#my experience with a trump fan

[shotmrmiller]

Big man, Big mouth

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!reader (because demeaning girl usage) WC: 4.9k it's just gross smut and simon gets kinda mean sometimes nothing crazy :) ty to the brain to my pinky @xoxunhinged and precious beta @waves-against-a-cliff catching my errs

The smile you’d had on your face all morning is subsequently wiped once you’re told that you won’t, in fact, be spearheading a team meeting with air conditioning and a cup full of your favorite medium roast, but instead, you’re being sent somewhere where practical experience trumps theoretical, textbook knowledge. And alone, at that.

Guess your travel mug is about to make its big debut.

The construction site is alive with purpose— the buzzing of drills, raucous banter, and the low hum of music from a stereo. You run a hand down the back of your skirt that is more tourniquet than office attire you were forced into wearing, regretting not drawing the line at the heels pinching your toes. "Professional setting, professional appearance," your boss had said. Nothing here demands you to stand in ironed clothes with dust settling on your eyelashes and the taste of grit on your tongue.

You feel out of place, a white-collar worker surrounded by hard hats and steel-toe boots. Perhaps taking this job for a promotion was hasty on your part. But it’s too late now and the sun above you is wilting the starched collar of your blouse.

Best get this over and done with. (The bottle of barefoot wine at home will be your reward for your suffering.)

Walking to the home still in a semi-skeletal phase had been a bit uncomfortable, anxiety gnawing at your nerves and the polished shoes at the skin of your heel. But what made your shoulders tense and spine stiffen was the crew. You'd expected disgruntled workers, sure. A bit of grumbling here and there. No one likes to have someone with more authority and less experience trample all over your work, telling you what's what.

Not them eyeing you like you're a fish in a shark tank. A little minnow pulled out of her natural habitat and into the mix with dominant predators. The paper on your clipboard crinkles audibly as one of them— the leader, you gather— stops you before you can get any closer than he feels necessary. He plods over, hard hat tucked into his arm, wiping his sweaty brow with his sunbaked forearm, a few wood curls nestled into his beard.

"Ya lost?" he grunts.

There's a guy with a comb for hair and limpid blue eyes staring right at you from the back as he leans on a half-built wall with a smarmy grin on his thin lips.

"No! No, I, um—" you stammer, "I'm here as a temporary replacement for, um—"

He cuts you off with a dismissive wave, fingers thick as steel beams. "Right. Yeah, yeah." Bloody rude. "The inspector." His head tilts and spits on the cement, eyes giving you a once over, lingering on the bare skin of your calves. "John," he says then jerks his head behind him, to the shady inside of the home. "Let's get ya out this sun 'fore you melt like sugar on the driveway."

You keep your lips pressed in a line, swallowing down the retort sitting on your tongue with a hint of frustration, and follow him on swift feet. It is unforgivingly hot and at least there's a roof overhead. Most of the walls were still just wooden beams, the foundation concrete covered in dust. Rough-bristle brooms lean in corners, the stereo now sitting silently in the center of what’s to be the living room next to a man with a massive frame and a sweat-soaked wifebeater who didn't bother turning around as you made a beeline for the only fan feebly cutting through the muggy heat inside.

John from behind you grabs your attention. "So? What's the issue this time? We jus' had tha' muppet pass through a week ago." You turn around, the breeze now somewhat cooling the back of your neck.

"Just need to personally check what's left—" you clear your throat, giving the clipboard a waggle, "on this. Nothing too grand." The blonde one with shorn hair hasn't looked up once from the blue cooler between his legs.

John scratches his head. "Right." There's a drag of heavy boots behind you. "Temporary, eh?" His eyes are like cerulean rivets, pinning you in place.

Gruff Scottish cuts in, tone dripping with amusement. "Will ye look a' tha'," he mutters, accent thick and deliberate, "bosses up top sent a bonnie wee lass to keep an eye on things. Make sure ye pay good attention, aye?" The brute comes to stand in front of you, flexing one arm, bicep like a knotted tree trunk. "Would hate ye missin' the show."

Show ‘em your teeth, little fish. That promotion is already in your hands, don't let it slip through your fingers.

"Listen, you—" you snap back, cheeks burning hot but then his eyebrows raise to his hairline, the corner of his lip curling in challenge.

"It's Soap, hen."

“...Right.”

What the hell kind of name is Soap?

A third voice— crisp English just like John's— cuts through the air from the second floor. "Wipe the slobber off ya chin 'nd leave 'er alone, Soap! You still hav'ta sweep up 'ere!" A man with bronze skin and a cap adorned with the Union Jack in the center pokes his head out from over the wooden railing. His smile looks stiff.

"Miss." His eyes flash to Soap. "Move it. You can get your cock—" wow, mouth like a sailor, that one, "wet while on company's time." His gaze falls on you for a moment longer before disappearing back into the upper level.

Soap grumbles what sounds like a "fuckin' 'ell Kyle" but heads for the stairs anyway, steps creaking under his weight. "Ah'll be 'round if ye need me," he says with a wink.

Unlikely.

John absently shakes his head and turns to the grizzled, mountain of a man still hunched over that cursed cooler of his. "Simon." He suddenly moves then, rising smoothly to his feet for someone his size. He's a wall of muscle, a very clear force of nature, and he's now staring at your—

your shoes?

"Alrigh'," he gruffly says, "We'll get outta your way. The faster you can look for, whatever it is you're lookin' for, the faster you can get out o' my beard." He places his hard hat back on and gives Simon a nod. "To work, break time's over."

Simon walks past you without so much as a glance, his thick arm brushing roughly against your shoulder with enough strength to make you take a step back but then he speaks. "Don't trip on nothin', girl. I'd hate f'r our pretty mascot t'get injured on the," he emphasizes the last word, tone heavy with mockery, "job."

Your tongue is pressed firmly behind your clenched teeth as you straighten your skirt. Get this shit over with.

--

Their attitudes toward you had left some to be desired, but they had done their job seamlessly. Not a crack in place nor a bolt out of it meaning that ticking off the rest of the boxes on your clipboard had been a cinch, making the promotion even easier. By the time you were ready to go home— the thought of leaving behind the tangy scent of sweat and iron adding a pep to your painful step— the sun had already dipped, casting long shadows over the construction site.

Until John's unwelcome chivalrous gesture: sending one of his to accompany you to your car. "t's late out," he says, leaving no room for lip. Fine, whatever. The faster you get out of here the better. Saliva pools in your mouth at the thought of having a chilled glass of wine with chinese takeout for dinner.

