, lie by omission, lie by implication, lie by obfuscation, or lie in spirit but not in letter. Not all falsehoods are capital L Lies, but by the same token, that doesn't mean they're no longer falsehoods. People can bend the truth without breaking it. Flynn projects a certain image by being noncommittal to the point of obfuscation. It's called talking out both sides of your mouth: where you say a lot of things that seem to address the question without actually having answered the question.

He doesn't lie outright. That's why I said it's annoying, because in a way it'd be easier to put his claims on blast if he were.

Instead, he drowns out the truth with verbiage. He hems and haws and doesn't offer a clear answer but instead usually winds up giving a sort of verbal equivalent of a Rorschach test so that he has plausible deniability in case his employers ever press him on his claims. Notice, however, that despite how tied his hands are, and despite knowing how people take his word dead fucking seriously, he seldom passes up the opportunity to run his mouth.

For example, "Eggman never, ever has a solid plan." The quote whose infamy earned it a spot on a TV Tropes page. He said it with his full chest, too, one of the rare answers that left no room for misinterpretation. Yet when someone relayed his own words back to him roughly a month later, he couldn't remember having said them, implying he either didn't really believe what he had said or else he has a poor memory.

More interesting than that, though, is when he proceeded to add, "But if I did [put it like that], then I was wrong."

IF I did. As if the existence of the words he recorded for the entire world to hear and posted for online posterity is debatable.

That's the kind of thing that skeeves me out at the end of the day. When you get caught in 4K and somehow it's others' ontological reality that must change to fit your presupposed narrative, not the other way around. And by that, I mean it would be somewhat easier to overlook if the matter began and ended at simple ignorance---but it's this constant evasion of blame and the underlying revisionism that creeps me out.

Flynn looks like he's admitting he's wrong while also casting subtle doubt on the notion that he said what he did. It's not just an "oops, guess I misspoke" or an "oops, guess I forgot" kind of thing, either. He pulls this sort of rhetorical trick all the goddamn time.

I'm personally on the fence about whether he does this deliberately or if it's the unfortunate byproduct of being a poor communicator: I feel like subconsciously, some part of it may be, given how BK built its name on speaking on behalf of Sega while simultaneously allowing him a platform to not-so-subtly shittalk them behind their backs. At this point I find it hard to imagine he's not doing this without some sort of agenda in mind.

And this isn't even getting into all the times he's been caught in blatant contradictions, which wouldn't be nearly so bad if everyone didn't take the man's word as gospel.

[legitimate-salvage]

When I interviewed for my current job, they asked me in the interview if I was good at web development. I told them flat out I wasn't, I hated doing it and I had already been promised by the recruiter that I was going to be working on low level/machine code in avionics (i know recruiters lie, the point of mentioning it was to get it in the interviewer's notes). I was told "great, we'll put you with the avionics teams". When I showed up for my first day of work I was on a webdev team.

In the year and a half I was with that team, I turned out maybe 6 tickets/15-20 story points (to be fair, the first one took 3 months, all three senior developers, and six other devs on top of that). I hated my job with a passion. I was miserable getting up in the morning, it was a slog to get through the day and I began to despise computer science and programming in general. What I had originally been very excited for leaving college to do was now awful and I only regarded it as a means for a paycheck. "they have to pay me to be here" kind of deal

One day I was eating lunch with some people I had gone through employee orientation with, one of which had been recently made team lead for one of the avionics teams. When I bitched to her about how much I fucking hated my job and I was really considering breaking the contract, quitting and just going back to school for whatever the fuck, she mentioned she could probably get me a transfer. Three months later, I'm on an avionics team. (the lesson i learned here is that if you bitch enough you can usually get what you want from your employer) (this is not always true but our turn over rate is bad and they're desperate to keep devs lol)

In the first sprint (for us that's two weeks) of being on this team, I turned out something like 10 tickets and 35 story points where the average is 8 points. I adore my job, I've only been in it for a month or so, but every day I wake up ready to learn more, frothing at the mouth to go do something i genuinely love.

this is what has never made sense to me: if you put your employees in positions that they want/are suited for, rather than whatever looks good on paper for office politics reasons, you're going to end up with higher quality product and people who are so passionate about what they do. like, literally should be the most common sense and yet.

anyways TL;DR: hated my job, finagled a transfer somewhere i wanted to go in the first place and now i love my work and dont want to die every time i see a line of code.

My boss is having us all pitch in to do office work while we're understaffed for the spring season, but instead of doling out orders she asked us what responsibilities we'd like to have, enjoy having, or be comfortable doing. It means getting more hours, which I'm kind of desperate for these days.

So I said I'd do anything that involves design (making info cards for clients, designing yearbooks, cropping photos). And she said cool. Done. You get those things, I'll let you know when we need them.

Time came last week where she needed me to do 15 separate info card designs, each with it's own qr code to the gallery, unique passcode, and I had to make it look cute but readable.

It took me about 5 hours. I came up to her desk at the end of the day with a thumb drive. She asked me how they were coming.

"This is them." I handed her the usb.

"You're done already?"

"Yeah."

"How did you do them so fast?"

"You asked me to do a task that plays on my strengths and that I enjoy doing. This is what happens when you put people in roles that suit them."

[detective-crescend]

guess who got COVID three days after she was made to return to the classroom to teach!!!!!

[readerstories]

Horse Whisperer - Tommy Shelby x male!reader

This got so long so quick. Hope you enjoy! (AO3)

Warnings/tags: boss/employee relationship, friends to lovers, fluff (link to bonus smut at the end)

Wordcount: 3418

Request: Tommy x m reader R is good with horses. Rides and takes care of them, but Tommy notices him when he is able to calm down a horse that went completely wild. He finds himself intrigued in this 'horse whisperer'. They share their love for horses and it develops into love for each other. That leads to secret meetings, one pulling each other to the side for quick kisses, riding together etc.

Horses have always been the one animal you gravitate towards. Cats and dogs were okay, but they were nothing compared to horses. You loved them and as you got older, you found yourself working with them, and over time, gaining a reputation for being a hard stable worker who treats the animals well. Which is how you find yourself working on the Shelby estate, taking care of the Shelby family’s horses.

You rarely see any of them, and you have yet to meet Thomas Shelby, your employer, since the stable master had been the one to hire you. You don’t mind, as the horses are your number one priority. You have of course heard about them all, the rumors, the brutality, everything, but they seem to care about their horses, so you don’t care about anything else.

The first time you meet, or rather see Thomas Shelby is when the farrier comes to the stable to check over and shoe some of the horses. It’s a day with some bustling activity as horses are moved back and forth, but it’s all going well.

Until the last horse. A grey stallion named Tom-Tom you had warned them to be slow with, and that they shouldn’t move or even touch him without you there. You know him well. The horse gets nervous easily, and several hundred kilos of a nervous horse is bad news for everyone involved.

Which is why, when you return from taking a piss, you swear as you notice two stable-hands leading him out of his box.

Tom-tom is already agitated, so you increase your pace, keeping yourself from running or shouting just knowing that would make everything worse. It doesn’t help however, as seconds later there’s a loud clatter from somewhere in the stable as something is dropped, and Tom-Tom has had enough.

He neighs loudly and trashes around, the two men leading him barely hanging on to the ropes fastened on either side of his halter. Not deterred and panicking more by the second, Tom-Tom neighs again, this time rising up on his hind legs.

This time the ropes are dropped, and when his front is back on solid ground, Tom-Tom starts running towards the stable door. People dive out of his way, in no way thinking about trying to stop the panicked animal. Only one of the two stable doors were left open, but now Tom-Tom busts the other one open with his shoulder. Someone yells out in surprise on the other side and you swear, taking off after Tom-Tom, not even bothering to yell at the stupid idiots who took him out his box. You will get to them later.

Seconds later you’re outside too, eyes quickly landing on Tom-Tom where he’s pacing, almost running back and forth on the large open space in front of the stable. You quickly note the two men in peaky caps next to the stable door, which must have been the ones to yell, but you pay them no mind, all focus on Tom-Tom as you try to get the horse’s attention.

“What the fuck was that?” One of the peaky men yells, mustache quivering.

”Shut the fuck up or the horse is going to get worse you sod.” You purposefully try not to yell, but your voice comes out forceful nonetheless. It looks like he’s about to say something more, but the other man puts a hand on his shoulder, seemingly to stop him. It works, and you turn your attention back to Tom-Tom.

He is still pacing, not calming down in the slightest. You call his name over and over again as you slowly, every so slowly, creep closer to him.

A few feet away you stop, reaching out a hand towards him.

A few more strides, then Tom-Tom slows, before finally coming to a stop not far from your outstretched hand. He is still nervous as you approach once more, legs twitching, ears flicking back and forth, frothing ever so slightly at the mouth. You keep your voice low and even, talking to him as you get closer.

“That’s it, good boy. You doing better now?” When your hand makes contact with Tom-Tom’s mule, his head snaps up just once, before he puts his mule back in your hand. You move it slowly upwards, tracing your fingers up to his forehead, close to his mane.

“That’s it, that’s it.” You almost whisper, walking just a little bit forward so you can move your hands along his neck, ignoring the ropes for now. You talk slow and low, praising him for calming down and not running away as you slowly move your hand along his neck.

Tom-Tom moves his head so it’s over your shoulder, putting some weight against your shoulder and back.

Your hand moves from his neck down to the shoulder he banged into the stable door on his way out. It feels alright, slightly warm, but you can’t be sure nothing is damaged before walking him around for a bit.

Still being slow, you take a few steps back, Tom-Tom moves his head so you can look at him again. You untie one of the ropes from his halter, letting it fall to the ground, before gently starting to lead a slightly less twitching Tom-Tom away from the stable.

You hear the peaky man from earlier say something, you’re not sure if it’s directed at you or your companion, but you don’t care. You however feel eyes burning into your back, so you glance over your shoulder, your eyes connecting to intense blue eyes watching you from under a peaky cap.

----

A little while later, you return Tom-Tom to his box, satisfied that he will most likely be fine, though you will need to keep an extra eye one him for a few days. Then you talk to the farrier and get him to agree to return in a week, a smart man after having worked with horses for long.

After that, you find the two morons that took Tom-Tom out of his box without you. They were currently cleaning saddles, but you stop them in their work. Standing just inside one of the two doors to the rooms, you give them a verbal lashing. It’s at the tail end of this that Tommy Shelby finds you. You see the eyes of both boys grow wide, and one of them actually interrupts you.

“Uh-”

“What?!” You bite out. The boy doesn’t answer, instead pointing behind you. You turn around and leaning in the doorway is the man with the blue eyes from earlier.

“What do you want?” Blue Eyes raises a brow.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving these boys a reminder that they shouldn’t be stupid and do things they shouldn’t when they have been told multiple times not to do something.” Your tone is clipped, annoyed with the interruption. Blue Eyes doesn’t seem faced.

“Is that so?” He flickers his gaze to the boys behind you, and before you can really process what’s going on, the other door to the room slams behind the boys as they make themselves scarce. Blue eyes give you a once-over. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“I recognize the cap, you’re a peaky blinder, but other than that I got no fucking clue.” You cross your arms over your chest, the man almost seems like he is having fun.

“Is that a tone to take with your employer?” His tone is neutral, face much the same except a little twinkle of something you can’t recognize in his eyes.

“My employer is the stable master.”

“And his employer?”

“Thomas Shelby.” His brow is raised yet again, and a few seconds is all you need. “Ah, evening Mr. Shelby.” You uncross your arms, fishing out your cigarettes from your back pocket, taking one out.

“If you want to fire me for not being polite earlier, there are easier ways.” You offer him a cigarette, and to your surprise he pushes of the door frame and takes it. You light your own, then hand him the matches so he can use them. The flame dances briefly over his face as his attention is moved away from you, but just seconds later you got eye contact once more.

“I’m not here to fire you.” He says in an exhale of smoke.

“Then why are you here then Mr Shelby?” Your smoke mixes with his as you ask, wondering what this is.

“Please, call me Tommy.” You nod, furrowed brow, but Tommy keeps talking. “I just wanted to see the man that managed to calm down a wild horse.” You snort, already forgetting to even try keeping your response or tone in a fitting way for when talking to your boss.

“He was hardly wild Mr Sh- Tommy, he was just scared. I worked with Tom-Tom enough that I knew that, and I knew how to calm him down.”

“Still, an impressive feat to calm down a panicking animal.” Tommy’s eyes flicker all over you, and you suddenly notice how close he is standing to you. Every time either of you takes a drag of a cigarette, you can almost brush a hand against the other, smoke mingling as you talk. You take half a step back, unsure yet again of the situation you find yourself in. Tommy notices, but doesn’t comment on it other than a barely there tilt of his head. He seems to be sizing you up for something, but you have no idea what.

He mirrors you then, taking a step back too. A last drag of his cigarette before he stumps it out on the ground.

“I will see you around.” He doesn’t let you respond, out of the room and gone in seconds.

----

You don’t have to wonder much or long about what those words meant, as you do actually end up seeing him more after that little incident.

A lot more actually.

Before that day you had never even seen the man, but now, you see him at least once a week, if not more. He’s around the stable more, sometimes talking to the stable master, other times preparing for a ride, however the weirdest times are the ones where he comes around with an excuse to talk to you.

The first time it happens is a few days after the incident with Tom-Tom. He just wanders up while you are cleaning out his stable and asks you about him. You glance up at him, unsure why he is asking, but you start talking about Tom-Tom. You liked your job and talking to Tommy, your boss, was a sure way to keep that job. You end up talking through all your cleaning, and when you try to excuse yourself to do other work, Tommy insists you keep on talking, not letting go of you quite yet. You find it strange, but you do as you’re ordered.

That was the first time it happened, but not the last. Tommy will find you wherever you are, tell you to talk about something, most of the time the horses in the stable. You do so, and he mostly listens, sometimes coming on with comments or even stories of his own.

Surprisingly, Tommy loves horses too. You had thought he was just another rich man that had a lot of horses just because he could, but he genuinely seems to care about the animals. You sometimes see him feed them treats, giving them extra pats and attention when he thinks no one is looking. Hearing him talk about them is great too, sometimes he even smiles when talking about them, which you learn is something he doesn’t do a lot of.

Over time, your friendship of sorts grows strong, and you find yourself looking forward to the days Tommy comes to see you. It is a distraction from your work and the horses, but you don’t mind.

----

It’s night, and for once, the stable is quiet, almost no activity going on. Some horses are moving around in their boxes, and you can hear some animal rustling the bushes outside, but other than that, you’re alone with your lamp.

One of the mares, Lady, is only days away from birth, and to be on the safe side, you had suggested for you to watch her in the night. None of the others had wanted to do it, but you and the stable master were both content with it just being you. You know the old man is not long from retirement, and he was not about to stay up late when someone else he trusts can do it.

The only thing about doing night shifts like this was how boring and lonely it could be. Sitting on a hay bale outside Lady’s box, you try to enjoy or at least not mind the quiet. For a little while you had entertained yourself and Lady by humming, and even singing, some songs you knew.You tire of that quickly however, and have now settled on letting your thoughts wander before you try to find some work or really anything to do.

So when you hear quiet steps nearing the stables you are instantly on alert. No one else is supposed to be coming, and it’s still far until morning. The steps get closer and closer, before one stable door is pushed open, creaking as it reminds you that its hinges need oiling.

The first you see is a puff of smoke, and then Tommy enters the stable. He puts out his cigarette on the wall, throwing it outside, already aware of your ire for smoking near very flammable hay.

“Evening.” Tommy says, sounding weirdly formal for it being the middle of the night.

“Tommy, what are you doing here?” He keeps silent as he walks over to Lady’s box, peeking into it. You stand up so you're next to him.

“She looks about ready to go.” Tommy comments, keeping all of his attention on the horse except a brief glance at you.

“She is, which is why I’m here. But again, why are you here?” The silence stretches as Tommy says nothing, moving to lean his arms on the edge of Lady’s box. Lady doesn’t seem to care, as she munches on some hay.

“Couldn’t sleep.” The admission is quiet, almost like Tommy didn’t want you to hear him, so you pretend you didn’t. Sort of. You know he can use a distraction, knowing your own mind being like that when you’re the one who can’t sleep.