Except the one waiting for you in the garage with a lit smoke between his chapped lips is Simon. He flicks it to the ground, smothering out the embers with the heel of his boot. "Move. Ain't got all day."

The last strand of your patience snaps and your mouth twists into a snarl. "Then leave off! I don't need a fucking chaperone. Believe it or not, I do know how to look both ways before crossing the street."

You'd only taken three irate, swift-footed steps away from him, clipboard trembling in your grip when the back of your shoe dug into raw skin; a sharp, sudden agony flaring out in a hot, thick wave and you stumble. The world spins for a second, colors blurring together until—

The relief is immediate. The hot needles on your raw nerves dulled down to a throb, vision blurring from the brief bite of intense pain. You breathe in a deep lungful of air, tasting salt and sawdust while you flex your feet, hissing when the blistered skin stretches. At least the damage to your toes is minimal.

But not to your pride. Tripping over your own feet, because the driveway while unfinished is still flat, now means you're being hauled over his shoulder, which is broad enough to be surprisingly comfortable, in the opposite direction of where your car is with your heels in hand. The fabric of his tank feels stiff under your sweaty palms.

"Is this kind of behavior normal for you? Or am I just lucky?" your voice is tinged with a mix of irritation and embarrassment. His arm tightens uncomfortably around the back of your bare thighs even though the office skirt you managed to squeeze into is knee-length.

"Only when I spot clumsy-footed birds like you. Can't 'ave ya splat on the concrete like a crime scene outline." A slow creeping flame spreads from your neck to the apple of your cheeks when you notice the guys staring at you from a window upstairs, Soap giving you a toothy smile. Even Kyle seems amused. Mortifying. Someone strike you down now. Actually, no. Then who'd feed your cat once you’re gone?

"'nd John would chew me out f'r lettin' ya break these," his long fingers circle your ankle, "in 'alf." You try to muster a response, but the words sit behind your teeth, your chagrin having tangled your tongue into knots.

Then he stops and the creaking of hinges reaches your ears. "Wait." Your eyes land on a black cargo bed, caked with dried mud. "Are you just going to sit me in your car?" He sets you down in the back seat anyway, tossing your shoes inside.

"Truck. I can drop ya on the patch of grass if ya like." Simon leaves you there, going to the driver's side rummaging through the middle compartment. His work truck is exactly what you'd expect from a man like him. The seats are covered in a thin layer of dust, you imagine he gives no one a ride, a well-worn visibility vest strewn about, an extra pair of work boots stained with splatters of white paint—the size difference of your shoes compared to his has you swallowing a lump the size of your fist down.

Simon pulls out a mid-sized red box and places it on the floor mat then props your leg up on his. His grip is firm but gentle as he inspects your open wounds and then sucks on his teeth. "A bit stupid, wearin' ankle breakers when out on a job." He prods around the inflamed skin, the pain making you tense.

"Don't worry about me and mi—" you hiss when he digs his thumb into the arch of your foot, "mine. Maybe I wanted to look nice." Fuck those shoes.

"'m sure ya did, though the skirt's all ya need." The warmth of his breath spreads through your toes and up your calf, raising gooseflesh.

You can't hold back a snort. "And now you're going to tell me that you prefer women in skirts and dresses?"

Simon switches legs, careful to not aggravate the blisters further. "I prefer my women with no clothes. But both of those make it f'r easier access. Like yours. Can see your knickers from 'ere." That has your heart skipping a beat, eyes widening with disbelief. Instinctively, you sit upright, back straightening with a pop.

"They're red."

You chuff out a breath. He's lying. You'd put on the only available pair you had at the time since you'd forgotten to dry your laundry the night prior. A simple, cotton grey. "You—! Fucking hell, I almost kicked you in the teeth." Simon's looking at you now, eyes dark and intense.

"Wouldn't be the first time someone's tried," he says with a smirk, voice low. "White, then."

The first aid kit still lies on the floor mat. "Stop talking." Simon ignores you, instead grabbing your other leg and pulling you closer toward the edge of the seat. Toward him.

"Green," he rumbles, his hands cupping the bottom of your feet, thumb and pointer coming to gently tug on your toes before moving his way up. You feel like a young, dewy-eyed farm girl having her first tumble in the hay and he's only now stroking the protruding bone of your ankle. The motion is slow, deliberate, a tender caress that sends a shiver up your spine. Has it truly been that long since you've had your body shape imprinted into the mattress?

"How about," you swallow thickly, "you patch me up proper and I'll be on my way?" If anyone else had heard, they'd say you're trying to convince yourself that being here isn't what you really want. But the little garble in your voice gives you away.

Simon hums, a sound that vibrates in your chest, sinks into the marrow of your bones. "Little bird wants t’go home 'nd 'ave only a throw 'nd a cat t'warm 'er bed?" You feel a different kind of ache this time, pulsing sharp and deep in your core. "Eh? Y'wanna curl up on the couch with one o’ those sex books while playin’ with your pretty cunt?" 

The idea of having to use the blue bullet sitting inside the nightstand drawer sounds unappealing. And it’s probably out of battery too. Damn. 

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and shake your head. He doesn’t accept that as your answer.

"Wha's tha'? You will speak when spoken to, pet. Do you," he emphasizes the last word as he begins to open your legs by the knees, "wanna go home with an empty pussy or let me fill it 'til you're leaking cum out ya ears?"

Can't say no to him serenading you like that. You clench around nothing, hesitance crumbling like sand. "B-but what about your job? Aren't you still working?"

Simon grabs you then, dinner plate-sized hands wrapping around the softer part of your waist. "'M on a break. I'd say I deserve it after all my 'ard work." He lifts you effortlessly, the hem of your skirt rolling as you widen your legs further.

He rolls his hips once, feeling the bulge in his jeans brush against your sex, feather-light, and you bite on the thickest part of your tongue to keep from moaning like a cat in heat. "And what about us being in the open?" you ask though the question is redundant. Besides the crew's work vehicles, there's not another car in sight. If anyone else had been working nearby, they've long since left.

He seems to share your sentiment. "If tha's all? 'm tryin' t'see if I got it righ'."

No, that'll just about do it. "Okay. Alright." God knows you need this. Even if it comes from a stranger you'll probably never see again. Simon doesn't wait any longer, pushing up the rest of your skirt to pool above your thighs.

He hisses long and low through his teeth. "Tight little thing, innit?" Yeah, well. You were going to tell him that while putting on your skirt that morning had been an absolute nightmare, it wasn't that small on you until the tips of his fingers glided along your clothed slit. Oh. He's not talking about that.

"I guess grey's my new favorite colour. Especially this—" he thumbs the darkened wet spot on the fabric, "shade." When he adds more pressure, you can't help but let a gasp out as you buck your hips in want of more. "Easy. 'aven't even started with you." Simon opens the front of your blouse with a single hand, coming undone easily. He goes for the clip of your bra that's serendipitously placed on the front.

"Gotta let the girls breathe," he says. Whatever his reasoning doesn't matter because all there is, is relief. No more underwire digging into your skin, no more suffocating restraint. You only wore the blasted thing because all of your sports bras would've been visible through the blouse.

Simon rolls a hardened bud with one hand while unbuttoning the front of his jeans with the other. "Eatin' this," he gives the mound of your pussy a mean tap, "gonna 'ave t'wait. I'll get ya off though, don't worry tha' little head o' yours."

You wonder if he says that to everybody he fucks in the back of his truck. "What? Why?"

His length sits hot and heavy over your cunt. And it's big enough to kill. Death by cock. That'll be on your epitaph. "'m a big geezer," he mutters, fingers toying with the side of your panties, "lyin' down so you can sit your cunt on my face isn't gonna work righ' now."

Definitely says that to everybody. "Doesn't matter. I'll take care o'ya 'nother way." Simon pulls the dampened gusset to the side and lowers his head to— "Pretty like I thought it was." A fat glob of spit lands on the puffy lips of your pussy and he smears it around with his cock, tip sliding right along your clit. He uses his thumb to press himself down harder, more friction, more sensation, each slow roll of his hips pricking neglected nerves awake, alive, and it feels good. Surprisingly good.

The way the scar on his lip whitens as he bites it tells you it's just as good for him too. "Thought about it much, did you?" He goes lower this time, ruddy tip catching on your entrance momentarily before returning up.

"Since you walked inside a place you 'ave no business bein' in. Birds like you shouldn't be minglin' in the trenches with us grunts." The tips of your ears are hot as he stares down at you. "Should be sittin' nice 'nd pretty in a cubicle with air conditionin' 'nd an oversized mug o' watered-down coffee."

Simon cups the swell of your arse, canting your hips to glide himself better. Every bump and ridge on the underside of his cock is rubbing slowly on you and the thought of licking a slick stripe on the vein only tightens the white-hot coil below your navel.

"Or better yet, sittin' at home doin' wha'ever else while waitin' f'r a man like me to come back from work with a ribeye 'nd redskin potatoes in the oven." He lets your panties fall back into place; the sodden front almost transparent as he rubs against your swollen clit at the same time. God, he's fucking. your. panties! And you're bloody letting him.

What a way to break this year-long dry spell.

He bends your legs so that your feet are now being held flat on the thick of his chest with his hands as he picks up the pace. The suspension springs on the truck begin to groan. "I like mine medium rare."

Your back's come off the seat, spine bowed. You're close, so fucking close, you've got slick coating the inside of your thighs, dripping down to your arse, probably staining his polyester material underneath. This is torture and your pussy feels tender, raw, yet he's barely touching the focal point of your desire. If he doesn't make you come in the next minute, you're breaking that thick neck of his.

It's like he read your mind because he uses his cock to tap on your clit firmly, hard enough to hear a wet thwack and he does it once, thrice and—

And then your body gives, an intense climax that steals the breath in your very lungs, has you your blunt nails biting into the muscle of his forearms, his groan drowned out by the shrill ringing in your ears. Your face feels hot, probably is hot to the touch and there's a sting on the middle of your bottom lip and can taste iron on your tongue. Even the tips of your fingers tingle.

Through your half-lidded gaze, you see Simon holding onto the top of the truck while his breath comes in ragged gasps. Did he come? You curiously touch the expanse of your stomach. Not sticky.

"No. I didn't come. You," he takes in a deep, steadying breath then reaches to squeeze the sides of your face, cheeks plumping under the pressure. "You almost 'ad me, though. I don't remember the last time I 'ad to think tha' 'ard of London t'not finish. But I'm not done with you."

Simon hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and takes them off with urgency only to stuff them in his back pocket. "Better with no clothes on, remember." You can feel his twitching cock leak onto your heated skin.

"If ya need, use this." A black bundle of fabric lands on your chest, what is— It's a mask? If he means to hide your identity from his coworkers, you're not sure this skull mask is going to work. He drags you to him roughly until your arse is hanging off the seat. And then there's a hot, dull pressure pushing against your entrance that's followed by a searing sting, and it, it's so much, it's too m-

"Tight fucking-, Ya need t-, fuck, to relax," he grunts, fingers dimpling your thighs. Simon's thrusts are jerky, short, as he wrenches your walls apart. Even with your creamy cum and his spit it's still a struggle. "'Alf way there," and a rattled breath escapes you. You're being split right down the middle and there's still some left?

For the next few moments only your squeaks and mewls can be heard as he makes room for him, your hand flat on his lower stomach— feeling the coarse, thick patch of hair on it— as if you're trying to keep him away, out, something but then he snarls and snaps his hips. You've heard of a ring of fire some women experience at some point in their life and you think this is yours. The thin skin of your entrance burns, most likely stretched to its limit, like a rubber band about to snap.

"Easy," he drawls out, "The worst's over. Took me like you're made f'r me. G'mme ya 'and." He takes your clammy hand and has you touch where the two of you meet. His eyes are glued to your fingers that are split into a v, pads feeling your cunt soaked in viscous slick.

The groan he lets out at the sight makes the world around you spin. "Stay jus' like tha'." Sure, not like you’ve got anywhere to go. Not with his hands tight around you like metal cuffs. Simon holds nothing back, not even in the very first minute. Doesn't warm you up to it, don't let you try to get used to him turning you inside out. His thrusts are long, firm, hungry— bottoming out every single time until he sits snugly at the plug of your womb. Grinds up when he meets resistance, eyeing your features in case there's discomfort.

The only ache you've got is the one he's fucking into you. (And you also might be partly lying on his tape measurer.)

But then he hitches your legs up, hands around the back of your thighs as they're pushed toward your chest and that pulls a whine out of you that you're sure John and the crew heard. "There she is, bird's got a healthy set o' lungs on 'er." He keeps the same, unforgiving angle and doubles down, using the bulk of his weight to pin you in place, forced to do nothing but take and take and take.

Until Simon's strikes the side of your arse with an open palm. "D'ya hear 'em?" Wha? What? Hear who?

And then you hear it. Him. The handsome one with the hat from upstairs. "Ghost?" he sounds right across the street and Simon hasn't stopped rocking the truck as he fucks you right through it. "Wha's tha' Kyle?" His voice is steady even though there are beads of sweat rolling down the side of his temple.