“Hey, let me show you something.” Tommy has to move back as you start to open the sliding door. Lady shifts her attention from her hay to you, blowing out some air from her nose.

“Come, come.” You say to her, reaching out your hand. She slowly takes a few steps towards you, pushing her nose into your hand, blowing some more air.

“Good girl.” You give her a scratch and then move out of the doorway of the now open box, letting her walk past you, into the hallway and right next to Tommy. Lady barely spares him a glance before walking towards the stable doors. You tug at Tommy’s arm for him to follow, grinning as he seems to be watching Lady with some skepticism. Opening the stable door for her, Lady slowly walks outside, stopping not far outside the doors, giving you time to close the doors behind her before she starts walking again.

You quickly catch up to her, as her steps are slow with how heavy she is. Tommy is quick to follow, walking behind you at the slow pace Lady has set. You can see Tommy thinking, glancing between you and her as you walk.

“And you still do not want to call yourself a horse whisperer, ey?” You snort.

“No, this is no horse whispering, this is trust built up over time.” Tommy doesn’t respond, so you let the silence linger, just enjoying the company. You let Lady steer the direction as she usually does, taking you on a short route that will lead you around some of the paddocks.

“It’s good for her to walk like this, both for her and the foal.” You tell Tommy, mostly to have something to fill the quiet night air with. He nods, seemingly lost in thought with his hands in his pockets as he walks beside you

It doesn’t take long before you return to the stable. Although Lady liked these walks, she  would only walk for so long with how big and slow she was. She patiently waits for you to open the stable doors for her, going straight for her box as she gets inside. She gulps down some water as you push the door to her box closed.

Lady peaks outside so she can take the small piece of apple you offer her. You offer the other piece to Tommy, who takes it, and in turn, offers it to Lady. She takes it, munching on it as she lets out a small neigh. You smile at her, then at Tommy.

“I think she likes you.” Tommy is watching her, slowly raising his hand towards her. She lets him pet her for a little bit before moving away, moving into her box, away from the both of you.

“I think I like her too.” Tommy’s voice is quiet and it’s only when he turns his head towards you that you realize how close you are to him. You perhaps only inches apart, closer than needs be in the deserted stable. Tommy is watching you with a look that you don’t recognize, eyes intense as his focus is solely on you.

“I-” Whatever you were about to say is lost as Tommy raises a hand to cup your cheek, surprisingly gentle for a man with such a fierce reputation. But that is also not what you know him as, is it? You know that he loves horses, that you like talking to him, that he is seemingly content to walk with you when he can’t sleep, that he-

Your thoughts are cut off when Tommy leans forward to press his lips to yours.

The kiss is short, barely there, you aren’t even really able to process it’s really happening before Tommy leans back, gauging your reaction

You don’t know what to say, so instead of even trying, this time it’s you who leans forward to capture Tommy’s lips with yours. He is quick to respond, the hand not holding your face pulling you in by the waist. Not to be outdone, one of your hands goes to his ribs, the other to his hip.

His lips are firm against yours, intense and hungry.

He pushes you and you go willingly, letting him push you against the nearest wall, not stopping to kiss you, introducing his tongue, letting him slowly coax your mouth open.

Which would have been wonderful to continue, but in that moment Lady decides to remind you both that it’s her box you’re leaning against and that she would like some peace and quiet. To do this she lets out a loud neigh, causing the two of you to jump, breaking the kiss as you almost jump out of your skin.

“Lady!” You chastiste her, all you get in response is a huff of air and her turning around so her behind is towards you. You huff too, focus returning back to Tommy. He’s watching you once more, letting his eyes wander as his hands stay on your face and waist. He’s warm and firm against you, making you want to stay like this for a good while longer.

“She doesn’t take kindly to being disturbed when she is trying to relax.” Tommy raises an unimpressed brow.

“Is this her or your way of telling us that we should take this elsewhere?” You give him a brief kiss, not letting him deepen it.

“I wish I could, but I need to stay and watch her, it’s my job.” Tommy sighs, leaning back and letting go of you. You wish he hadn’t, the night feels colder already.

“Another time then?” Again, gauging your reaction with intense eyes. You smile and nod, which gets an ever so slight smirk in return.

“Well then, good night.” Without more preamble, Tommy walks towards the stable door. He lights another cigarette, giving you a brief glance while doing so, before slipping out into the night.

----

(Bonus smut that has nothing to say for the plot of you want it)

[wizardlyghost]

few things fill me with frothing at the mouth rage like multi factor verification and the government and employer recommended/required integration of the internet into every fucking facet of a persons life

[mordellestories]

Crowley is a disaster...

Crowley did not work on his assignment. He did not read through any new material, and he definitely did not have an epiphany no matter how much he wanted to keep his job.

What Crowley did do was start an extensive auto-biography to send to Angel. He'd start document after document, trying to come up with the perfect response but he always divulged too much, not enough, or seemed desperate. Which he was, very desperate. Frantic to know what Angel looked like, what he did for a living, what his shoe size was, etc. Angel was always careful with his words, so indirectly telling Crowley he was a single gay man in his forties had to mean he'd done it on purpose because he wanted Crowley to bite at the bait.

And was he biting! Chomping at the bit, frothing at the mouth while his wrists threatened to go on strike and walk out the door without him.

@angelcrepes75 I'm a pansexual man in my forties, diagnosed with disinhibited reactive attachment disorder as a kid, which then sort of extended to obsessive love disorder. I can blame my shit childhood on that. I am very aware of my issues and go to therapy and take my medications regularly, so don't worry. I'm not going to hunt you down and stalk your every move, haha! Etc...

Obviously, many of his drafts did not make the cut. Basically, none of them did. Neither did this one:

@angelcrepes75 You should know right away, I’ve got some issues. Number one being, I'm an arsehole, but it really comes from a desperate need to be loved! I'm pretty well off, a bit famous in a way actually, but I hate my job. I hate my employer. I hate a lot of things and a lot of people. Did I mention I'm single? Etc...

Or this one:

@angelcrepes75 Ho-boy did you open up pandora's box! You are trying to ask me out, yeah? If so, yes. Let's meet up. Anywhere. Even if you're across the bloody globe. I'm in London. My address is... etc...

Not this one either:

@angelcrepes75 You're gay? That's cool. I'm pan. Forty-two. I'm a Scorpio and like long walks on the beach. My dream wedding would be... etc...

Crowley's vision was blurred, his eyes were bloodshot, his hair sticking up in all directions, shirt unbuttoned and tie hanging around his neck like a noose before a hanging when his alarm went off, letting him know it was time to get up and take Warlock to school. His bleary eyes that he couldn't close because of how dry they were, peered down at his watch in confusion.

"Wha–aw, fuck!" Crowley shot out of his chair and patted himself as if looking for something but not knowing what.

There was already commotion in the office because of everyone's impending deadlines. Crowley was sure he wasn't the only one who didn't go home the previous night. His suspicions were proven correct when the office clerk of his department rushed into his office with wild eyes and shaky hands, holding a cup of coffee. Dagon was a trans man with a filthy mouth who was even more obsessive-compulsive than Crowley, which is why he was so good at his job. His files were flawlessly archived. Crowley could say a lot about Morningstar Press, but snubbing diversity was not one of them. They at least made a point to hire talented people from all walks of life. Some journalists didn't even have proper degrees. Morningstar only wanted to know you could do your job, and do it to perfection.

"I got your email, ya prick," Dagon groused, "and, no, I don't have new material for you. We get less and less as time goes by because everyone is too fucking scared of you ripping them new arseholes."

Crowley growled, finally remembering he needed his mobile, keys and wallet. "This is B's fault! Tell her that my assignment is going to be late and it's her fault!"

"Yeah, 'course, should I pick up your dry cleaning and wipe your arse after taking your mornin' shit as well? You have an assistant, Crowley, and I'm not him."

Crowley slapped his sunnies on and snarled again. "Eric doesn't come in until eight. Can  you please, pretty please–"

"Shove it up your arse," Dagon spat out as he stormed out of the office.

"You're quite obsessed with arses, you know?!" Crowley shouted after them.

Dagon was quick to shout back. "Have it every mornin' for breakfast!"

"Nngah!" Crowley gagged at the intrusive and very unwanted image of Dagon eating arse. "Why-why- why ?" He continued spontaneously gagging all the way to the Bentley. The Bookshop Around the Corner by Mordelle on Ao3

[theculturedmarxist]

The New York Times is literally a propaganda outlet and Timothy Egan is a deceitful chode. His every word drips with the anxious desperation of the Democrats who know their goose is cooked.

Watching “Succession,” the HBO show about the most despicable plutocrats to seize the public imagination since the Trumps were forced on us, made me want to tax the ultrarich into a homeless shelter. And it almost made a Bernie Bro of me.

That’s the thing about class loathing: It feels good, a moral high with its own endorphins, but is ultimately self-defeating. A Bernie Sanders rally is a hit from the same pipe: Screw those greedy billionaire bastards!

Sanders has passion going for him. He has authenticity. He certainly has consistency: His bumper-sticker sloganeering hasn’t changed for half a century. He was, “even as a young man, an old man,” as Time magazine said.

But he cannot beat Donald Trump, for the same reason people do not translate their hatred of the odious rich into pitchfork brigades against walled estates.

Because powerful oligarchs that own their government murder them with impunity when they do.

>March 7 was a bitterly cold day in Detroit, and a crowd estimated at between 3,000 and 5,000 gathered near the Dearborn city limits, about a mile from the Ford plant. The Detroit Times called it "one of the coldest days of the winter, with a frigid gale whooping out of the northwest". Marchers carried banners reading "Give Us Work, "We Want Bread Not Crumbs", and "Tax the Rich and Feed the Poor". Albert Goetz gave a speech, asking that the marchers avoid violence. The march proceeded peacefully along the streets of Detroit until it reached the Dearborn city limits.

>There, the Dearborn police attempted to stop the march by firing tear gas into the crowd and began hitting marchers with clubs. One officer fired a gun at the marchers. The unarmed crowd scattered into a field covered with stones, picked them up, and began throwing stones at the police. The angry marchers regrouped and advanced nearly a mile toward the plant. There, two fire engines began spraying cold water onto the marchers from an overpass. The police were joined by Ford security guards and began shooting into the crowd. Marchers Joe York, Coleman Leny and Joe DeBlasio were killed, and at least 22 others were wounded by gunfire.

>The leaders decided to call off the march at that point and began an orderly retreat. Harry Bennett, head of Ford security, drove up in a car, opened a window, and fired a pistol into the crowd. Immediately, the car was pelted with rocks, and Bennett was injured. He got out of the car and continued firing at the retreating marchers. Dearborn police and Ford security men opened fire with machine guns on the retreating marchers. Joe Bussell, 16 years old, was killed, and dozens more men were wounded. Bennett was hospitalized for his injury.

> All of the seriously wounded marchers were arrested, and the police chained many to their hospital beds after they were admitted for treatment. A nationwide search was conducted for William Z. Foster, but he was not arrested. No law enforcement or Ford security officer was arrested, although all reliable reports showed that they had engaged in all the gunfire, resulting in deaths, injuries and property damage. The New York Times reported that "Dearborn streets were stained with blood, streets were littered with broken glass and the wreckage of bullet-riddled automobiles, and nearly every window in the Ford plant's employment building had been broken".

The United States has never been a socialist country, even when it most likely should have been one, during the robber baron tyranny of the Gilded Age or the desperation of the Great Depression, and it never will be. Which isn’t to say that American capitalism is working; it needs Teddy Roosevelt-style trustbusting and restructuring. We’re coming for you, Facebook.

Yeah, just look how well that’s worked out, you fucking idiot.

The next month presents the last chance for serious scrutiny of Sanders, who is leading in both Iowa and New Hampshire. After that, Republicans will rip the bark off him. When they’re done, you will not recognize the aging, mouth-frothing, business-destroying commie from Ben and Jerry’s dystopian dairy. Demagogy is what Republicans do best. And Sanders is ripe for caricature. 

The same Republicans that got their breakfast ate by the dottering windbag cheetoman? The same Republicans that are unpopular with over half the fucking country? The same Republicans which have shown majority support for Sanders’s policies in the past? Those are the Republicans you’re talking about, right, Timothy, you fucking asshole?

I’m not worried about the Russian stuff — Bernie’s self-described “very strange honeymoon” to the totalitarian hell of the Soviet Union in 1988, and his kind words for similar regimes. Compared with a president who is a willing stooge for the Russian strongman Vladimir Putin, a little vodka-induced dancing with the red bear is peanuts.

Nor am I worried about the legitimate questions concerning the candidate’s wife, Jane Sanders, who ran a Vermont college into the ground. Again, Trump’s family of grifters — from Ivanka securing her patents from China while Daddy made other promises to Beijing, to Don Jr.’s using the White House to leverage the family brand — give Democrats more than enough ammunition to return the fire.

This is fun. Due to a complete lack of incriminating conduct, little Timmy has to invent wrongdoing to libel Jane Sanders. I suppose he’s relying on his readers being too stupid to read the article that he himself links, another NYT hitpiece that desperately tries to paint Ms Sanders as a shady character without anything in the way of tangible proof.

>Federal prosecutors have not spoken publicly about their investigation, though late last year, Ms. Sanders’s lead lawyer said he had been told it had been closed. And while doubts remain about the contribution pledges claimed by the college, the lawyer has said that neither Ms. Sanders nor her husband was even questioned by investigators, indicating a lack of significant evidence of a crime.

>After Ms. Sanders’s ouster, the college’s troubles worsened. It abandoned a promising effort she had undertaken to sell some of its new land to improve its finances, interviews show. A few years later, when it did begin selling, it was to a consortium that secretly included at least one member of its board, raising conflict-of-interest questions.

>There is little question that the college’s 2016 demise can be traced to Ms. Sanders’s decision to champion an aggressive — critics say reckless — plan to buy the land. But with potential students put off by the lack of a campus, and with many such colleges struggling at the time, her move was the academic equivalent of a Hail Mary. Her allies said she never had a chance to fulfill her vision.

>“Jane made an audacious gambit to save the college,” said Genevieve Jacobs, a former faculty member. “It seemed to be a moment of ‘change or die.’”

>In interviews and emails, Ms. Sanders expressed frustration at her dismissal and the college’s failure to continue her rescue plan.

>“They went a completely different direction in every way than what we had proposed and decided upon as a board — with the bank, with the diocese, the bonding agency,” she said. “They didn’t carry out any of the plan. It was very confusing and upsetting at the time.”

The TL;DR seems to be: Jane Sanders tried to save a struggling school with an audacious but risky plan that ended up being aborted when she was let go by by a board, some of the members of which may have had a stake in seeing it fail. At the very least, a much more complex situation than the aspersion of “running it into the ground.”

Trump bragged about sexual assault, paid off a porn star and ran a fraudulent university. He sucks up to dictators and tells a half-dozen lies before he puts his socks on in the morning. A weird column about a rape fantasy from 1972 is not going to sink Bernie when Trump has debased all public discourse.

No, what will get the Trump demagogue factory working at full throttle is the central message of the Sanders campaign: that the United States needs a political revolution. It may very well need one. But most people don’t think so, as Barack Obama has argued. And getting two million new progressive votes in the usual area codes is not going to change that.

“Ah jeez, ah fuck, he has no sexual indiscretions that I can dredge up and his Feminist polemic against pornography and the rape culture that it engenders is old news, and if I actually reported on it honestly people might actually read it and support his ideas. Oh, well, you see, despite the incredible groundswell of support for just such a thing, Barack Obama, the man that gave the banks trillions of dollars and then allowed the state apparatus to function as their gestapo-cum-storm troopers, says we don’t need one!”

Timothy Egan wants to dismiss “two million new progressive votes” after doing a little gaslighting. His Democrat masters don’t want people to remember that it was Obama’s promises of Hope and Change after 8 years of Republican tyranny that generated a record breaking voter turnout. They would also like you to forget that 2016 was a 20-year low in voter turnout. Do you think those things are related, Mr Egan? Do you think that there might be some connection between Obama taking advantage of the desperation of millions of people, betraying them, and then those people not fucking showing up next time, causing your party to lose to the dimwit that they themselves boosted to the position?