"I said good job on all your 'ard work 'nd we'll see ya tomorrow. You 'ave a good night too, Miss." There's a crude whistle followed by a pained grunt and a quick mumbled apology. Maybe if you don't respond they'll just get in their car and go home.

But then John calls out to you too.

"Simon must’ve missed you, sweetheart. “Wow. He barks out a laugh. " 'ave yourself a good night, Miss.” Then, sternly says, “Tomorrow at 6, Simon.”

Simon, though, has no intention of letting you take the easy way out. He smacks your arse again, right in the same— already tender— spot from just moments before. "Answer 'em, pet. Or 'ave I fucked all the manners outta ya?" He accentuates the last three words with thrusts so sharp that if he hadn't been holding you in place, you would've been sent sprawling back.

Whatever words you're supposed to say are snagged in your throat like hooks, only whimpers and high-pitched gasps falling past your trembling lips. He drags his thumb over your bottom one, the calloused pad of it tough. "Go on. Be good 'nd tell 'em to 'ave a good night too. And no names. Only one comin’ outta you should be mine."

When you open your mouth, he weaves a hand down to your clit, jerking it in fast little circles that have you forgetting where you even are. "Mf- g-good," he gives you just a second of respite to spit on it. "Good night-," his fingers are almost torture, and god, you're going to come in front of all of them. You warble out the words hastily, feeling your impending orgasm come at you with the speed of a freight train.

"Tha's a good bird, singin' when I tell ya to." There's no stopping this, not with all of his focus on the little bundle of nerves and every drag of his cock making your spine arch as if he were winding it. "Squeeze my cock, tha's it."

Your legs shake violently, toes curled, and you can feel a cramp begin in your calf but none of it matters, not when you're seeing bright lights behind your scrunched eyelids, not when you feel fingers in your mouth to stifle the scream that's viciously wrenched from your throat nor when Simon growls out a "Fuckin' 'ell."

"I told ya, if ya needed somethin' t'bite on, use tha'," he jerks his head toward the mask that's tight in your fist. Your soul is still floating adrift in the wind and he's already trying to make conversation. And he did not say to bite on it.

"I'm not puttin' this unwashed thing in my mouth." You languidly watch him inspect his hand, looking at the deep purple teeth imprints on his fingers. Whoops.

"But you'll 'ave me after sweatin' under the bloody sun for 'ours." His hand slides behind your nape, lifting your head a bit as he lowers his chest to meet your sweat-slick one. Your hands come to claw at the shifting muscles of his back when he begins anew, this time his pace is relentless, sharp, predatory. He's a shark that has scented blood and is now on the hunt.

The prickling bristles of his facial hair scratch against your temple. "This," the hand around your neck tightens, your rapid pulse now roaring in your ears, "is the best pussy I've ever had." His thrusts are jarring, make your teeth clack together hard enough to hurt, and after a dozen of them, he comes with a cruel bite to the junction of your shoulder, snarl animalistic.

Hopefully, the guys drove off a while ago otherwise you're re-dressing and driving home with that mask Simon tossed your way.

Your blouse is unfortunately beyond saving. Your skirt isn’t faring any better if that massive tear in the front has anything to say about it and your shoulder will require at least half a bottle of concealer plus a couple of bandaids, which the first aid kit is completely empty of. Not even the first aid guide is inside. 

You sluggishly begin to button up one of Simon's spare flannel shirts when he asks you if you're hungry.

"No." Not really. Hard to feel much when most of your nerves from the ribs down are shot.

"Get in the front, I'd like t'eat my dinner soon." He's staring right at the apex of your legs, your cunt still throbbing from the abuse."'m 'ungry." There’s no tow car sign on the street, actually, there’s not even a simple stop sign here. 

It better not get towed. You’re not paying a dime if it does.

(Are your feet still hurting or can he fuck those too? No? Next time, then.)

[scientia-rex]

I feel like disappointment in Biden is baffling to me because he was always a disappointment. He was the asshole who got to ride to power on the coattails of a better man. He told bizarre and repeated lies (despite getting caught at it and his team telling him not to) about having a Welsh coal miner dad when he did not and he stole that story from actual Welsh people. I read a profile of him years back that pointed this out and told the story of the time he straight up ignored good advice from an expert not to plant a certain kind of tree too close together and flew a bunch of them out to plant, at night because he was just too fucking excited about it, and they all died. He’s not a smart man! He’s charismatic ish and lacks principles and as far as I can tell doesn’t really care about abortion rights or a lot of things we’d consider pretty critical to preserving freedom. I sincerely thought he couldn’t become President because there were so many obviously better candidates in the pool. I underestimated the sexism and antisemitism in American politics, and when he became the candidate in 2020 I gritted my teeth and voted for him because the alternative was a man who is not only an idiot but also profoundly dangerous. Trump is not ha-ha crazy, he’s Mussolini crazy. He is not dangerous because he’s stupid, although that doesn’t help; he’s dangerous because he does not care about anyone except himself under any circumstances and if that means he lets the far right push us straight into forced birth for white women and sterilization for women of color he’s going to do that. If that means conversion therapy for queers and death penalty for homosexual acts he’s going to do that. He has literally no limits. If he gets back into power, a whole lot of people are going to die, again. It’s not a hypothetical because it happened the first time and he’s only going to get worse.

I am not, never have been, and never will be a fan of Biden. To pretend that he and Trump are in any way equivalent is wrong at best and another goddamn Russian psy-op at worst. To pretend that a third party candidacy is viable in the US is to completely ignore every election of your lifetime and your parents’ lifetimes, and to further ignore the lesson of Ross Perot.

You cannot save Palestinians by not voting for Biden in November; the best you can do is chip away at his margin, and the worst you can do is see Trump elected so he can decide to do the worst possible thing in ever circumstance. Biden has Palestinian blood on his hands and watching this when we could have had Bernie or Elizabeth Warren instead is maddening. (I would have preferred Hillary to Trump, but I don’t think she’d be any different than Biden here. They’re both old-school politicians.)

I hate everything about this, and I hate that saying “maybe don’t put the man who literally said he would kill his political enemies in power” is seen as supporting genocide. It’s acknowledging reality. Joe Biden as a person can eat rocks for all I care. I was kind of hoping he’d die sooner in his term so we’d have time to get used to and then vote for President Harris. (Remember when the line was “she’s a cop, don’t vote for her”? Funny how there’s always a reason not to vote for a woman or a person of color or someone you just “don’t like” and can’t put a finger on why except she “seems angry.” Oh does she. How would she not? When Michelle fucking Obama, the picture of grace , STILL got called angry for having the nerve to be a Black woman with an opinion? When Hillary Clinton lost to a man with no political experience to her decades and who openly discussed sexually assaulting women? Would you have voted for President Harris? Or would you let Trump win again because you don’t LIKE her personally and she’s made decisions and statements you disagree with?)

Biden has both less power than his critics give him credit for and more power than his fans give him credit for. He needs to do more to pressure Israel and although it’s a delicate diplomatic situation I’d rather see us fuck up our diplomatic relationship with Israel than watch more Palestinians get murdered for things like “wanting to eat” and “existing.” The line has been crossed, and he doesn’t see it. Because he wasn’t the best person for the job. Because they didn’t get elected, because of sexism/antisemitism/racism. Hell, I have no idea what bootlicker Pete Buttegieg would have done here, but I’d have given him a try. But no. We got Biden and we’re stuck with this reality where you can be as leftist as you want and still have to look at the situation and decide whether you’re comfortable contributing to a Trump victory through inaction. I want socialism—I want every single person on Earth to have clean drinking water, enough safe food, shelter, medical care, and education—and I’m going to vote for Biden, pissy as it makes me, because the only actual alternative is so, so much worse, for me personally as both a woman and a queer, and for everyone in America and the rest of the world who Trump would find reasons to hurt. What do you think the man who openly and repeatedly praises dictators is going to do when those dictators massacre their own people? Yes, we need to care about this genocide now. We also need to care about all of the other people who are at real risk, both at home and abroad. Would a Trump government agree to fund military intervention in Haiti without insisting on it being a colonial exercise in power? Would a Trump government roll back the restrictions on discriminating against transgender patients in healthcare? How would Trump respond if Orban started dragging people into the streets and shooting them en masse? How would Trump respond if China finally went for it and invaded Taiwan? There are more lives at stake here than mine or yours or even those of the Palestinians, who have deserved better for literally decades and are being mass killed in ways that should result in immediate sanctions, a war crimes trial, and the execution of Netanyahu.

The world deserves better from you than complicity in a Trump victory.

[hunzzzzz]

OBX TWEETS: part 14 (Rafe Cameron x reader x John B SMAU)

“Stop manhandling the AC controls, you’re gonna give it whiplash,” Rafe swatted your hand away.

“I’m currently marinating in my own sweat over here,” you huffed, yanking your hair up into a messy ponytail that probably made you look like a wet rat. 

Honestly, summer was a mixed bag. Sure, the extra daylight hours were great for avoiding your responsibilities, but the feeling of your thighs doing the sticky-seat tango was a special kind of torture. And then there was your hay fever, that sneaky little bastard that lay dormant until the most inconvenient moment, like right when you were trying to look effortlessly cool on a first date with your nemesis. So far, the pollen ninja hadn't struck, but you were on high alert.

“You’re more dramatic than a daytime soap opera,” he rolled his eyes, though there was a smile playing on his lips. “Give it, like, two seconds to actually work.”

“Two seconds in this mobile greenhouse feels like two years in hell,” you sighed with exaggerated despair, fanning yourself with your hands like you were a Southern belle who’d just heard some shocking gossip. “You’re actively trying to cook me alive in this metal death trap.”

“You have the imagination of a caffeinated squirrel,” he chuckled, glancing over at you.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you scoffed, narrowing your eyes.

“Like what?” he asked innocently, though you could see the mischief dancing in his eyes.

“Like a goddamn pervert who’s mentally undressing me.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, shaking his head and laughing. “Time out. A fucking pervert? You seemed perfectly fine with my face squished between your thighs. But now I’m a pervert?”

You smacked his arm lightly, though you quickly looked away to hide the blush that was creeping up your neck. “You’re so fucking nasty.”

“I was going for ‘passionately persuasive,’” he pouted dramatically, reaching over and placing a hand on your thigh. At that exact moment, the AC finally kicked into high gear, blasting you with a glorious wave of icy air that made every hair on your body stand up in delighted shock.

You somehow made it to the bowling alley without resorting to actual violence. The fluorescent lights were as flattering as ever, and the smell of stale popcorn and rented shoes filled the air. Putting on those ridiculously oversized bowling shoes immediately elevated the whole experience to a new level of awkward chic. And of course, because you were both competitive psychos, a wager was immediately established.

“If I win,” Rafe said, looking up at you while tying his shoelaces with an unnecessary amount of focus, “you have to be… nice to me. For a whole entire day. No insults, no eye-rolls, the whole shebang.”

“Yeah, right,” you scoffed, trying to tie your own laces. “And if I win…” You paused, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Hmm…”

“What’s your price, princess?” he asked, a knowing smirk on his face.

“…..if I win…… you have to let me have free, unrestricted access to your phone for a full hour.”

“What?” He looked up sharply, shaking his head with an incredulous scoff. “No. Absolutely not. Are you insane?” He dusted off his trousers, standing up with an air of mock indignation.

“Scared I’ll uncover all your deeply embarrassing TikTok dances?”

“No, but knowing you, you’ll probably post some truly heinous shit and get me cancelled so hard I’ll have to change my name and move to Antarctica to become a penguin whisperer.” He was sassier than ever now, planting his hands on his hips with an air of mock outrage. “People still think I’m a Trump supporter because of all the false shit you tweeted about me.”

“Fine, be a pussy,” your smirk faltered slightly when he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine that had absolutely nothing to do with the questionable cleanliness of the bowling alley.

“You’re on, princess.”

“Okay, that’s enough internet terrorism for one night,” Rafe said, making a grab for his phone as you cackled maniacally, your thumbs flying across the screen as you crafted yet another tweet that would undoubtedly confuse and possibly enrage his followers. Something about pineapple on pizza being a human right seemed particularly inflammatory.

“Hey!” You slapped a hand against his chest, warding him off with a playful shove, your other hand still firmly clutching his precious device behind your back. “Loser keeps their hands to themselves! I won fair and square, remember?”

“I let you win!” he exclaimed, inching closer to you as you scrambled further back on his bed, a ridiculous grin plastered across your face.

“You're just a sore loser. Cry me a river and then build a bridge and get the fuck over it, princess.” you retorted, scooting back until your butt hit the headboard.

Rafe lunged, grabbing your legs and yanking you back towards him with surprising strength. You landed with a soft thump, your back flush against the sheets as he hovered over you, his forearms resting on either side of your head, effectively caging you in his arms. “Hand it over, you little menace,” his hot breath tickled your ear.