Give Sanders credit for moving public opinion along on a living wage, higher taxes on the rich and the need for immediate action to stem the immolation of the planet. Most great ideas start on the fringe and move to the middle.

But some of his other ideas are stillborn, or never get beyond the fringe. Socialism, despite its flavor-of-the-month appeal to young people, is not popular with the general public. Just 39 percent of Americans view socialism positively, a bare uptick from 2010, compared with 87 percent who have a positive view of free enterprise, Gallup found last fall.

“Just” 39 percent of Americans, up 4% from 2016. This is ignoring for the moment that due to Americans’ piss-poor education system they have no idea what “Socialism” means aside from “more government.” Looking at the breakdown of results, it seems as though they just asked people off the top of their head what they thought about X, no definition or elaboration given. Unsurprisingly, when you look at the actual numbers on specific issues, you can see exactly why Egan has to play this deceptive bullshit: of respondents 18-34, 52% have a favorable view of “Socialism,” as opposed to 47% supporting “Capitalism.” This is in sharp contrast to the 35-54 and 55+ cohorts. 65% of Democrats have a favorable view of “Socialism.” Those with a “Liberal” ideology are even more in favor at 74%, Timothy Egan, you massive shithead.

What’s more, American confidence in the economy is now at the highest level in nearly two decades. That’s hardly the best condition for overthrowing the system.

"The highest level in nearly two decades.” That’s faint fucking praise right there.

You can see the tremendous fucking crater caused by the crash in 2007/8, a reversal of a whopping -81 points from the previous year. With many economists forecasting recession beginning either this year or the next, we’ll see how long the confidence lasts. 

So-called Medicare for all, once people understand that it involves eliminating all private insurance, polls at barely above 40 percent in some surveys, versus the 70 percent who favor the option of Medicare for all who want it. Other polls show majority support. But cost is a huge concern. And even Sanders cannot give a price tag for nationalizing more than one-sixth of the economy.

A ban on fracking is a poison pill in a must-win state like Pennsylvania, which Democrats lost by just over 44,000 votes in 2016. Eliminating Immigration and Customs Enforcement, another Sanders plan, is hugely unpopular with the general public.

“Medicare for all is really unpopular, except when it isn’t.”

Hmm, you know? Hmmm.

As for fracking, from his own link:

>A November poll conducted by the Kaiser Family Foundation and the Cook Political Report found that only 39 percent of Pennsylvania swing voters saw a fracking ban as a good idea, even as nearly 7 in 10 of those same voters said they supported the idea of a “Green New Deal” for the environment.

Democrats are whinging on the jobs “lost” to a fracking ban as though it exists in isolation. 39% might support a fracking ban, but 70% support the GND, which could potentially offset the “job loss” with industry that has the potential not to leave their state as a fucking environmentally ruined horror show. I haven’t run the numbers on this, but not living in a cesspool of polluted air and water tends to be pretty popular, Timbo.

More shellgames from Mr Egan regarding abolishing ICE.

> Only 1 in 4 voters in the poll, 25 percent, believe the federal government should get rid of ICE. The majority, 54 percent, think the government should keep ICE. Twenty-one percent of voters are undecided. 

That sounds bad. Maybe it’s not such a good ide

>But a plurality of Democratic voters do support abolishing ICE, the poll shows. Among Democrats, 43 percent say the government should get rid of ICE, while only 34 percent say it should keep ICE.

Oh.

Sanders is a rigid man, and he projects grumpy-old-man rigidity, with his policy prescriptions frozen in failed Marxist pipe dreams. He’s unlikely to change. I sort of like that about his character, in the same way I like that he didn’t cave to the politically correct bullies who went after him for accepting the support of the influential podcaster Joe Rogan.

Democrats win with broad-vision optimists who still shake up the system — Franklin Roosevelt, of course, but also Obama. The D’s flipped 40 House seats in 2018 without using any of Sanders’s stringent medicine. If they stick to that elixir they’ll oust Trump, the goal of a majority of Americans.

Democrats lose with fire-and-brimstone fundamentalists. Three times, the party nominated William Jennings Bryan, the quirky progressive with great oratorical pipes, and three times they were trounced. Look him up, kids. Your grandchildren will do a similar search for Bernie Sanders when they wonder how Donald Trump won a second term.

“Failed Marxist pipe dreams.” Aaaaay lmao. You should also have an inkling something is wrong when you have to go all the way back to FDR to find someone that supports your point. Talk about “poison pills,” Obama proved himself to be as much of a snake as the rest, and the effects of that resonated in 2016 when the Dems ran on a platform of “that’s a nice country you have there, you wouldn’t want Trump to get elected, would you?” How did that work out? You ran one of the most unpopular politicians in the country—after very blatantly rigging the primaries against Sanders to do so—against one of the most unpopular capitalists in the country, and lost, dipshit!

Ironically, I think Timbob’s closing statement will prove true, though not in the way his clown ass intends. Shills like Egan are doing everything they can to try and poison public perception against Sanders and his policies, who only proves increasingly popular as time goes on, so much so in fact that the DNC is already biting its nails and muttering to itself about ways it can try and cheat his supporters again.

In conversations on the sidelines of a DNC executive committee meeting and in telephone calls and texts in recent days, about a half-dozen members have discussed the possibility of a policy reversal to ensure that so-called superdelegates can vote on the first ballot at the party’s national convention. Such a move would increase the influence of DNC members, members of Congress and other top party officials, who now must wait until the second ballot to have their say if the convention is contested.

They deny it in the article, claim that changing the rules would be “bad sportsmanship,” but one would be a fool to believe them. If anything, their ambivalence towards relying on Superdelegates would make me even more nervous at this stage. Politico wants it to seem like the DNC is bent on playing fair, but more likely than not they have no intention of changing the convention rules because they believe there’s no need. With Warren’s flagging support and the luke-warm response to Biden, I doubt they’re overcome with optimism of beating Sanders in an honest primary. With all the shenanigans from last time’s primaries in mind, it’s likely that the machinery to rig the results their way is already in place—the primary could already be over before it even begins.

[cbk1000]

TEA TIME!! Bring your crumpets.

So one of my former co-workers texted me today and told me the wife had gone ape-shit on her the other day and she was a little concerned about being fired, and that she would call me tonight and give me the details (which she did). I’m not going to go in-depth on what prompted this because that’s my co-worker’s business. Suffice it to say that her ex-husband was being a dick, and she had to submit some pay stubs to Child Support to prove that she was paying for stuff that he claimed she wasn’t paying for. On one of her paycheck stubs, the wife had written a note about how she couldn’t take the seven hours sick time she had accrued and had tried to take. (Side note; I believe I have mentioned this before, but if you missed it, Washington state now requires employers to pay their employees sick time. You accrue a certain number of hours of sick time per hours worked. Legally, if you have two hours of sick time and need to leave two hours early because you’re sick, you are entitled to these two hours. However, the owners will not let anyone take sick time unless they take a full eight hours. This co-worker has tried before to take less than eight hours at a time and they’ve denied her. Just a couple of weeks ago she tried to take 7 hours and 45 minutes of her sick time and because she was 15 minutes shy, they wouldn’t give her any of it. They have done this to several other people as well. So this has been going on for a while, and this same co-worker has already talked to L&I about it, who told her emphatically that it’s illegal, but she didn’t want to mention that she had spoken with L&I for fear of retaliation. Which is also illegal, but I’m sure they couldn’t give a fuck.) So Child Support called her back to let her know that they had received the information she sent them, and also pointed out the note that was on there, and that it was illegal for her employers to withhold sick time that she had accrued. They pointed her toward the L&I site and told her where to look for all the info on the law.

SO. She went into the wife’s office and told her what happened, and said that she just wanted to let her know that Child Support had said it was illegal, in case she didn’t know. She said she did it in a very non-confrontational voice, and the wife started screaming at her. Like violently flipped her lid, startled the shit out of my co-worker; just utterly lost her marbles. She was screaming about how she didn’t want anyone working for them that would accuse them of doing something illegal, etc. etc. (you are literally doing something illegal, though, you fucking nutter; a couple of different people have confirmed that). She was working on payroll at the time I guess, and then she started panicking because the computer had given her an error message and then she started freaking out wondering if she had lost all her data; my co-worker said she had basically a full-on panic attack. I said, yeah, she was probably flustered as fuck because someone called her out. There’s no way she’s ignorant of the law (and even if she were, that wouldn’t be an excuse; it’s her job as a business owner to be aware of labor laws); she was counting on her employees’ own ignorance of their rights. So I’m wondering if my co-worker will no longer have any issues getting sick time given to her. They would be really stupid to fire her over this, although I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if they tried. At any rate, that would be considered retaliation, and it would be a great reason for L&I to open an investigation into their business practices. 

The second part is that they hired someone for medical records, but they won’t be starting till next month. But there was a second lady they interviewed for my old position, and I guess she came in for a second interview the other day. I said, “Why did they need to interview her a second time? That’s weird.” My co-worker explained that the husband had said they interviewed her again because they wanted to hold her for ANOTHER position--which is weird because the only open position was in medical records. I know they’re not creating a new position, so now we’re wondering if someone is about to get fired. However, as far as we both know (the owners talked a little bit about her on my last day) she doesn’t have any experience as a medical assistant or in billing. I supposed they might be planning to let someone from the front desk go, but they’ve all been there a while and so far as I’m aware the owners aren’t frothing at the mouth to fire any of them (especially as Raging Asshole is a secretary, so you know it ain’t her, and that only leaves two people, neither of whom I would imagine to be in any danger, but who knows). 

It was a dick move to tell her and the other billing employee that, because everyone knows medical records was the only open position, so now they’re all going to fret over whether they’re about to be fired. 

[drumpfwatch]

State of the Union 2019 Commentary

It’s been a week and some change. Let’s talk State of the Union.

First off, I’d like to make a comment on the overall speech theme. Trump spoke of unity and everyone coming together, but that very morning he went to yell at how obstructionist and obnoxious the Democrats were being for not giving him his baby bottle wall. This man, who speaks of himself as the best deal maker in the world, and bragged he’d be able to get everyone to get together and make friends, sort out their differences, when he has done nothing but make demand after demand and concede no ground.

A compromise, Mr. Trump, is two people coming together and agreeing on something they’re both willing to do while conceding parts of what they want. It’s called a surrender if someone gives you everything they want while getting nothing. Dummkopf.

So with that, let’s begin at the beginning. I warn you right now I don’t want to go over every single point he made, but I’ll cover as many of them as I can and comment as needed. There are other commentaries out there, some as soon as the day after, and those are more than cool to have hanging around. I’m sure between all of those you can come up with a total summary of what he said, based on every single word. With that, let’s begin.

As per his theme, he started the speech by calling for unity and cooperation. All well and good for anyone else. We should avoid revenge politics - which is fucking rich coming from him, but whatever. Specifically, he calls congress to concern themselves “with the agenda of the American people” but…

Well, we’ll get to that.

He thanks some WW2 vets and then talks about how he’s interested in “America First.” People have on more than one occasion pointed out that given his actions, he seems to mean “America Only” when he says that, and that should be a premise that is upsetting to everyone but I have no doubt there is a large portion of the population of the American population who are more than happy to ignore the rest of the world. They already do, after all.

He then introduces Buzz Aldrin, saying that we’ll be going to space on American rockets again. And he’s actually, sadly, right there. Back in 2011, the Space Shuttle program was retired, and we’ve been relying on the Russian Soyuz capsule to get us into the space ever since. The successor to the Space Shuttle Program, the Space Launch System, has been slow coming for numerous reasons. It is, however, finally going to be ready to go in 2019 and will perform its first mission in 2020 - sending a craft to Mars. They wanted a rocket that could get a crew to Mars eventually, and the Senate…

Well, let’s just say congress stuck it’s fingers into the Space Launch System so much that it has been derisively called the Senate Launch System, and a lot of astronauts and NASA Engineers are concerned that it is basically a horrible, efficient money sink. Still, as an avid space fanatic, I’m glad we’re making efforts, at least. Though I’d point out that those efforts have been in motion long before he ever got there to direct them. This is, after all, the man that believed we could go to Mars before his first term was out.

He next goes on to talk about the economy, claiming that our middle class is bigger and more prosperous than ever before. This is untrue. While it seems to be complicated, the general consensus is that while the Middle Class has been stable in size, they tend to have less and less, especially in comparison to the upper class. That is where the real problem is, as well. The absolutely ridiculous wealth disparity. Though I get the feeling that removing taxes from private jets is totally gonna help with that. She says, sarcasm frothing in her mouth in a mixture of rage and bitterness.

He then claimed responsibility for the parts of the economic boom that have been happening. First of all, the economy is...not exactly booming. But there are good things happening in it. It’s sort of a whirlygig of insanity, if I’m honest. Now, you’ll hear me say this again a few other times, but I am not all that educated when it comes to economics. Economics is a chaos system and I much prefer stable ones with easy to predict results. Is a thing right or wrong, is this method an effective way of accomplishing the intended goal. Things like that.

That said, I do know a few things, and one of them is that a lot of people who do know a thing or two about economics point out that this economic boom began in 2016, which means it's entirely possible that this is a result of Obama’s policies were responsible, we don’t really know. Maybe Trump did have something to do with it, but it’s often not accurate to blame the problems or successes of an economy on a single thing. So this claim gets a big ol’ stamp of “UNVERIFIABLE” from me.

I can say that wages are not rising, or at least as much as he thinks. The Federal Minimum Wage was not changed since 2009, and lost about 9.6% of its purchasing power because of inflation. While some states have made major strides towards livable minimum wages have been made in places like New York and California, I’d be willing to bet dollars to donuts that if you removed the massive amount of wealth that people like Jeff Bezos make, you’d find that they are stagnant, or even lowering.

There’s a thought for a math rant sometime.

Anyway, he then praises the 5 million people who got off of food stamps. First of all, the number is 3.5 million. Second of all, it’s a bit more complicated than that. To summarize, while the decrease in unemployment is helping, there’s another little niggling thing. There was a provision in the law that basically said you could turn off some of the safety nets if employment rates rose, and a lot of states decided not to pay for those benefits. I won’t argue whether or not that was a right or wrong decision, but I will say you don’t get to wave around the number of people who are off a program as a victory when the reason they’re off it isn’t because they don’t need it, but because they were kicked off it.

We’re the hottest economy in the world, he says! And he’s wrong. I mentioned before that we’re in a weird sort of “Good Things, Bad Things” phase, but I don’t think I need to tell anyone that the stock market has been all over the place, falling and rising considerably at random. Meanwhile, S&P has downgraded America’s credit score. I think we’ve got a problem, and I know we’re not the hottest economy.

He then goes onto say that the unemployment rate for people of color is the lowest it’s ever been. And shockingly, he’s right on this one. Sort of. The Federal Bureau of Labor Statistics shows that the rate of unemployment for hispanic people and black people actually went down, and was at one point the lowest it’s ever been. Asian unemployment has sorta been all over the place. What makes it strange, however, is that each of these groups had a random and sudden spike since November/December of last year, while for whites it’s been pretty stagnant. Last hired, first fired, I guess.

He also talks about the same with disabled people and that is blatantly untrue. While it seems the number of people who qualify for disability also is going up, they’re not getting employed any faster.

I should also mention that even if we could point to one specific thing as responsible for these changes, I doubt it would be the fault of the man who himself wouldn’t house or hire black people.

He also celebrated getting rid of the estate tax. Which yes, he did. That is not necessarily a good thing. He acts like it applies to small businesses and farmers, but it doesn’t. One person said on the matter “If you don’t feel comfortable calling what you own an estate, then you probably aren’t affected by the estate tax.” You and your guilded crotch spawn and protected up to 10 million dollars. Only after that is your wealthy taxed on death, and only to prevent the the existence of a permanent landed gentry. The only people benefiting from the end of the estate tax are literal millionaires, who can afford to give some of that dosh to the community.

He then talks about Obamacare, and how he get rid of the Individual Mandate. He claims this was the most unpopular part of the law, and he’s right, but analysts point out that it’s more complicated then Thing Bad So Get Rid Of. Without the Individual Mandate to get people motivated to apply for coverage, a lot of people simply won’t get insured. Further, the whole point was that forcing the younger people to pay for insurance when they’re less likely to need it helped to add money to the pool that could be used to help cover the people with pre-existing conditions or complications. That said, it’s also a good thing not having people pay for coverage they can’t afford, so...it’s complicated.

Trump then bragged about cutting the most regulations of any President ever, and I won’t deny that he has. I will, however, point out that this is a horrible thing that should concern and frighten all of you. While some of those regulations may seem arbitrary, literally every one of them was written in the blood of some innocent person who died so a corporation could make an extra buck. We’ve already seen an increase in food poisoning and infections and the increase in food recalls since 2013 has been kind of horrifying. Trump has been eagerly cutting regulations to “Pre-1960s” levels. You know, before we had seatbelts. It’s very harmful to cut those regulations, and it needs to stop.

He then says that America has corporations coming back in record numbers. On this, he is also not wrong. The Jobs report was very good, and we should all be happy about that. That said, whether or not he is the one to thank for that is a bit more complicated, as usual. It turns out that some of these gears were set into motion when Obama was in office. Some of them are just the effects of a slow recovery process since the 2009 Recession. That said, they did take a sharp rise in 2017. So yay for him, I guess.

Except, again, if deregulation is how you’re doing this, then you’re doing it wrong. We should not be sacrificing the blood of American people so that a few already stupid wealthy people can get even more stupid wealthy. The reward is not worth the cost.

He then goes on about how we’re the number one producer of oil in the world. This claim is untrue. There has, however, been a boom in oil and natural gas production due to things like the invention of fracking and loosening of regulations that goes all the way back to the Bush Era. The rate is increasing such that by sometime into the 2020s, we will be the greatest producer of oil and natural gas, at least privately. Considering those materials are murdering our planet this is also not good news, but since Global Warming is, of course, a conspiracy cooked up by the Chinese to steal American Jobs, that doesn’t matter. We are also not a net exporter of energy, by the way, but are on are way to becoming one.

Then things get...weird. Everyone starts chanting “U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!” in this really low and creepy tone that I was frankly a bit creeped out by. It was like these people thought they were at a football game and not a session of Congress. Then again, this is my first time really sitting down and paying attention to the State of the Union, so this may be normal. I just didn’t like it.

What should, however, terrify everyone is his next babbling remark. He spends five minutes or so going on a rant about how “If there is going to be peace in legislation, there cannot be war and investigation.” Which, frankly, reminded me of a mafia frontman. “Lovely country you got here, shame if somethin’ were to happen to it. You noisy folks stink’ yah nose into my bosses business makes it real hard for him to keep wild guys like Big Jim ova deya under control. I can’t promise you won’t upset him wid all this.”

Sorry, trumby. You don’t get to talk about the need to stop our adversaries when you may well have been put in office by one.

Ughk, I hate using that word. Adversaries. It makes it sound like we have a boat load of enemies, when in reality we have like, 3 or 4, and otherwise a series of complex political relationships. Like we can’t work together with those people for a better future if we all just calmed the fuck down.

Like they’re not people.

Whatever. There are more important things to worry about.

Like how he goes on to mock the democrats for not approving his nominations. Even though a whole boatload of them are sketchy as fuck, should have never even been approved at all, or were just never filled by Trump in the first place.

Also can I just say that it’s fucking rich hearing aa man like Trump complain about not getting a nominee approved after what his party pulled with the Supreme Court? We call that hypocrisy.

He then goes on to talk about making life easier for prisoners and punishing people who abuse our veterans. Now, I could point out that prison reform was actually Barack Obama’s whole big thing and he passed a lot of laws in that regard, and Trump has not, and Former President Obama also passed VA reform in 2014 that allowed for people who mistreated veterans to be harshly punished. That said, Trump has been making further strides on those initiatives, and in fact his most approved and liked legislation is the First Step Act. These are the sorts of policies that really can make life better for people, and it’s nice to see everyone getting behind them. Ofcoursewecouldfurtherthesegreatstridesbyclosingdownforprofitprisons, andotherthingsthatimcertaindontappealtoarepublicanmindset, but that’s for another day. What I’m saying here is that as much as I don’t like it, I have to admit Trump has done a good. I don’t care who past them, how they developed, they were good things that happened. Yay! Good job Trump, you get a big shiny gold star.

We then move on to the Racist section of the speech. He starts by talking about the Migrant Caravan and I am shocked at how wrong and full of hatred this man is. He claims these refugees are an “onslaught” of illegal aliens when they’re all coming to America to seek asylum. You know, something that’s completely and totally legal. But no, this is an INVADING FORCE of ILLEGAL ALIENS that need to be stopped with 3,750 more Soldiers with GUNS. They managed to make it all the way to the American border with only one small kerfuffle with the Mexican border police, before arriving at the American border not to see Lady Liberty’s open arms welcoming the hopeless and downtrodden, the weary and poor, but instead heavily armed and barricaded troops who would then go on to use tear gas on them. Is that the America we want to show to the world?

Now, to his credit, Trump admits that Immigrants enrich our society - which is entirely true. Yes, there’s a bit of stress on lower-wage jobs when they first arrive, but that’s minimal in comparison to the benefits. Not that saying that to someone who got laid off and replaced with a migrant is no consolation, I fully understand, but there are ways to help these problems. Also, side note, if he believes immigrants are so awesome and enriching to our society, then he would be more than happy to have them enter the country. But the immigration system here is a convoluted mess of insanity that takes forever to get anything done and then occasionally does nothing, and Trump has just been making it worse. Just a thought.

Now I wrote an entire post about the wall, so I won’t go into it too much here. But the wall is an expensive, stupid, and ineffective idea. Drugs aren’t coming through skirmishers who are dodging around the border, they’re coming through ports of entry. The San Diego wall he was talking about isn’t nearly as effective as he pretends, and it didn’t really start working until the entry port in that area was spruced up. Smuggler still break through it all the time, as well, to the point where an area of it is called “Smuggler’s Gulch.” It also has trapped migrants into paying more to cross to the bad guys, taking riskier and more lethal routes, and actually trapping “illegal” migrants in who may want to leave. Most of the time, men would come up, do some work for cash, then go home once they felt they had enough, but now they’re coming, staying, and bringing their families.

Trump also points out that there were people in that room who voted for the wall, but I reckon the immense amount of insanity that came from that previous attempt are why a lot of people don’t want to do it again. Trump says that “No issue better illustrates the divide between America's working class and America's political class” but in truth, 60% of Americans are strongly opposed to the wall. The wall is a lost, stupid cause, and Trump needs to give it up before he hurts himself with his flailing about it.

OH, and just as one last cherry on the cake, it won’t stop sex trafficking either. Most traffickers bring there people in through on legal Visas, which they are then forced to overstay as those visas are held from them. In fact, over 80 anti-trafficking organizations got together to say that Trump's comments on the matter were actually harmful to efforts to stop this stuff.

He then goes on to tell the story of the Maddison family. I honestly don’t remember what it specifically was, because they are just a prop to garner sympathy for his position, and I’d actually be fine with that if the idiot didn’t use it to spread a lie. This family lost ones they love to MS13 members. That’s horrible and tragic and very sad, and I feel for them and wish it hadn’t happened. But acting like this is how every “illegal immigrant” operates is just a flat out lie. While the actual numbers are hard to tell, we know enough to say that if you strip away the illegal crime of coming here when not allowed, “illegal” immigrants commit 16% less crimes then the native-born population. Most of them are just people who want to escape an insane life and live the American Dream. But, see, they’re hispanic, so they can’t. You have to be white to be an American.

So with all of that said, let’s jump ahead to a cute moment where he talks about women taking 53% of the open jobs. Again, not his fault but go off I guess.

He then goes on to celebrate the women in Congress, of which there are more than ever before. Hurrah! I appreciate that little wink and nod, and in fact Donny, you get a gold star for this one too because this one is your fault.

By proxy.

Pretty much every one of those women ran for office because they hated you, your policies, and your stupid ugly face. They’re not there because they like you, they’re there because they want to stop you. So I think I’mma just take that shiny gold star away.

Next, he bounces back to talking about the economy, because Trump can’t focus on a single thing. Again, I won’t say much on this because economics is not my speciality, but people who DO know a thing or two about economics are pretty much in agreement that tariffs are a tool, and not a very good one. The analogy I like to use goes something like this. Imagine tariffs as a double edged knife you’re going to use to stab someone you don’t like. You’re already dealing with a weapon that’s not the safest, but guess what? This one also doesn't have a hilt, or a guard, or a pommel or anything. It’s literally just a long, serrated sheet of iron with a point on one end. So whenever you hit the other guy, you’re cutting yourself too. You can’t not.

Tariffs need to be used with the precision of a scalpel, and only if they’re determined to be the right tool for the job. And that’s without accounting for the unintended consequences like how rich people can probably find a way to avoid tariffs so they hurt the poorer people more, or you know, starting a trade war because the other people can just pass tariffs on you too?! And if any of you think this gigantic flatulating, tiny-handed orange with a racist stick coming out of its ass is capable of “precision” then I have a bridge I’d very much like to sell you.

He also goes on to talk about NAFTA again, and I’m gonna have to plead ignorance on this one. I don’t know if NAFTA is or is not a good deal, or if UMCA is a better one. I don’t know enough about economics and I don’t know enough about the laws themselves. I’m at least grateful the idiot didn’t cancel NAFTA before enstating UMCA, and those people who are smarter than me I keep talking about say that Mexico and Canada may not be in a mood to negotiate a new trade deal. So who knows. I’m not going to say much else on the matter.

So then we move on to infrastructure brieful. Trump talks about how it’s crumbling and needs repair, and he’s not wrong. The infrastructure report card for the US is, frankly, abysmal. But this begins a trend on a couple of topics.

He goes on to eagerly talk about how we need to improve health care, and lower drug prices! That we’re going to get rid of HIV in 10 years! That Childhood Cancer is going to be eradicated! Everyone gets paid family leave! All this wonderful pie-in-the-sky stuff that is super cool to hear him talk about, and I’d be totally behind him….

If he were actually doing anything on these matters. Trump talks a big game on these things, but hasn’t made any moves. Whenever he starts to, his business buddies step in and explain why they’re going to lose money and he stops.

So! He then moves on to talk about the legislation in New York that protects women’s rights to get an abortion anytime and how horrible it is that they’re murdering babies.

I think the response the white-clade congress women gave was the best.

I think the look on Angela Ocasio-Cortez’s face is the best, but the look on Angelia Ocasio-Cortez’s face and I think that’s Kathleen Rice giving the stink eye.

I don’t want to get into a debate about abortion, because that really is the best way to get everyone everywhere ever to hate you. I will say this, however. The law more or less only applies to pregnancies that would kill the mother or if the baby is already dead, and it wouldn’t matter if it didn’t.

Do you honestly think a person is going to go throw eight months of the most harrowing and obnoxious process the human body is capable of performing and then just suddenly decide “You know what? I don’t want this baby anymore.” If you’re that far along you either wanted the baby and were willing to suffer for it, or you never wanted the baby and were prevented from getting an abortion when it would’ve been kinder. The law isn’t about murdering babies, it's about letting women have control over themselves and their bodies. Acting like it’s some horrible evil that happened just makes you look dumb.

We then go onto nonsense about military bravado. Trump yammered about how he forced our allies to pay their fair share in NATO - which is honestly a kettle of fish I want to talk about in its own post, but suffice it to say it’s interesting everything he stresses and hates NATO for makes matters easier for Putin.

The real thing I want to talk about is the nuclear treaty he eventually meanders into like a toddler into a wall. Look, I’m not going to pretend that I understand the intricate diplomatics of nuclear negotiations, but even I know that YOU DO NOT ARBITRARILY CANCEL A TREATY THAT PREVENTS NUKES FROM BEING BUILT. You want an arms race?! This is how you get an arms race!

So what if Russia is “flaunting it” and ignoring it? I do not give one single solitary flying fuck. You negotiate a treaty that makes them suffer consequences - or better yet, stop not making them suffer the consequences they’re supposed to when they pull that shit - and you do it while the other treaty is still active. The last thing we need right now is a nuclear war and I don’t want to fucking hear that you’re taking Russia out of a treaty that at least somewhat contained them.

This man is going to get us all killed, I swear to Athena.

He then starts saying that “oh, the world would be in Nuclear war with South Korea if it weren’t for him, and he’s just wrong. I mean I know the nature of reality is such that there’s no real way to measure the tiny micro changes in the fabric of events that could lead to a given result, but I can say for damn sure that North Korea became more aggressive after Trump took office, and that their nuclear problem is largely for deterrent purposes because they are afraid of. Not that anyone should have nuclear weapons. Point is, this claim is bullshit, and I don’t need to source anything because it’s fantastical.

Next up is Venezuela, and his whole...spat against socialism. First of all, socialism is not responsible for the collapse of Venezuela because it wasn’t socialist. Those close to Maduro call his state a narco mafia government under the guise of socialism. It’s complicated - like everything else here is - but it can basically be summarized that instead of gathering material in the government and using it to support the people, it gave all that to big companies and then just kept taking and taking. Because that’s what unregulated big companies do. There was no market.

That said, even if Venezuela had been socialist in the truest sense, that doesn’t mean that socialist policies couldn’t work or shouldn’t be used. When applied properly (with a mix of capitalism, in my opinion), you can create a prosperous country that takes care of everyone by skimming off the top of those who have much and giving to those who have little. We’ve seen it work in different circumstances before, and even an entire country that made it work up until Stalin decided to take it over and twist its efficacy into bullshit.

He then talks a bit about Israel and Palestine, which is another basket of snakes I refuse to open other then to say that treating it as casually as he does is stupid. Israel and weird creepy end times Christians are the only people who actually don’t want a two-state solution. Sooo yeah.

Next, he speaks on how he’s done with the war against ISIS and that the troops are coming home, but fails to give a time frame and talks about not fighting an endless war - something I’d be more willing to believe if he wasn’t spewing money into the military like a sick man on laxatives does into the toilet. But whatever, I’m all for both of those things, so if he does them I’ll compliment him accordingly and apologize for not believing him.

The last thing I really want to talk about is how he brags about getting out of the Iran Nuclear Deal. That was actually working just fine and had finally squeezed Iran into cooperating and now they don’t have to while still giving them breathing room for their civilian population. But that is a complicated matter, that, again, is more difficult to ascertain than “Thing Good” or “Thing Bad.”

From there, the rest of the speech is just chest beating and bravado. Emotional appeals about how great America is and how free we are and blah blaah blaaah. I actually don’t have a problem with this - the swelling call to action at the end of the speech is a very effective tool and it’s not like I haven’t used emotional manipulation myself, even in this very article. But the point is that it’s not factual - it’s not meant to be criticized as a series of claims or even critiqued at all. It’s bravado, pure and simple. Trump is good at it, and he did a good job with it here.

Before I conclude though, I just want to quickly comment on one thing. Him derailing antisemitism is hilarious. You’re like 4 years too late on that bro.

Anyway, conclusions.

Most of the problems with this speech can be summed up with “It’s not that simple, idiot.” The world is a complicated place and Trump tried to simplify it. His ignorance to fully explain the complexities - or, as the case may be, even bother to understand them - has led him to misinform people live on TV. I’m not going to spend time talking about whether it was deliberate or not, I have long since given up and trying to determine where Trump’s evil ends and his stupid begins.  

I will say that I give him one or two points for doing the things right, but given how much else was disgusting and, frankly, hateful, it’s very much “even a broken clock is right twice a day” type thing. Trump’s state of the Union was a cavalcade of lies and misjudgements, interspaced with bravado and unnecessary calls to his god. This is a secular nation, people. I should not hear about God no less than 4 times in the most important speech the country makes.

Hopefully he’ll be out of office soon.