“Make me, baldie.” you dared him, your heart doing a little flutter-kick despite the compromising position you were in.

“Yeah?” His lips brushed against yours.

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[seiwas]

₊˚⊹。look my way, you’re what i crave | gojo satoru

wc: 2.6k

summary: you and gojo made a promise to yuuji.

contains: f!reader in mind but no pronouns used, food trip/taste-testing, many food descriptions, a little bit of (playful) jealousy, pouty gojo, yuuji calls reader sensei, established relationship (but no label).

a/n: a small extra scene that takes place some time between col 2.5 and col 3! not a food expert nor am i japanese, so food descriptions are just based off first-hand experience and some research i’ve managed to do! there are some switches in povs (gojo-reader-gojo) but i tried to keep it as distinct as possible! this is also my birthday gift for you, niku @stellamancer!! thank you for sharing this idea with me and for loving the col couple as much as i do!!

collection masterlist: conversations on love 2.5. and my body keeps saying (it's yours) <- you are here -> 03. so this is what it means to be in love + (extended scene) too good to be mine

‘Losing’ isn’t a word in Gojo’s vocabulary. 

If it is, it’s usually addressed to the other party. 

He’s been a winner ever since he was born, two blue eyes and an extra four hidden, holding power that manifests itself only once every few centuries. Some argue that he was born for that reason: to win, without doubt, incontestably. 

And he supposes, most of it is true—which is why he can’t believe the loss he’s feeling right now, standing in front of the Daifuku stall across from you. 

Never in his entire life did Gojo ever anticipate himself losing to anything. But with the way you’d casually nodded off, signaled so nonchalantly that you’d follow him but clearly didn’t—it has his head turning, finding you midbite a singular, shared stick of Yakitori.

He thinks he might have just experienced his first loss. 

And the victor is none other than Itadori Yuuji. 

.

You made a promise to Yuuji. 

Back when he was still up for execution by virtue of being Sukuna’s vessel, you’d laid your confidence in Gojo. 

“Sensei, do you really think it’s possible?” he asks, voice hesitant but eyes tinged with hope. You were discussing the ways his execution could go down—if it even will go down. 

Shoko’s always pointed out that the most dangerous thing about you is hope, and how you hold onto it so deeply that you pass it onto others like a disease, spreading it to seep into skin and bones.

Gojo calls it your hidden technique, the trump card you pull out when everyone’s knocked down, spirits low. It’s what sets you apart, he thinks, how you’re able to survive in a world that serves as an antithesis to the values you hold. 

“If Satoru said to leave it up to him, he’ll find a way,” you answer immediately, like you’ve known it all this time, experienced it first-hand—a memory. Then you add, an affirmation that sounds so close to fact, it reassures him, “he always does.” 

“Let’s go to Osaka and eat all the street food when everything’s done.”  

You made a promise to Yuuji, and here you are now, with Gojo, keeping it. 

The streets of Osaka are bustling, crowded pretty much any time of the year—carts of all sorts of street food lined up with restaurants hidden in every corner. Neon banners and LED signs light up overhead, a twinkling food heaven reflected in Yuuji’s eyes. 

It must be his first time here, you surmise, because he’s looking at every food stall like he’s ready to devour. You glance at Gojo, hands tucked in his pockets with his blindfold sitting snugly on his face. His presence is bright, blending in with the light, and he turns his head to you slightly, flashing you a small smile. 

You tell yourself the warmth you feel is because of the heat radiating from all the vendors’ stoves. 

“Sensei, what do you want to try first?” Yuuji interrupts your train of thought, but you’re sure he doesn’t mean to. He’s just excited, and his energy has always been infectious, spreading to both Gojo and you. 

Gojo isn’t too big a fan of savory things, so you know you’re going to end up having to choose. You take a look around you to survey each stall, before turning back to Yuuji with a plan on how exactly you’re going to eat and conquer. 

.

Gojo watches—the way you zig-zag across the street, following Yuuji as he walks up to each vendor. It’s both amusing and endearing seeing you being just as, if not more, enthralled at all the savory options in front of you. 

Between the two of you, he’s always had the sweet tooth, so it tickles something in him that even when you don’t, your food-tasting game plan still consists of alternating savory-sweet-savory food.

Yuuji’s first pick is of course, Okonomiyaki, an iconic must-have in Osaka. He orders one piece at first, but you insist on two, knowing that the boy is more than capable of finishing a single one on his own. On the frying sheet lie columns of the pancakes–a simple mixture of flour, eggs, and cabbage–fried and coated in flavors bursting of sweet, savory, and smoky. The lady vendor is generous with the toppings and sauce she pours over it, packing the two pancakes in separate plastic containers before handing one to you and the other to Yuuji.

You turn back to find Gojo a few steps behind you, so you beckon him closer.

“Let’s share,” you whisper, once he sidles up next to you. The plastic crinkles in your hand as you try to slice a piece, Yuuji’s muffled ‘whoah’ heard from the side. 

You blow on the slice, lips shaped into a small ‘o’; he doesn’t want to stare, not with Yuuji right there and neither of you having made anything official yet—

—but this is really tempting him to kiss you. 

He doesn’t know if you can tell—any hint of his desire concealed by his blindfold, but you shove the slice right to his lips. And while it isn’t graceful at all, with the sauce probably smeared all over his mouth, it’s a good distraction from how much he wants you instead of the food right now. 

The texture of the Okonomiyaki hits right every time, the crunchy and creamy combination providing a great contrast that complements how sweet and savory it is. The bite you take after his has your expression mirroring Yuuji’s, and he takes out his phone to capture this memory.

“Gowo-shunsheh! Tek a shulfeh!” Yuuji shouts, mouth still full as he lifts his fingers up into a peace sign. You grin, ear-to-ear, evidence of your happy tummy; he wants to pinch your cheeks. 

“Okay, copy!” he raises his phone up at an angle, fingers hovering over the volume button as he grips the edges, “ready! 1…2…3… say Okonomiyaki!” 

Only Yuuji shouts it, and when Gojo reviews the photo, you’re halfway through a fallen smile—face contorting into disbelief that he said something that cringey, in typical, loud, Gojo fashion too.

“Hey!” he points out, zooming into your face in the photo, “Again! You’re not smiling!” 

You shoot him a look. 

“We can try it with a .5 this time, the kids love it these days.” he suggests, flipping the phone and gathering you and Yuuji closer. 

He takes two photos: one with flash and one without, and the moment he counts down, you mumble right by his ear to please not say ‘Okonomiyaki’ when you have to smile—he chuckles. 

And he says it again. Both times. 

You expected no less, but at least you tried. 