[count-demonlord-of-decadence]

A WEEK OF RAGE

Monday;

I go to my auto mechanic to pick up my British racing green Mercedes Benz E55, I’m having the sound system upgraded. It’s been in for four days, which is two too many in my opinion. When I arrive the first thing I do is confront the employees, but they either pretend to not speak English, or refer me to the owner who isn’t present. I opt to wait for him in the lobby.

It’s 152 minutes later when he arrives in an admittedly nice cream colored Audi TT. He’s Bahraini and dressed like a Miami Vice villain and reeks of One Million by Paco Rabanne. When I confront him he assures me he’ll light a fire under his guy's asses; but for an extra 30 dollars my car would be moved to the top of the list. He says it grinning, like only an idiot wouldn’t take this “fantastic” deal. I don’t know if it’s his odor, the wait or the effrontery of his offer but I succumb to rage. No hesitation or warning, just a quick palm strike to his nose. It’s not hard enough to break it but the left uppercut to his body that follows has no such restraint. As he topples towards me, I clinch with him and knee him right on his heart. Based on the sound he made, I believe I broke his sternum. I deliver an elbow strike to his fifth vertebrae before I let him fall into a sobbing, whimpering, writhing mess on the floor.

Then I remember that it’s the middle of a work day. Six employees and two other customers witnessed the whole event. No one lifted a finger to aid him, they didn’t even call the police. In fact the two customers applauded. One of the employees who pretended not to speak English tells me in perfect English my car will be ready in half an hour. Two other employees carry their employer into his office. As I sit down to wait, one of the two customers, mid 50’s with a full head of white hair, asks that employee, who we all now know speaks English, about his car.

Tuesday;

There are few fast food restaurants near my job, so I tend to frequently visit the same Jack In The Box on work days despite the nigh contemptible service. Whenever I go I always the same thing, Ultimate cheeseburger, no ketchup or mayo and a raspberry ice tea with no ice. There were three people ahead of me but the wait was minimal I order, pay and wait. Thank Hecate for smart phones, otherwise I’d either have to watch them make the food, watch the patrons and learn why every proceeding generation said they weep for the generation that followed or enter a near comatose state.

My order number is called and I grab the cup and bag and try to hurry away but bump into the guy who ordered ahead of me. He’s six feet four inches tall, muscular, in his late 40’s, dressed in red and blue Fubu, with a haircut and mustache that implies military. He returns to the counter and says, “Hey dicklips you fucked up my order.” This prompts me to check my order and sure enough, there’s a Jumbo Jack in the wrapper. The employee, about 22 years old, lanky; with hair, makeup, tattoos and piercings suggest he’s an emo college dropout who only got this job so his suburban sycophant parents didn’t kick him out of a house they’d never own because of predatory lending practices. I calmly walk up to the counter as he tells the complaining customer, “Better luck next time.” Before the customer can say another word say, “Excuse me, but you seemed to have made a mistake with my order as well.” To which he responds by throwing his hands up and loudly proclaiming, “I am so triggered right now!” and walks away. The other cashier, a hispanic woman in her early 20’s with a muffin top, looks at me and the other complaining customer, rolls her eyes and waves up the next customer just so she doesn’t have to deal with us.

“Can you believe this shit?” He asks me. To which I whisper, “No, I can’t” I’m staring at emo boy in the back talking to one of the food preparers. He’s just as young, emo, tattooed and pierced as the male cashier, but shorter and heavier. He looks like he plays drums in emo boy’s garageband that’s never had a paying gig, but they swear is gonna be big one of these days. I can tell by their gesticulations and body language that they’re not debating who fucked up our orders. When drummer boy gives us the two finger salute I snapped just like I did at the car mechanics.

I’m over the counter and advancing upon the two with hostile intent. The two just stare at me as if the law or the gods are going to stop me. Emo boy takes a palm strike to the nose that overtly breaks it. His drummer takes a kick to the crotch that, based on his reaction, hit some sort of genital piercing that maims his penis. He drops instantly, screaming, writhing and clutching his crotch. Emo boy is looking at the blood on his hands and proclaiming, “You can’t just do that man! I’m gonna sue your ass off! You’re gonna go to jail!” An uppercut to his diaphragm prevents him from saying anything else. I then try to shove his head into one of the deep fryers. He stops himself with his hands, but they’re slick with his blood and falls to his elbows. The blood and tears dripping from his face cause the grease to pop. He starts rapidly apologizing, telling me he’ll do anything if I don’t hurt him anymore. He seemed sincere. I knee him on his kidney and let him fall to a clearly dirty floor.

Muffin top has the building’s phone in hand, undoubtedly calling the police. I unfold my pocket knife and throw it at her. It hits her in a manner that damn near severs her thumb, causing her to drop the phone and yelp. The flying kick that followed hits her just below the collarbones slamming her into the wall. Her head bounced off the wall in a manner sure to result in a concussion. She falls to the dirty floor in a manner sure to result in a concussion. I hang up the phone and notice accosting the young lady seemed to earn me the crowd's ire. Though they’re hesitant to do more than whisper their disapproval and covertly call the cops. Still, I take the time to make a ultimate cheeseburger, no ketchup or mayo, and take a third pound of curly fries on my way out.

Wednesday;

After work, near my British racing green E55, I'm confronted by a man I've never met prior. Short and athletically built wearing sky blue shorts and shorts, no socks. Boxer shorts were dark blue with red pinstripes, white tank top a size too small. He also wore a white do rag and a faux silver chain. He claims I was disrespecting his girl. His manner and dress rule out law enforcement and organized crime. I plead ignorance, he tells me not to play games. I inquire to who his girl is, he insists I know who she is. I recommend we talk this out like adults, he asks if I don’t think he’s a man.

Now I have no clue what this is about; the one thing that’s clear to me is he’s looking for violence. Given the week I’ve had and the lack of security in the parking lot I was tempted to break every bone in his face. Still I thought diplomacy best. I offered an empty apology and promised to never do it again. This seemed to enhance his malevolence. He hikes up his shorts and proclaims he aint no bitch.

“Eviscerate him! For he is wicked! By wicked my mean contrary to your will!” screams the homicidal beast that dwells in the hearts and minds of only the most disturbed individuals. “Unveil his skeleton so he’ll be truly naked before your perfection! They say a sound like wailing winter winds can be heard if…”

I shake the voice out of my head; feeling this has gone too far I try to leave but a loud voice distracts me. “Kick his ass Dreshawn!” It belong to my coworker Maybelle, skinny, great ass, bad hair weave and six years younger than I am. I’d once told, Taj Pierce I bet Maybelle goes ass to mouth. I guess it got back to her.

It’s like when a parent says, “I just looked away for a second.” because the next thing I know I’m exclaiming, “That’s what this is about? Better run home to mama while you can Gay-shawn.” with far more spittle than needed.

“Wha’cha say bitch ass n-...” The sentence was supposed to end with a right hook to my jaw, but instead was easily countered with the most basic of aikido shoulder throws. Unfortunately he hit my British racing green E 55 breaking the driver side mirror. I just got it out of the shop, and have to find a new mechanic; these two facts send me into a rage (despite it being my fault). Dreshawn is on his feet, clearly in pain, clearly embarrassed. He throws two left jabs I’m out of range for followed by an overhand right so telegraphed I intercept it with a palm strike. I hear it fracture his wrist, but don’t give him time to acknowledge the injury. I follow the palm strike with a right hook that lands on his left eye, a left hook to his side, a right kick to his left knee that buckles on impact and a left Hisoka style uppercut to his jaw.

Maybelle exclaims, “OMG!” and tries to rush to his side, but I freeze her in place with the right look. She looks around and cries for help, knowing none will come. Dreshawn picked his moment too well. He’s failing to scuttle away from me mumbling, “Look man I didn’t want any trouble.” Through a dislocated jaw.

“What?” I exclaim while producing my brand new, never tasted flesh before pocket knife. “Clearly you were looking for trouble you pencil dicked cunt!” I’m frothing at the mouth and advancing upon him, “I gave you every chance to walk! And did you? Did you!?” I’m in striking range now, twirling the knife between my finger. “If you don’t answer, I’m going to cut your eyeballs in half. Now did you walk away?”

“NO!” he cries unable to hold back the tears. “Why?” I ask menacingly. When he responds with, “What?” I kick him on the appendix, raise the knife and scream, “Why didn’t you walk away!?”

“I don’t know!” He cries, “Because I love her, and I want to protect her. She means the world to me and…” I step on his throat to silence him. “Wrong,” I hiss, “You did it because you thought I was an easy target. If I six foot five, 250 lbs of alpha male you would’ve thought better of it. You’re the type of shit that runs from the strong and preys upon the weak; like a pedophile.”

This reignite his desire to fight, so I let him up. He stands on shaking legs and puts his dukes up. His jaw isn’t dislocated, a severe hematoma was growing on his chin. He clearly said, “I don’t need no chicken shit knife.” I close the knife and toss it to him so he can easily catch it. “The difference between me and you is you think you’re strong whereas I know.” I snicker.

He throws the knife at my face saying, “Muthafucka I said I don’t need no chickenshi…” The spin I use to dodge the knife ends in a roundhouse kick I plant on his right hip. He drops and screams like it’s broken. I kick him 20 times, most landing on his arms and legs. Needless to say, he has no fight left in him.

Maybelle has fallen to hysterics, “Oh, my god! Why did you do that? You didn’t have to do that! Why? He wasn’t gonna do nothing. Why you do that? Oh my god! You didn’t have to do all that!”

This simultaneously disgusts and enrages me. I dash to her and throttle her shouting, “Of course I didn’t have to do that! I gave him every chance to walk away and he didn’t! Because of you whore! If it wasn’t for bitches like you half the inmates in Attica would be free! But no, you wanted to see me put in my proper place. Well congratulations shit-louse! Here it is, a the muthafuking top of the food chain!”

“Let her go or so help me…” Dreshawn croaks. The sadistic grin I shoot him reveals the depth of his mistake. I puch Maybelle four times in the stomach, like I’m trying to abort a pregnancy. I let her fall to the ground in a whimpering heap. Dreshawn stands, roars, charges at me for three strides before falling disgracefully. He crawls to me and when in range, I drop an axe kick that dislocates his left shoulder. Then I make sure he has a good view as I fondle Maybelle’s tits, cunt and ass; over then under her clothes. I wipe the shit her asshole left on my fingers on Dreshawns face. He’s cursing me and making promises and threats that convince me I’m better off just killing him then and there. So I retrieve my knife just as a security guard arrives. I just say, “I don’t know what happened. Someone seems to have hit my car.” and quickly drive home despite his insistence.

Thursday;

With my car being repaired again, I had to take the bus to work and I was go out of the way to not lose my temper. On that very bus, I saw a attractive rubenesque girl. She looked young, but with a body like hers few would mind. I give her a lascivious look, take my seat and check instagram. The woman sitting behind her exclaims, “You stay away from her you pedophile! You got reason to be after girls like that! You should be ashamed of yourself! Have you no self control? You’re just like those Hollywood elitist. Wanna be Harvey Weinstein. The next Anthony Weiner everyone! I should call the police on your child molesting ass!”

Like everyone else on the bus, I do my best to ignore the woman; despite the fact that this diatribe continues for the entire 17.5 minute bus ride. When I get off the bus I thought I was rid of her. Oh how I was mistaken. It seems her tirade was directed at me. She declares she shall follow me everywhere I go and let them know what kind of person I really am. She looks like a 58 year old Anita Sarkeesian, except she African American, dressed in a black and gold outfit one only sees at red carpet events in New York circa 1973.

It’s a two kilometer walk from the bus stop to my job with nowhere to stop along the way. I assumed she’d give it up after half a click. Again I was mistaken. She had the resolve and stamina to make the walk and continue to verbally berate me  the entire time.

After approximately one kilometer I’d finally had enough and snarled at her, “Look bitch you’re free to tell my bosses whatever you want, but I don’t have to take this verbal abuse from the likes of you.”

“Bitch!?” she exclaims. “Who you callin’ a bitch? I got your bitch right here! I’ll show you a bitch!” and she swings her rather large purse at me. I dodge the purse twice but then a left cross comes at me. The punched is dodged but then I run into a fire hydrant. Thinking she has me cornered she swings the purse again. I use aikido number seven to evade and shove her into the street. The driver of the 18 wheeler slams on the brakes but still hits her, only hard enough bruise though. She looks at me and screams, “Muthafucker! You did that on purpose!” to which I scream, “You goddamn fucking right I did!” brandishing my knife and foaming at the mouth. “You better thank your god that loves little boys asses I don’t come over there and finish what I started!”

She’s aghast. She looks at the driver of the truck and shouts, “Did you hear what this muthafucker said to me?” The driver calmly replied, “Ma’am, do you need me to call an ambulance? If not, would you mind getting out of the street? You’re holding up traffic.”

I hurry to work beginning to suspect something might be seriously wrong with me.

Friday;

I picked up my British racing green Mercedes Benz E55 from the shop after my shift. To celebrate getting through the day without accosting or maiming anyone I stop in a drug store to buy beer. On my way in I coldly ignore a man asking for change. I purchase a tall can of Sapporo and a six pack of Hangar 24 orange wheat. On my way out that same guy is by the exit and asks loudly and clearly for spare change. I say, “Sorry.” without breaking stride or even looking at him; but he follows me saying, “Oh c’mon man, I saw that big fancy car you drive. I just need some change to get some food. i got kids to feed. Where’s your empathy brother? If we all just helped each other out this world would be a better place. C’mon man what would Jesus do?”

It was like a switch was flipped. Despite the fact I’m at my car and I’ve already unlocked the door. I could easily just get in and drive away and be done with it. But I’m just so overcome with pure rage. I drop the bag I had to pay for, whirl around and grab him by the front of his shirt and scream, “How ‘bout I dish it out in increments of five!” and punch him in the face while counting by five. At 25 he falls and I go with him so as to keep punching him in the face. At 100 I notice he isn’t moving anymore. Several people are filming with the cell phones by now. Undoubtedly some have called the police. I take the back streets to my house and park in the garage. I get drunk and fall asleep with my hand on ice.

Saturday;

I contemplated taking the day off to lay low and my hand still hurt. But, I can’t afford that. The work shift passes without incident and I elect to stop in a diner for a fried chicken dinner. It was crowded, but that was to be expected given the time, day and location. I’m sitting at a table making an appointment to see Dr. Ayane Tsunemori my psychologist as my food arrives. I take a sip of my raspberry iced tea with no ice only to discover it is a mr. pibb with no ice. I start for the registar when a commotion in the dining room distracts me. A college age blonde girl has fallen after going into convulsions. Her family is shouting for help, as pink foam begins to gurgle out of her mouth. The father (has anyone ever told him he looks like actor Dominic Keating?) is on the phone in tears coordinating with employees. I rush over and grab the hysterical mother and ask what her daughter ordered. After a violent shake she says, Fried chicken dinner and a mr. pibb with no ice.” She broke down into tears at the end, it’d be the last meal her daughter ever ordered.

Knowing she’s been poisoned, I look around. Assassins have to confirm the kill first hand. I see him two meters out the door. Blue jeans, Dark off greyish pseudo black t shirt. Walking nonchalantly to nowhere. A guy making sure not to get noticed or call attention to himself. He’s not even on his phone. I give chase. He’d only gone one building over and stopped in an alley lit with orange streetlights. Despite the horrible lighting I recognized this man.

“Old Painless? Of the 36 Wu-Dang Killers?” I ask as a show of respect.

“Bingo!” He smirks, “And you are Demon Lord of The Syndicate.”

“It seems our reputations precede us. ”I say while cautiously closing the distance between us.

“Hence the poison.” He shrugs, “Shame they mixed up the drinks. Now I have to dispatch you the old fashioned way.”

“I thought through...various yakuza and triad alliances and such that we were allies. At least not enemies?”

“Cheng Ling-Li says otherwise.”

I pull my pocket knife, I need no more words. He laughs, “I need no weapon to kill a man such as you!”

I attack, at first my blows are easily parried before a quick counter attack disarms me before I hit the concrete, spring back up and attack. He evades two punches, a spining backfist and an inside crescent kick before counterattacking with a quick yet stunning jab to my nose, spins behind me and hits me with a double fist attack. I get up and come at him with a telegraphed flying axe kick that’s a feint to get him into punching range. He dodges the right backfist and catches my straight left I didn’t think he saw coming and hurls me to the concrete. He strokes his beard and laughs at me.

I slowly get up. I’m literally and figuratively seeing red. I felt the rage erupting like a volcano. I wanted nothing more than to rip him apart and eat him myself! That’s when it occurred to me; there are no coincidences. Everything that happened this week, all the incidents; they had been his doing. A well planned and orchestrated maneuver to cloud my mind and judgement, thus negating my most potent weapon.

I yell, “I’m gonna rip off your head and shit down your neck!” and come at him with wild, looping hooks he easily dodges. I goes for the easy body shot I left open for him and to his surprise, I block and counter with a quick jab to his nose followed by a sloppy shoulder throw. Old Painless is up and no longer in the mood to play. But words and memory fail to accurately describe the intricate manner of our battle. I, having switched from Systema to Daitō-ryū Aiki-jūjutsu, him a master of Xin Yi Liu He Quan. You’ll have to fill in the blanks yourself. I can say had the event been recorded it’d easily be the highest viewed video ever.

Just as signs of injury and frustration began to show in Old Painless, a spotlight illuminated us indicating someone had called the police. We were detained The found no contraband on either of us and neither of us had active warrants. Neither of us wished to press charges nor did either of us require medical attention eventually we were released without charges, though separately.

Sunday;

I woke up bruised and sore but still kept my appointment with Dr. Tsunemori. I tell her of the weeks events, omitting everything that incriminates myself. She suggests I take a mini vacation. Go see a movie, try out a new restaurant, go golfing; something like that. And since that new Honduran bistro Kristoff Select told me about is closed today, I elect to see the latest Star Wars film. I had planned on taking a date to see it with me but c’est la vie…

After trailers for the new Vin Diesel movie and something that looked much worse starring Kellan Lutz and Geena Davis, I go to the toilet so I don’t have to go during the film. In the restroom are three Hispanic men, writing on the walls with black permanent markers. The first was a dead ringer for actor Robert LaSardo in Tiger Land, save he was almost four foot ten inches tall with his shabby brown boots on. He wore a wife beater and sagging jean shorts that exposed boxer shorts that were once white, but now a lighter shade of pink.

The second was just as tall as I, though at least 30 kilos heavier. He wore an Ezekiel Elliott jersey and blue jeans that sagged despite his girth. He’s in his mid 20s and has a jail grade buzzcut. The last was a lad of no older than 17. He was short, like the first guy and of average build. He wore a white Kobe Bryant jersey, matching shorts and a black hat with the word ’OBEY’ in white stitching. He has maybe a dozen hairs growing from his upper lip.

I glance at the vandalism, wonder where were these guys three days ago and move on to a urinal. They have a hushed but audible conversation about what to do now and The oldest of the three convinces the youngest this is his chance to earn a rep. I finish and move to the sink to wash my hands while the oldest gives me a ‘You think you hard?’ stare forged in US prisons.

I’m drying my hands the youngest one tries to sucker punch me. I simply side step and let him punch the paper towel dispenser. I then shove him into the largest of the three, who advanced in anticipation of the sucker punch landing. He says something like,

“What? You’re gonna disrespect the hood?” and comes at me  with his fists up, leaning back. It’s an outside leg kick to his right knee followed by an inside leg kick to the same knee and he buckles. I finish him with an uppercut and pose stylishly afterwards to intimidate the other two. It doesn’t work. The teen comes at me with three sloopy crosses that I easily avoid and lead him to the electric hand dryer and aide him in hitting face first twice.

The third guy, the one that remained conscious, laughed at hs fellows, out his hands up and says, “I’m not looking for trouble. These two wanted to be big men and I tried to warn them.”

I snicker and say, “So you can lord the day they got their asses kicked trying to impress you over them? Or make up some lie about how you saved them? How you whipped my ass while they were unconscious? Sorry partner, can’t do. You gotta get worse than the others.”

When I’m done with him he’s unconscious, has a bruised kidney, three cracked ribs, a broken left orbital bone and both his left canines and his upper left lateral incisor are missing. I then pull down all three of their pants to make it weird for who ever finds them. I managed to enjoy the film despite the constant anticipation of an usher or police officer pulling me from the theater. But, they never did.

[plumprussianpiglets]

The Legend of Neesan

Liam Neeson  (Neesan) was a sensitive soul. A man blessed with a native irish accent, unfortunately sounding like a cheap rasping third rate imitation. You see, it was not poor Neesan’s fault that he could not muster his own sweet brogue. Neesan felt himself severing from the spirit of the emerald Isles, and had grown nervous and scared to speak his native tongue. Imbued with insecurity, he spent weeks wrapped in a duvet sobbing and watching classis irish films like... Anyway. He spent this time morose, yet contemplative. He wracked his mind for the answer, his thought plagued with nothing else. 

One night while warming some hot milk, he got it. A voicebox. Neesan cackled gleefully as he pondered his scheme, how those critics would fall to their knees with prostration of error. He sent his minions at once to work, to fetch him his prized career saving auditory gold. His minions were sent to only the finest larynx outfitters, but they spent all of poor Neeson’s money on crack and got him some voice boxes from the car boot sale. You see, it began with Mandela. Mandela had always rejected Neeson, sexually and spiritually, finding him to be, in Mandela's words not mine, 'the most repugnant shit in the entire world', but Neeson had viewed Mandela as a tough nut to crack, a tease, a flirt. Neeson knew Mandela wanted it, Mandela just wasn't aware of it yet. Neeson had hit that sexy apartheid fighting slut with all his most sensual of charms. He couldn't understand why his smile seemed to have no positive effect on Mandela, infact, Neeson recalled how Mandela had promptly expelled fluids from both ends repeatedly and with a stench straight from hell to accompany. Neeson just didnt understand. He gazed like a proud gazelle into the distance, hungry for the truth searching for answers with every thought that pulsated through him, pondering the complexity and decisiveness of the situation, the mystery that was Mandela. 

Neeson vowed he'd have Mandela- he wasn't used to being rejected like this. Plus as we all know, Neeson has had designs on South Africa since he aligned with Gillette and time travelled with dire consequences (see Volume 4: origin of the smile) so Mandela was a target he couldn't ignore. Plus that tight little ass on him made Neeson froth at the mouth and howl like an angry weasel into the moon's depths. Neeson had a plan. Knowing he could trust his beloved minions with his business given their intense psychological fear of him, he sent them out to find a south african voice box. 'Get a south african voice box from the same series the others came in, whatever boxset it was, those others are simply divine minions, simply divine.' His minions glanced at eachother, their faces ones of sheer disbelief, an expression almost permanently fixed on these poor minions mugs ever since coming into Neeson's employment. His minions watched as he swarthed around in his robes, preening and changing his voice boxes. 'God, i'm gorgeous' he mused as he caught his smiling face in the mirror. The mirror proceeded to crack and shatter, and with that his minions ran off into the night before Neeson's cries enveloped them. After all, they had some crack and a budget south african voice box to buy. 

Neeson paced his halls, thinking of his conquest of Mandela. A maniacal laugh escaped his lips as he trembled with glee, shaking and snorting and howling he didnt notice his robes getting caught on his hot wheels set and promptly fell down his sixty story staircase shrieking. Neeson wasn't having a good day. Soon he'd make Mandela his though, he thought grinning, the blood pooling in the corner of his mouth. He knew the voice box would be the key, that sultry, sensual, sexy south African drawl... his cock hardened just thinking about it, he knew it was the final piece of the Mandela puzzle, and he, Liam Neeson's acquisition of further power! Curling up like a snake, he dozed off where he had landed on the floor, snoring and drooling and murmering about Mandela's tight asshole as he slumbered. 

The morning came, and with it brought the influx of minions, spent from their crack binge and with a shitty cracked pirate south african voice box in tow.

 'He'll never know the difference, Neeson's eyes aint too sharp anymore after his stint in Iraq you know...' a minion laughed , pushing open the door, only to be met with the sight of Neeson lying on the ground, pools of sticky crimson surrounding him. 

'NEESONS DEED MATE! HES FUCKIN DEED! SOUND OUT THE BELLS, PRAISE ONE OR MORE OF YOUR GODS LADS, THE TYRANT HAS FALLEN!' the minions celebrated and cheered, embracing one another and crying with joy. Neeson's reign was over! Amongst the happy chatter though, they didn't hear the light breathing... Neeson was listening. His lips curved menacingly as he began to smile, a small laugh escaping him. 'G-g-guys? Can you... can you feel that?... the air just... changed. I can feel an icy coldness in my bones... Its almost as though pure evil just walked into the room... Like the devil himsel- OH FUCK ITS NEESON! NEESONS ALIVE!' 

Neeson has locked eyes with the minion, smiling as he did, and like a viper, he jumped effortlessly into stance. 

'Well well WELL boys, celebrating my death were we? Planning on getting a nice big cake? A celebratory pie binge at Mrs Miggin's Cafe? A communal nineway to truly set the news off with a bang? Hurhurhurhurur...' Neeson glared at his minions, laughing hysterically, his head thrown back in manic shoulder heaving guffaws. 

His minions looked at one another uneasily. They knew what Neeson could do. One Minion, Meen-yon, smiled to himself quietly. He'd kept himself at the back of the troop, but now came forward to meet Neeson eye to eye. 

'You're all washed up Neeson! We've got the youth and the ninja skills to take you down old man. There's only one of you, and nine of us, I don't like those odds for you Neeson. Perhaps my courage to stand against you will motivate the others to stand alongside me, eternally bound in the quest for noble revenge, I will avenge the souls you have wronged NEEEEEEEEESAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!' Neeson pinged the cuban cigar he had acquired from nowhere.

 'FUCKINNNN MOAAAANNNNN THENNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!' he shrieked, and with that, double back-flipped the entire length of the sixty story flight of stairs in one swift swoop. 

'My god, are the legends true!? He's a demon, a demon!' screamed one of Neeson's crack addled minions. 

'OH. YOU'RE NOT WRONG THERE.' came a booming tone from the darkness. 

The minions eyes darted around... Neeson could be anywhere in the inky darkness that stretched out seemingly for miles before them, Swallowing hard, the ballsy minion that confronted Neeson cautiously moved forward.

 'You're done for ya auld git. let the new blood take over the power of the Smile! You're nothing but a husk Neeson, A HUS-’ 

‘AAAAAAAAAIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!' Neeson shot down from the impenetrable darkness and engulfed the minion in his cloak, as he swooped upwards once more, an audible crack was heard as the minions neck broke under Neeson's strength. 

'MUWHUAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHWAHWHHWEHWEHEHWHAHHHEWHEHWEHHH' echoed around the dark hall. 'Come little minions, I've got a date with Mandela and this is taking up my beautifying time, LETS END THIS NOW!' And with a final lunge from the upstairs chandelier, Neeson descended 100 feet in as many microseconds, swirling in a vortex of Neeson Power.

 'ILL SHOW YOU WHAT THIS OLD MAN CAN DO, BOAYZ!' And with that, Neeson was unleashed. Grabbing as many minions as he could at once by the hair, he emulated his favourite fighter with a hammerthrow takedown. Dear Agatha Trunchbull. He grabbed at any hair he could, and with his intense Neeson-strength began spinning at lightspeed, becoming nothing but a blur of a smile and a wink as his minions flew around, screaming as their hair pulled at the roots, leaving bloodied clumping masses on the floor, the scarlet fluid cascading everywhere as no features other than Neeson's smile could be distinguished in the swirling chaos, only the blood spatters that stained the surrounding area were visible. 

'I CALL THIS ONE THE MATILDA FUCKER LADS!' he cackled as he sent them crashing through the walls of his fortress, dead on impact with the force of hitting the stone. Blood seeped down Neeson's face as he cackled, hands filled with two thirds of his minions hair. He laughed as the balding corpses lay twitching, wishing to butter their heads, but now was not the time. He adjusted his leather coat and shades inexplicably acquired in the fighting process and spun round, searching for the voice box amongst the fallen. 

'Not so fast, Neeson.' Neeson's heart skipped a beat. All his minions were eliminated, were they not? And he was really going to have to quicken pace if he wanted time for his seaweed mud mask to take effect. Sighing, Neeson swiveled his head around 360 degrees with a horrific snap to meet the face of his foe. The minion that had given him the auld cheek stood before him, dangling the voice box in front of neeson and sucking hard on his crack pipe like he was the only choirboy in the vatican.

 'Looking for this, Neeson? Its your only method of getting Mandela getting hooked on your cock... I know all about your plans you idiot, you would tell us all, loudly and proudly about your evil schemes. Guess that's coming to bite you on your decrepit old ass now huh Neeson. I wonder what would happen if I just...-' before Neeson could spring into action, his natural cat like agility in full swing, the minion spewed out his own voice box and quick as a flash, inserted Neeson's only South African voice box deep into his larynx. An explosion of purple smoke enveloped the two at that time, the wind howled and Neeson could, if he was not mistaken, detect some ominous string section, which meant evil was afoot, of course. The smoke cleared slowly, Neeson had been thrown off his feet into a nearby painting of himself. 

'I am a GOD' he thought as he emerged from his behind his ripped canvas smile. 

'YOU GIVE ME THAT VOICE BOX BACK, REGARDLESS, ITS THE END FOR YOU, BOY, MY IRISH CHARMS CAN STUN A MAN AT FIFTY PACES-' 

'FUCK AFFF NEESON! FUCK AFFFFF! THE SOUTH AFRICAN VOAAAWCEE BOAAAXXX HAS GIVEN ME THE POWERS I NEED TO DESTROY YOU ONCE AND FOR ALL!' Neeson casually lit up the minions crack pipe, and with a bow of his head uttered, 'Lets do it, ya jive ass MUTHAFUCCKAAAAAAAAAAAAA!' The two launched themselves at eachother with a ferocity only seen in the finest of gay pornographic films. Neeson flung the crack pipe expertly at the minion, severing his left ear in one swift strike. 'That was a truly CRACK-ing shot wasn't it?' Neeson howled to himself, tears streaming down his face. The minion clawed at the floor, pulling himself up with a roar. 

'I WONT LET YOU WIN NEESON, FUCK AFFFFFFFFF!' and with a leap, proceeded to downwards headbutt Neeson. 'Oh you fool!' shrieked Neeson mirthily. 'You forget, us Neeson's are made of stone after all!' the minions skull cracked instantaneously upon impact, sending a spike of pain throughout his entire body. His face contorted, teeth shattered, blood staining every pore, he lay on the ground next to Neeson catching his breath. Was Neeson truly unstoppable? No, he couldnt be... But his power, his skill, his strength, his overpowered nature... Could it be... COULD IT BE NEESON WAS... IMMORTAL!?!?' With a wink, Neeson, cloaked in all his full glory bend down over his mangled minion. A fire burned in his eyes, and with one swift motion proceeded to shove his fist into the minions mouth and dislodge the precious South African voice box. Neesons eyes bubbled with tears as he swallowed the device, contemplating his final acquistion of Mandela. His vanity got the better of him as he preened and swooned at the prospect. 

'Naoowww minion, how do I sound? Shexehh baybeeh?' 

'NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NEESON, NEESON IT SOUNDS... IT SOUNDS TERRIBLE, MY EARS BLEED, PLEASE GOD WHY, WHY WOULD SUCH A CREATURE EXIST TO MASSACRE ACCENTS THE WAY HE DOES, NEESON, NEESON YOU ARE... TRULY EVIL!' the minion writhed on the floor, the sound unbearable. Neeson's face dropped as he stifled a small cry. 'How... dare. you.' Neeson shook with rage. The half dead minion could see something swelling up inside of him, an attack so potent, so powerful, he would surely destroy everything in the surrounding area. His face contorted, smoke shot from his eyes as his entire body became framed with a firey ring. 'Say goodbye, minion' and in that instance, Neeson shot out a smile so warped, so vile, so disgusting and hideous, the enitre room sighed 'NEESON' in hushed demonic tones. A shadow erupted from his hingin' agape mouth and swirled around Neeson, protecting him so the Smile could do its work. The minion shrieked in horror as he witnessed Neeson's smile contort and twist in ways he had never seen before. His entire body felt stiff, and as Neeson continued to grin like a broken madman, the minion turned to stone. Neeson continued to smile to himself, marvelling at his fine work. And with a last look at himself in the mirror, went to find Mandela to turn on the old Neeson charm.