“You should be our human tripod next time,” you tell him, letting Yuuji go ahead. 

The photos look good, with you tiptoeing as you balance a hand on Gojo’s shoulder, Yuuji at the back with his hands raised, holding the empty plastic that used to house his Okonomiyaki.

“Knew you were just using me,” he pouts, hand reaching behind to rest at your lower back. 

It’s been the subtleties with him this trip, tonight especially. 

“Yep,” you play along, smiling oh-so-sweetly, “I knew those freakishly long arms were good for something.” 

Before he can retort with something cheesy, along the lines of: ‘to hold you’ or ‘to hug you in your sleep’, you move away, catching up to Yuuji. 

Your pick, for Gojo, is Taiyaki. It’s not his favorite thing to eat, but it’s sweet, and is still a good, nostalgic dessert, you’d like to think. Batter is poured all over the fish molds before being filled with the red bean filling. Then, after a few minutes of waiting, it pops out perfectly, ready to be eaten by the three of you. You ask for two again, only because this time, you know Gojo can finish one whole. 

But when his eyes land on the Taiyaki you’re biting from and he realizes very quickly that it isn’t his, he feels a pinch. 

It's a good thing the crunchy outside and soft, full inside of the Taiyaki is enough to make him shrug off the feeling. For now.

As the food trip goes on, you end up in many more stalls—

—a Takoyaki one, where Yuuji’s ‘ooo’s’ and ‘aaa’s’ are heard every time the balls are flipped and formed. The cooking on it is perfect, the pieces of octopus sitting just right with enough bite as flavors of soy and Worcestershire come through in its glaze. Gojo only eats one from the set of six that you ordered, and he wishes he just waited, because now Yuuji is eating half of the last one you couldn't finish. 

—a Kushikatsu one, deep fried beef and vegetables coated in crispy, crunchy breadcrumbs and dipped in Tonkatsu sauce. Yuuji ends up finishing three whole sticks, while you manage to eat one. It’s an animated conversation between the two of you that Gojo can’t seem to insert himself into. A part of him feels a little pathetic now, tailing you both like a dog, but he just wants a little bit more of your attention. 

—a Soba shop (not so much a stall) that serves amazing Cold Soba he definitely isn’t missing out on. Yuuji is practically buzzing, excited for anything noodles; it’s the main reason you’d suggested Osaka in the first place. He ducks in the shop last, Yuuji first with you in the middle, and when you settle in your seat right beside him, he snickers endearingly. Gojo can see everything, you’re reminded of that everyday and in moments like this especially. Right now, it's the way you sigh as soon as you release the top button of your pants immediately.

You pout at him as you’re served an order each, the dipping sauce in small ceramic as the noodles lie in bamboo boxes. It’s refreshing and light, just the right balance of sweet and savory; the buckwheat noodles have a lovely bite to them, not at all mushy. When he glances at you, halfway through your bowl, he can tell that you’re already full. 

But just as he offers to finish yours—

“Sensei, are you going to finish that?” 

—there’s Yuuji.

You shake your head, pushing your bowl towards him; Gojo feels that pinch returning. 

A few good minutes of walking find you on the way to another stall—

—a Yakitori one that Yuuji practically skips to, as if he didn’t just finish a bowl and a half of Cold Soba, three sticks of Kushikatsu, three and a half pieces of Takoyaki, a half of one Taiyaki, and a whole order of Okonomiyaki.

Gojo decides to sit this one out, eyeing the Daifuku stand across the street. He’s gone here plenty of times before, but never with you—and if there's anything he wants you to try out here, it's fresh, special mochi, all soft and delectable, delicate in the way its decorated.

He takes off his blindfold, ruffling his hair. With Yuuji having gone ahead, it’s just the two of you. 

“I’m going to buy Daifuku, there’s a special one I want you to taste,” he whispers excitedly, wiggling his eyebrows. 

The expression on your face is the last thing he was expecting. 

Your eyes are dazed, half-lidded, almost like you’re sleepy, and you blink at him twice before you’re able to fully process what he just said. You could be having a food coma right now, just standing. 

“Oh, okay,” you hum, nodding as you smile, dopey, “I’ll follow.” 

He considers just waiting for a bit, because he wants you to go with him. But you insist and shoo him away, telling him that the Daifuku might run out by the time Yuuji reaches the front of the Yakitori line.

So he goes, and maybe it’s a little petty, and immature, and stupid-silly, but he hates how this entire food trip has felt like a battle for your attention between him and Yuuji. 

Even though he’s probably the only one who feels it.

So it’s one-sided. Definitely. 

And he’s losing. Terribly. 

Each individual piece of Daifuku looks majestic, pink mochi with red bean filling, sliced in the middle to leave room for a whole syrup-glazed strawberry. He orders two boxes to bring back home and an extra two pieces, one for the two of you to share and the other for Yuuji. 

Gojo’s mouth is watering and he really wants to take a bite already, but you aren’t anywhere near him. So when he turns around and spots you, mid-chew on the last few bites your stomach can take from that shared Yakitori stick—he feels that pinch again. Because throughout this trip, all you’d done was split savory food with Yuuji, and all he wanted was a bit more attention, sharing half-bites with you. 

When you finally meet his eyes across the street, signature blue amidst bright reds and neon greens, he’s pouting, and he hopes he’s making it very obvious that he wants (needs) you to go to him. 

Your eyes widen before crossing the street, Yuuji right on your heel. 

“Whoah, Gojo Sensei! That looks good!” Yuuji’s voice booms, earning a few looks.

Gojo holds one Daifuku on each hand, the other two boxes tucked in a plastic bag hanging by his elbow. 

“It’s their special one!” He smiles at Yuuji, handing it over. 

You look at him curiously, head tilted to the side as you watch him closely—how his smile doesn’t really reach his eyes. 

Once Yuuji moves out of earshot, his series of ‘mmm’s’ blending in with the bustle of market chatter, you face Gojo and open your mouth wide, “Aaaah,” 

Gojo doesn’t move for the first few seconds, but you meet in the middle eventually, his hand inching towards feeding you while you move your head closer. He keeps his palm open under your chin, cupping it to serve as a catch tray for any filling that might spill out. 

There’s something about the look of you, half-sleepy and asking to be fed, that makes him feel warm and fuzzy—like that pinching feeling earlier never existed. Like he’d gladly do this everyday if you asked for it. 

The soft, plush exterior of the mochi touches your lips, and you bite, the filling oozing out just enough for you to get a good portion of it. Flavors of red bean and strawberry hit your palate, and the filling doesn’t leak, but the syrup coating the strawberry catches onto your nose when you move away. 