[funny-relatable]

WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE RUNNING OFF TO

Cashier: *waiting nervously at bus stop* Why is this stupid bus always so late. It's either early or ridiculously late. Why can't it ever be on time. Fuck. I'm so paranoid. I feel like I did something wrong. I should've checked on my co-worker. What if they're seriously hurt.

Old Man: You've been talking to yourself for about fifteen minutes straight, kid. I usually ain't one to complain, but I was enjoying the silence before you started whining.

Cashier: Eek! Where did you come from old man?

Old Man: Over yonder. *points at liquor store* I've been sitting in this here bus stop since before you arrived, but you kids today don't pay attention none. I could've gutted you in a second if I wanted to.

Cashier: Are you going to gut me?

Old Man: No. At least not now. *lets off a threatening chortle*

Cashier: Oh my god!

Old Man: I'm messing with you, kid. I'm a religious man and it ain't in me to even harm a fly. Holy lord! *violently stomps his foot on the ground*

Cashier: What's wrong!?

Old Man: There was a maggot there. I hate maggots. Damn things freak me out.

Cashier: You said you wouldn't hurt a fly, but you'll stomp on a maggot?

Old Man: Never said I was pro-life.

Cashier: *begins to walk away*

Old Man: Where ya going, kid?

Cashier: I can't trust you, old fucking man! I'd rather walk home then stand around with you.

Old Man: Good thing you told me you were walking home so I can follow ya there. *chortles*

Cashier: Shit! *starts running*

*streets lights burst and the old man screams*

Cashier: SHIT! *runs and hides in an alleyway* What the fuck is even happening to me? I shouldn't have left early. I should've checked on my co-worker. This is some form of karmic retribution.

???: NO IT IS NOT, HUMAN.

Cashier: Who the fuck's there!? Where are you!?

???: YOU CANNOT SEE ME BUT I CAN SEE YOU VERY CLEARLY. I CAN SEE ALL PERMUTATIONS OF YOUR FUTURE, AND NONE WOULD END WELL FOR YOU TONIGHT.

Cashier: What?

???: IF NOT FOR MY INTERVENTION, THE OLD MAN WOULD HAVE BECOME INTERESTED ENOUGH IN KILLING YOU TO HAVE TRIED IT OUT. IF NOT, YOUR BUS WOULD HAVE COLLIDED INTO AN ONCOMING TRUCK, KILLING YOU INSTANTLY. AND LET US SAY THAT YOU DECIDED TO CHECK UP ON YOUR FRIEND AT YOUR PLACE OF EMPLOYMENT. WELL, IN THAT CASE YOU WOULD HAVE MET ME MUCH EARLIER. I AM NOT GOING TO PRETEND THAT I HAVE ANY GOOD INTENTIONS FOR YOU HUMAN.

Cashier: You're saying that I was doomed no matter what?

???: HMM, NOT NECESSARILY. I WOULD SAY THAT YOU ARE IRREVOCABLY DOOMED AT THIS MOMENT, AS I HAVE TOTAL CONTROL OVER YOUR FUTURE AND NO INTENT TO LET YOU LIVE.

Cashier: But why? You don't have to kill me. I'm sure you could let me live.

???: I AM HUNGRY. SORRY, BUT I ONLY GET TO ENJOY A MEAL ONCE EVERY FEW CENTURIES. THINK OF IT THIS WAY, AFTER I FINISH EATING YOU, I WON'T HAVE TO EAT ANYONE ELSE FOR HUNDREDS OF YEARS. YOU ARE DOING SOMEONE ELSE A COURTESY TO WHICH I AM SURE THEY WILL BE VERY GRACIOUS.

Cashier: I don't care about anyone else! I don't want to die! Please, I have a family that will miss me!

???: I DO NOT KNOW WHAT A FAMILY IS. GOODBYE, HUMAN. OR AS THE FANCIER HUMANS WOULD SAY, BONER APE TITS... I THINK.

*thousands of maggots crawl out of the shadow and onto the cashier's body meticulously chewing away pieces of flesh as they crawl along*

Cashier: No! It hurts! I don't want to die! Someone help me! Help!

Amorphous Blob: *watches quietly as the cashier froths at the mouth and quietly flails on the ground* HUMANS ARE SO MENTALLY FRAGILE. FEEDING OFF THEIR FEAR IS SO EASY. AS IF I WOULD EVER LET MY PERFECT CATERPILLARS CHEW ON DISGUSTING SULFURIC HUMAN FLESH.

Amorphous Blob: *burps* OH, EXCUSE-AND-MWAH. SUCH A DELICIOUS DINNER SEEMS TO HAVE MADE ME UNCOUTH. GOODNESS, I WISH MY SIGNIFICANT OTHER WAS HERE TO EXPERIENCE ME SPEAKING THE ROMANTIC FANCY HUMAN LANGUAGE TO HIM. *pops open locket containing picture of some guy*

Amorphous Blob: OH, MY ONE HUMAN LOVE. MY ONE REASON TO EXIST. HOW MY ICHOR QUIVERS FOR YOU SO. YOU ARE SO HANDSOME, SO GENTLE, SO KIND. I BELIEVE IN FANCY HUMAN LANGUAGE THEY WOULD REFER TO YOU AS "SAY MAGNET FEET". *sigh* I MISS YOU SO MUCH, MY DEAR.

Amorphous Blob: *slips locket back into its goo* BUT I MUST BE GOING NOW. I HAVE A MISSION I MUST COMPLETE. OFF I GO TO- *spots a woman's clothing store across the street* GOODNESS, THAT FACILITY LOOKS POSITIVELY GLAMOROUS. I WONDER IF I COULD... NO! I NEED TO STICK TO MY QUEST. I HAVE ALREADY TAKEN ENOUGH BEAUTY PRODUCTS TO KEEP MY VAIN THOUGHTS SATIATED. BUT... WHAT ARE BEAUTY PRODUCTS IF I DO NOT HAVE PRETTY CLOTHING TO COMPLIMENT THEM? IT WILL NOT HURT MY QUEST IF I TAKE THE SMALLEST DETOUR TO FIND SOME GLAMOROUS FASHION TO IMPRESS MY LOVE WITH.

Amorphous Blob: BESIDES, I AM A PRINCE. PRINCES HAVE TO LOOK GOOD. NO ONE CAN LOVE A PRINCE THAT LOOKS LIKE A COMMONER. *rolls towards the beauty store*

Cashier: *lies braindead and gargling on their own spit*

[quakerjoe]

Trump vs. The Press? YOU are not "the people". You're Peasants.

Trump said that the press is the enemy of the “Enemy of the American People”. What you have to understand is that from his point of view, he’s right. Trump and his ilk, the rich and the elite in power, consider themselves “the American People”. When the press drags out their corruption and lies, it’s not something that the Plutocrats want. When Congress OPENLY and DEFIANTLY tried to wipe out the Ethics Committee, the thing that monitored against corruption within Congress, the bought-and-owned Republicans and select Democrats essentially told voters that a massive wave of corruption was coming and that THEY were going to get rich by doing illegal and morally corrupt things while wielding power designed to serve the nation and not their wallets. The press was essential in bringing that news to light and helped to stop that. For now. You see, Trump and the Corporate-owned and sponsored politicians are the “American People”. What many of you fail to realize is that “We the People”… YOU are not. You’re just sheeple who pay taxes that benefit the rich people running this show. You’re peasants and serfs to them. They’re rubbing your noses in it right now, and some of you jack-wagons are all masturbating in glee over having the education system about to crash so your children grow up stupid or baked in Jesus school. You’re having wet dreams about sexual assault and anti-abortion and the suppression of sexual education and contraception. You don’t want facts, and you certainly don’t want to just “do you” and let others do their own thing. There are too many selfish cunts out there frothing at the mouth with Trump’s team running things, because while they feel they’re getting what they want as far as civil issues go (or rather, the regression of), your government is shafting safeguards that used to protect you peasants like affordable healthcare, protections against the literal poisoning of our water and air, the removal of safeguards that protected workers from injury and exploitation. Those laws that used to protect you peasants and allowed you to take an employer to court for negligence are about to go bye-bye. “Right to  Work”, for those of you who never actually read what it’s for, means that if an employer can shaft you in an instant, anytime, anyplace, for any reason at all, and there’s fuck-all nothing you, peasant employee, can do about it. Job security? Ha! You’ll never know what that is, nor will your children. YOUR kids are entering a time in our history where the air will be toxic, the water will be poison and they’ll have to buy potable water from the likes of Nestle in order just to live. You’ll have to suck it up and start taking all those nickel and dime jobs that undocumented immigrants used to do before the Great Roundup and Deportations. Hell, the way laws are being peeled back to the dark ages, you can probably look forward to your children returning to the Child Labor days, working for pennies on the dollar, just so you can put some bread on your ignorant, school-proof table. This is why not telling your children about sexual reproduction and giving them access to contraception is important to them as well as banning abortion- it keeps the nation flooded with young, healthy workers! Once they’re sick, they can legally be fired (Right to Work) and without insurance or health coverage, the sick will die off, leaving only the healthy ones to work. That “Surplus Population” will die off, and the mortality rates will plummet. If only you “conservatives” bothered to learn something in school or take a greater interest in later life, rather than “conserving” the amount of neurons firing in your simple, little brains, then we wouldn’t be sliding back into a second Medieval Era. If only those rules about “Truth in Reporting” were a reality and talking heads like FOX News weren’t allowed to impersonate journalism. Journalism’s reputation as the Fourth Estate, or 4th unofficial branch of government that was part of an essential checks and balances has been so tarnished that nobody knows what to believe or who to trust anymore. This is the PERFECT scenario for those who wish to do corrupt things in government while the smoke screens of misinformation and outright lies bog down the clarity of truth with the murkiness of the swamp from which it was generated. Funny how this looks like a poorly made remake of Mussolini’s Italy. What’s scary is that it wasn’t him that made the biggest history, it was the fascist who impersonated and came after him, and that can only make you wonder- What manner of depravity and outright evil can possibly follow Trump? The optimist in me hopes for the return of sanity and a champion of actual truth, justice, and some sort of “American Way”, but the pragmatic side of me, the one who’s studied history, can’t see this happening any time soon. There’s still so much we can do to fuck things up left ahead of us. As Winston Churchill once said- “You can always count on the Americans to do the right thing after they have tried everything else.”

[thesamesandwicheveryday]

9.

It’s 4am right now, and I feel as if nostalgia woke me up the way a nightmare would, but it was nothing scary — that adrenaline of waking up after witnessing some subconscious terror, it’s physiologically the same — there are electric shocks still running up and down my arms and I feel as if I have to close my windows and check the door is locked but I’m not frightened. This adrenaline is redirected, it’s an excitement more than anything else, and I don’t want to secure the flat to keep predators out but instead to keep this feeling in. I don’t want any of this immediate nostalgia to escape through any nook of this place. I feel like I want to fill my home with it. 2012 was such a good year, it just was. Is it pathological to experience nostalgia for a time that occurred only six years ago? And it’s not that I was happier then, I can’t say that or feel that because objectively it’s just not true, because the nature of happiness changes and what I was happy with then may not satisfy me in the same way now, but something about that year, I don’t know. I’m bewitched by it, the unearthing of my memories from that time. Why haven’t I really sat down and thought of this before? Here in my living room, I am soaked through and agitated, and it’s dark outside still because of weather, or seasons, or perhaps it’s just this valley-pit and how it fails to let the light in — but I’m not really here right now, because I’ve travelled in time and I’m existing in two places at once — I look out the window and I see two windows — this one, that frames the crotchety old Gasworker Street cobbles at the embouchure of Ropshire Road that seems, at this time of day, like a wide open, gaping shark’s mouth and its needly streetlamp teeth all strewn with ale-bottles and other such street plankton and flotsam — but I’m seeing an overlay, the bowing bay window from the Kentish Town lounge I spent those two Summers hazing about in, and the dark, smokey Autumn morning here is dusking lighter to meet the powder hue of a June one in northwest London, and in the thickening silence of semi-rural Yorkshire, I hear the comfort of the non-stop house we had; I hear Will in the kitchen making we-had-an-argument-lastnight bread, I hear him working to a cut-glass woman reading commentary on the radio, I hear the nextdoor neighbours and their long, southern vowels as the squabble once again in the hubbub of a schoolday. I look down now at my own vest and joggers but, like a hologram, bright, white cotton appears as it did then, because cottons were so bright then and I wore so much white, nothing was going to get spilled and if it did, there were more cottons to be had. I see my floor here but I see my floor there too and looking up I see the high ceilings Will and I felt so proud of, as if space were premium real estate and high windows an ensurer of value; the more light, the more space, the more space, the more light, and now the smell of a lit oven and proven dough means I must now close my eyes because I remember it all so richly, and why does it all seem so incredibly clean? You know what, maybe it was the music? Because we seemed to listen to an abundance of it then, we soundtracked it all, I can hear the lucid dream-pop as if it’s coming through the floorboards and I can taste the wisteria from the neighbour’s quiet, beautiful garden where we were sometimes allowed to pick garlic and coriander leaf if I was deigning myself to cook something Eastern in our big, bustling kitchen where my work would be on the table, my performative efforts of university essays gaining themselves coffee mug rings, wine glass rings, poularde au riesling for kitchen supper splashback marks, ending up snagging under the table’s one wonky leg, creased up under the weight of our bodies when the kitchen table became a hurried sine qua non, and the sui generis flavour of sconce-lit, stove-warm late night the same colours as this one here, the Orange Muscat & Flora syrupy warm and round, very round taste, and fresh bathwater holograms rippling up round the skylight, warm all around me in amniosis, Will perched on the seat with the lid down, legs crossed like a grasshoper and his warm body hugging the big, good towel round me and its line-dried taste, and Beach House and Craft Spells and Widowspeak and Warpaint and Blouse and Best Coast and Kurt Vile and Real Estate and Balam Acab and YACHT and Atlas Sound and Memory Tapes and Gang Gang Dance and plans we all seem to had, when I was busy then, when I was — when we were — supper parties and matinees and brunches and openings and galleries and restaurants and pop-ups and the dinner we got engaged over and the dinner during which we announced our engagement and the dinner at which we first spoke about children and the dinner for which we bought new clothes for and the dinner at the place we chose for the reception and the calls we made, and the shape of love being so expansive and bright and light and its flimsy edges that bent and flickered like a blade of grass, rooted, and there were friends then, and they all had such things and jobs and hobbies and loves and how I slipped into that fray with my silk things and linen things and velvet things and leather things and the taste of salted things and infused things and emulsified things and frothed things, and laughing, as we did, and how that didn’t really stop — did I stop laughing, somewhere along the line? When did I stop laughing at things? And how do I start again? When you want to laugh, where’d you start? Where’d you go? Who do you need to know? 

2012 was perhaps an anomoly that I appreciate the pause of. It seems like everything else swims in the same great darkness, whether it was someone else who invited that darkness in or, quite often, me who threw that gloomy tone over my entire landscape the way that I did. There’s light to my every experience, and the light that does creep in creates a tasteful balance in my memory, so that everything can be neutralised, and a new era can begin. It doesn’t hurt to reminisce on these terms, and it feels funny to think about — looking back on it all and seeing what particular flavour of murky I tasted that summer, that semester, that term of employment, that relationship, that year: the nervy dark of me that sat in tepid baths for hours on muggy Sundays in my late teens buzzing like a bandsaw and coming down from amphetamines; the orchestral dark of my several terrible peaks, like great timpani behind grand old curtains pounding those hundreds of mornings when I woke up wondering to what extent I’d half-heartedly risked my life the night before; that mossy dark from the mold-spored pages of a Victorian bodice-ripper of my own private scandals slipping on wet sod and stumbling in and out of shallow lakes with some other hungry dark of deceptive and contrary want. However it came and went, it did so gloomily, and that was on me, I did that — but 2012 was two summers long and none of that film of grit stayed long enough to leave a mark, because someone always washed with me. And it’s not because I’m lonely now because how can I be lonely with Ben? Not even just Ben, how can I be lonely with the people I’m already meeting? How can I be lonely with Hugo around, with Rob and Kat down the road, with the Sicilian market vendor, with the sandwich shop, with the people I’ll meet because when have I ever found it hard to make friends? I do this, I’ve done this, I’ll keep on doing this and doing things because I am not lonely, I am just a wistful person, because how could I be anything but happy right now, when everything — on paper — adds up to comfortable happiness? I’m happy, and how could I not be? There’s nothing I had then, that I can’t still have now. I cannot think of one thing I am missing from my past that lacks in my present because these things aren’t formulaic and times and happinesses change, wants change, and whatever I had then I have right now and if I didn’t, trust me, for an afternoon in 2012 on the Southbank with a lavender martini and a pack of Gauloises and a fucking jambon and juniper-pickled cucumber muffuletta, I would run and get it tomorrow. Fuck tomorrow — I’d run right now in the pissing rain over the moors and break my leg on the crags to go get it and drag it into the present with me now. It’s just silly, isn’t it. I should really get some sleep. 

[clubofinfo]

Expert: Last week, Jeremy Corbyn humbled the entire political and corporate media commentariat. With a little help from Britain’s student population. And with a little help from thousands of media activists. Without doubt this was one of the most astonishing results in UK political history. Dismissed by all corporate political pundits, including the clutch of withered fig leaves at the Guardian, reviled by scores of his own Blairite MPs (see here), Corbyn ‘increased Labour’s share of the vote by more than any other of the party’s election leaders since 1945′ with ‘the biggest swing since… shortly after the Second World War’. He won a larger share of the vote than Tony Blair in 2005. Corbyn achieved this without resorting to angry lefty ranting. His focus was on kindness, compassion, sharing, inclusivity and forgiveness. This approach held up a crystal-clear mirror to the ugly, self-interested cynicism of the Tory party, and transformed the endless brickbats into flowers of praise. On Twitter, John Prescott disclosed that when Rupert Murdoch saw the exit poll ‘he stormed out of the room’. As ever, while the generals made good their escape, front-line troops were less fortunate. Outfought by Team Corbyn, out-thought by social media activists, outnumbered in the polls, many commentators had no option but to fall on their microphones and keyboards. LBC radio presenter Iain Dale led the way: Let me be the first to say, I got it wrong, wholly wrong. I should have listened more to my callers who have been phoning into my show day after day, week after week. The Guardian’s Gaby Hinsliff, who had written in January, ‘This isn’t going to be yet another critique of Corbyn, by the way, because there is no point. The evidence is there for anyone with eyes’, tweeted: This is why I trust @iaindale’s judgement; he admits when it was way off. (As mine was. As god knows how many of ours was) Hinsliff promised: Like everyone else who didn’t foresee the result, I’ll be asking myself hard questions & trying to work out what changed… Annoying as ever, we asked: But will you be asking yourself about the structural forces, within and outside Guardian and corporate media generally, shaping performance? And: Is a corporate journalist free to analyse the influence of owners, profit-orientation, ad-dependence, state-subsidised news? Taboo subjects. Presumably engrossed in introspection, Hinsliff did not reply. Right-winger John Rentoul, who insisted four weeks ago in the Independent that, ‘we are moving towards the end of the Corbynite experiment’, appeared to be writing lines in detention: I was wrong about Jeremy Corbyn – The Labour leader did much better in the election than I expected. I need to understand and learn from my mistakes. Channel 4 News presenter and Telegraph blogger, Cathy Newman tweeted: Ok let’s be honest, until the last few weeks many of us under-estimated @jeremycorbyn Translating from the ‘newspeak’: many corporate journalists waged a relentless campaign over two years to persuade the public to ‘underestimate’ Corbyn, but were wrong about the public’s ability to see through the propaganda. Piers Morgan, who predicted the Conservatives would win a ’90-100 seat majority’, wrote: I think Mr Corbyn has proved a lot of people, including me, completely wrong. In a typically dramatic flourish, Channel 4’s Jon Snow’s summation was harsh but fair: I know nothing. We the media, the pundits, the experts, know nothing. Guardian columnist Rafael Behr, who wrote in February, ‘Jeremy Corbyn is running out of excuses’, also ate humble pie: Fair play to Jeremy Corbyn and his team. They have done a lot of things I confidently thought they – he – could not do. I was wrong. In March, Observer columnist Nick Cohen graphically predicted that ‘Corbyn’s Labour won’t just lose. It’ll be slaughtered.’ In an article titled, ‘Don’t tell me you weren’t warned about Corbyn’, Cohen indicated the words that would ‘be flung’ at Corbynites ‘by everyone who warned that Corbyn’s victory would lead to a historic defeat’: I Told You So You Fucking Fools! Apparently frothing at the mouth, Cohen concluded by advising the idiots reading his column that, following the predicted electoral disaster, ‘your only honourable response will be to stop being a fucking fool by changing your fucking mind’. Awkward, then, for Cohen to now ‘apologise to affronted Corbyn supporters… I was wrong’; presumably feeling like a fucking fool, having changed his fucking mind. Tragicomically, Cohen then proceeded to be exactly as ‘wrong’ all over again: The links between the Corbyn camp and a Putin regime that persecutes genuine radicals. Corbyn’s paid propaganda for an Iranian state that hounds gays, subjugates women and tortures prisoners. Corbyn and the wider left’s indulgence of real antisemites (not just critics of Israel). They are all on the record. That Tory newspapers used them against the Labour leadership changes nothing. Former Guardian comment editor and senior columnist Jonathan Freedland spent two years writing a series of anti-Corbyn hit pieces (see our media alert for discussion). Last month, Freedland wrote under the title, ‘No more excuses: Jeremy Corbyn is to blame for this meltdown’, lamenting: What more evidence do they need? What more proof do the Labour leadership and its supporters require? Freedland helpfully relayed focus group opinion to the effect that Corbyn was a ‘dope’, ‘living in the past’, ‘a joke’, ‘looking as if he knows less about it than I do’. Freedland has also, now, had no choice but to back down: Credit where it’s due. Jeremy Corbyn defied those – including me – who thought he could not win seats for Lab. I was wrong. Like Freedland, senior Guardian columnist Polly Toynbee has relentlessly attacked Corbyn. On April 19, she wrote of how ‘Corbyn is rushing to embrace Labour’s annihilation’: Wrong, wrong and wrong again. Was ever there a more crassly inept politician than Jeremy Corbyn, whose every impulse is to make the wrong call on everything? This week, Toynbee’s tune had changed: Nothing succeeds like success. Jeremy Corbyn looks like a new man, beaming with confidence, benevolence and forgiveness to erstwhile doubters… Apparently channelling David Brent of The Office, Toynbee added: When I met him on Sunday he clasped my hand and, with a twinkle and a wink, thanked me for things I had written. With zero self-awareness, Toynbee noted that the Mail and Sun had helped Corbyn: ‘by dredging up every accusation against him yet failing to frighten voters away, they have demolished their own power’. Former Guardian political editor Michael White, yet another regular anti-Corbyn commentator, admitted: I was badly wrong. JC had much wider voter appeal than I realised Former Guardian journalist, Jonathan Cook, replied: Problem is you *all* got it wrong. That fact alone exposes structural flaw of corporate media. You don’t represent us, you represent power. White responded: You’re not still banging on, are you Jonathan. You do talk some bollocks. Guardian, Telegraph, Independent and New Statesman contributor Abi Wilkinson tweeted: Don’t think some of people making demands about who Corbyn puts in shadow cabinet have particularly earned the right to be listened to… We paired this with Wilkinson’s comment from June 2016: Any hope I once held about Corbyn’s ability to steer the party in a more positive direction has been well and truly extinguished. Wilkinson replied: ‘oh fuck off’, before concluding that we are ‘two misogynistic cranks in a basement’, and ‘just some dickheads who aren’t actually fit’ to hold the media to account. When a tweeter suggested that Corbyn’s result was ‘brilliant’, New Statesman editor Jason Cowley replied: ‘Yes, I agree.’ Just three days earlier, Cowley had written under the ominous title: The Labour reckoning – Corbyn has fought a spirited campaign but is he leading the party to worst defeat since 1935? In March, Cowley opined: The stench of decay and failure coming from the Labour Party is now overwhelming – Speak to any Conservative MP and they will say that there is no opposition. Period. Like everyone else at the Guardian, columnist Owen Jones’ initial instinct was to tweet away from his own viewspaper’s ferocious anti-Corbyn campaign: The British right wing press led a vicious campaign of lies, smears, hatred and bigotry. And millions told them where to stick it. And yet, as recently as April 18, Jones had depicted Corbyn as a pathetic figure: A man who stood only out of a sense of duty, to put policies on the agenda, and who certainly had no ambition to be leader, will now take Labour into a general election, against all his original expectations. My suggestion that Corbyn stand down in favour of another candidate was driven by a desire to save his policies… Jones has now also issued a mea culpa: I owe Corbyn, John McDonnell, Seumas Milne, his policy chief Andrew Fisher, and others, an unreserved, and heartfelt apology… I wasn’t a bit wrong, or slightly wrong, or mostly wrong, but totally wrong. Having one foot in the Labour movement and one in the mainstream media undoubtedly left me more susceptible to their groupthink. Never again. We will see! To his credit, Jones managed to criticise his own employer (something he had previously told us was unthinkable and absurd): Now that I’ve said I’m wrong…so the rest of the mainstream commentariat, including in this newspaper, must confess they were wrong, too. Despite the blizzard of mea culpas from colleagues, George Monbiot also initially pointed well away from his employer: The biggest losers today are the billionaires who own the Mail, Sun, Times and Telegraph. And thought they owned the nation. And: It was The Sun wot got properly Cor-Binned’. And: ‘By throwing every brick in the house at Corbyn, and still failing to knock him over, the billionaire press lost much of its power. After receiving criticism, and having, of course, seen Jones’ mea culpa, Monbiot subsequently admitted that anti-Corbyn bias is found ‘even in the media that’s not owned by billionaires’: This problem also affects the Guardian… Only the Guardian and the Mirror enthusiastically supported both Labour and Corbyn in election editorials. But the scales still didn’t balance. This is a change from Monbiot’s declared position of three years ago, when he rejected the idea that the Guardian was part of the problem. This week, he recalled his own dumping of Corbyn in a tweet from January: ‘I have now lost all faith.’ The full tweet read: I was thrilled when Jeremy Corbyn became leader of the Labour Party, but it has been one fiasco after another. I have now lost all faith. Monbiot blamed media bias on the way journalists are selected – ‘We should actively recruit people from poorer backgrounds’ – and wrote, curiously, ‘the biggest problem, I believe, is that we spend too much time in each other’s company’. We suggested to Monbiot that this was not at all ‘the biggest problem’ with ‘mainstream’ media, and pointed instead to elite ownership, profit-orientation, advertiser dependence and use of state-subsidised ‘news’, as discussed by Edward Herman and Noam Chomsky in their ‘propaganda model’. Jonathan Cook responded to Monbiot, describing the limits of free speech with searing honesty: This blindness even by a “radical” like Monbiot to structural problems in the media is not accidental either. Realistically, the furthest he can go is where he went today in his column: suggesting organisational flaws in the corporate media, ones that can be fixed, rather than structural ones that cannot without rethinking entirely how the media functions. Monbiot will not – and cannot – use the pages of the Guardian to argue that his employer is structurally incapable of providing diverse and representative coverage. Nor can he admit that his own paper polices its pages to limit what can be said on the left, to demarcate whole areas of reasonable thought as off-limits. To do so would be to end his Guardian career and consign him to the outer reaches of social media. The same, of course, applies to Jones, who made no attempt at all to account for corporate media bias. Media grandee Will Hutton, former editor-in-chief of the Observer, now Principal of Hertford College, Oxford, wrote of ‘How the rightwing tabloids got it wrong – It was the Sun wot hung it’. On Twitter, we reminded Hutton of his own article, one month earlier: Er, excuse us..! Will Hutton, May 7: “Never before in my adult life has the future seemed so bleak for progressives. Tragicomically, given the awesome extent of his employer’s anti-Corbyn bias, John Cody Fidler-Simpson CBE, BBC World Affairs Editor, tweeted: I suspect we’ve seen the end of the tabloids as arbiters of UK politics. Sun, Mail & Express threw all they had into backing May, & failed. We replied: Likewise the “quality” press and the BBC, which has been so biased even a former chair of the BBC Trust spoke out. Sir Michael Lyons, who chaired the BBC trust from 2007 to 2011, commented on the BBC’s ‘quite extraordinary attacks on the elected leader of the Labour party’: I can understand why people are worried about whether some of the most senior editorial voices in the BBC have lost their impartiality on this. Conclusion – The Corporate Media Monopoly Is Broken ne week before the election, the Guardian reported that ‘a new force is shaping the general election debate’: Alternative news sites are run from laptops and bedrooms miles from the much-derided “Westminster bubble” and have emerged as one of the most potent forces in election news sharing, according to research conducted for the Guardian by the web analytics company Kaleida. These alternative articles were ‘being shared more widely online than the views of mainstream newspaper commentators’. Remarkably, ‘Nothing from the BBC, the Guardian or the Daily Mail comes close’ to the most-shared alternative media pieces. The Canary reported that it had doubled the number of visitors to its site to six million in May. A story by Evolve Politics, run by just two people, was shared 55,000 times on Facebook and was read at least 200,000 times. These websites ‘explicitly offer a counter-narrative to what they deride as the “MSM” or mainstream media’. Indeed, the evidence is now simply overwhelming – the 100-year big business monopoly of the mass media has been broken. It is obvious that the right-wing press – the Daily Mail, the Sun, The Times and Telegraph – play a toxic role in manipulating the public to favour elite interests. But many people are now realising that the liberal press is actually the most potent opponent of progressive change. Journalist Matt Kennard commented: The Guardian didn’t get it “wrong”. It is the mouthpiece of a liberal elite that is financially endangered by a socialist program. In truth, the Guardian sought to destroy Corbyn long before he became Labour leader (see here and here). This means that it did not target him because he was an ineffective leader imperilling Labour. And this hostility was no aberration, not a well-intentioned mistake that they got ‘wrong’. To this day, the Guardian remains Blair’s great cheerleader, despite his awesome crimes, just as it was Hillary Clinton and Obama’s cheerleader, and just as it was Bill Clinton’s before them. While employing a handful of compromised fig leaves, the Guardian has ruthlessly smeared anyone who has sought to challenge the status quo: Julian Assange, Russell Brand, Hugo Chavez, Noam Chomsky, Edward Herman, John Pilger, George Galloway and many others. It has also been complicit in the great war crimes of Iraq, Libya and Syria – accepting fake government justifications for war at face value, ignoring expert sources who made a nonsense of the claims, and propagandising hard for the West’s supposed ‘responsibility to protect’ the nations it so obviously seeks to destabilise and exploit. In our view, the corporate journalists who should be treated with most caution are precisely those celebrated as ‘dissidents’. Corporate media give Owen Jones, George Monbiot, Paul Mason and others immense outreach to draw 100,000s of progressives back to a filtered, corporate version of the world that favours established power and stifles progressive change. Above all, as Jonathan Cook says, the unwritten rule is that they will not speak out on the inherent structural corruption of a corporate media system reporting on a world dominated by corporations. This is crucial, because, as last week confirms, and as we have been arguing for 16 years, if change begins anywhere, it begins with the public challenging, exposing and rejecting, not just the right-wing press, but the corporate media as a whole, the ‘liberal-left’ very much included. In the last month, we witnessed astonishing numbers of people challenging all media, all the time on every bias – we have never seen anything like it. The young, in particular, are learning that they do not need highly-paid, privileged corporate employees to tell them what to think. We don’t need to tolerate a corporate-filtered view of the world. We can inform ourselves and each other, and we can do so with very much more honesty, courage and compassion than any corporate journalist. If there is one message from last week, it’s a simple one – dump the corporate media; all of it. http://clubof.info/