At the tip of your nose is a shiny red spot, glistening under the busy lights. The expression on your face is pleased, content—your head doing that side-to-side sway whenever you like the taste of something. 

“Mmm,” you smile at him, “it’s yummy.” 

And he doesn’t know what it is, if it’s the look you’re giving him, or if it's something in the air tonight, but he feels warm and full and still very much like he wants to kiss you. 

So he decides, damn all the passersby.

He does one quick scan around him, making sure that Yuuji, at the very least, is away from the immediate vicinity. And when it’s all clear, he leans in. 

Gojo kisses you on the nose in the middle of a busy street food road, and his lips are soft, almost feather-light, swooping in quickly before anyone can notice. You’re stunned into silence, but the moment you come to, he’s already swiped the strawberry syrup off you. 

His cheeks are starting to turn pink, the sides of his neck already as red as the signs on the food stalls. And he can tell you feel it too, with the way your sleepiness seems to have faded into what now looks like surprise.

Still cute though.

(Always will be, in his eyes). 

So, ‘losing’ isn’t really a word in Gojo’s vocabulary. 

But if it is, he thinks he’d gladly lose to you. 

(Still not to Yuuji though. He maybe still has to keep an eye out for that one).

thank you notes: to niku for being there always!! from answering my questions, brainstorming together, and just all-around everything!! col wouldn't be what it is now without you!! i love u, i hope i gave your love for food justice, niku!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

I keep seeing people worship Christian Linke for some shit he’s said and ignore the fact this man is antisemetic and heavily insensitive towards non white and straight characters HE IS NOT YOUR ALLY

I genuinely think people just don't know how much of a shitty person he is. Seriously, that dude was quite possibly the worst person to put in charge of a project like Arcane. Here are just some of things he's said that you should know of:

• Linke said the death of every character in Arcane was a direct result of their own actions : "Every single big beat in the end with our characters, whether it’s a death or not, is a consequence of their choices."

So, I'd like you to explain to me how Vander's death was his fault, because I don't quite remember him agreeing to becoming Warwick. Also, maybe having the three characters portrayed as suicidal in the show (Jinx, Viktor, and Jayce) all die, and go on to say it was just the consequences of their own actions... isn't a good message?

• Linke has declared Viktor as asexual on his own, with the sole purpose of discouraging JayVik shippers : "There is a love. I don't think it's romantic [...]. To me, Viktor was always asexual".

Now, the issue here isn't having an asexual character, its having chosen VIKTOR, one of the most important characters for disabled rep in animation and popular media, to be asexual. I've went on and on about how infantalizing that is to disabled/chronically ill fans, because we NEVER get to be perceived as sexual beings. Having a body that's visibly different from the norm, or limits on certain abilities, turns off people, makes them uncomfortable. That's why you just never see a sexually active or a sex positive disabled character on screen. That's why, in all his "sexy" skins in LoL, Viktor is given a six pack, has no visible marks of illness on his body (scars, fatigue lines), and has no medical brace or crutch.

Viktor was always intended to have a sexual swagger in season 1 ("this isnt my bedroom") and that was EXTREMELY important to a lot of us in the community. I've seen a very similar response from the asexual community as well, who feel like Linke is using their identity and experience as a shield from fan interractions he dislikes, and without actual care for what it means to the characters. Don't fall for rep that isn't actually meant to represent you.

• Linke has directly and openly compared the Zaun and Piltover conflict to the left and right in the United States, and put both sides on equal moral footing : "If you’re asking me whether we were inspired by two sides of one nation who are incapable of even talking to each other anymore at a certain point, yes."

So, I don't think I need to explain how bad this is. Remember that Piltover is the city of wealth and enforcers, and that they've gazed the district of Zaun, dumped chemicals around their water suplies, directed brutal and deadly repressions of civil uprising and protest, offered no financial support to the struggling communities of addicts, disabled people, and orphans, refused Zaun any implication or decisional seat in the city political life, AND THAT'S JUST ON TOP OF MY HEAD. Now, think about what that means with the USA politics comparison, and the idea that they should "just listen to each other". Yeah.

Now, if you know me a bit, you know I live in Canada, so maybe you think this doesn't affect me personally, or that it doesn't affect you because you live outside the US. To that, I want to tell you about a neighbour of mine, who lives on the street parallel to my house, and this truck he owns. The truck has a whole lot of fun stickers and flags on it: the quotes "TRUMP ARREST TRUDEAU" and "CANADIANS FOR TRUMP", the israeli flag, the confederate flag, christian crosses, the blue lives matter flag, and an anti BLM sticker. Now, I'm sure theres more cool things, I've just never gotten close enough to look at the smaller stickers and ornaments because, as a very openly bi arabic woman, I'm scared to death of that man. But maybe I should just hear him out, right?

Tldr, do not think that the state of american politics doesn’t affect the rest of the world.

• Linke has called the people of Zaun and specifically Silco "Svengali", which is an antisemitic name that implies Jewish people are crooks / dirty / thiefs / sexual degenerates. There's a great post on Tumblr that goes more into detail about this (https://www.tumblr.com/endearing-dalliance/769693230696677376/another-blow-against-arcane-anti-semitism?source=share). I'd just like to insist on how bad calling someone "svengali" is. His character was used in many pieces of propaganda in Nazi Germany to picture the "Evil Jew", and to dehumanize Jewish communities by portraying them as ressembling Satan (forked beard, can do unholy hypnosis, targets women...). Linke could have chosen ANY other term to talk about Zaunites, the oppressed community getting gazed by a police state, but he chose that one. That was not an unconscious decision.

I'm a firm believer that it is possible to separate art from artist/studio/company, and to appreciate something while still being aware the person behind it is not a great individual. However, if you're defending all the decisions made in season 2, these are things you HAVE to be aware of.

[theoi-crow]

The humans in Greek Mythology are the mega rich and powerful:

In my college classes people are often shocked when I tell them my favorite part of Greek mythology is the gods themselves and I'm not a big fan of the humans.

99% of my classmates prefer the humans in mythos, especially the ones that stick it to the gods like Sisyphus and feel bad for humans like Kassandra and Helen who have been wronged by the gods because "they're just like us." My classmates and teachers hate the gods and don't understand why anyone in modern times would want to worship such violent and selfish beings whenever I point out there are still people who worship them. They hold onto the idea that people in mythology embody the human experience of being oppressed by terrible gods and fate and we should feel bad for them because "they're human just like us" but they forget that the people in Greek Mythology are NOT just like us. They are more relatable to medieval royalty, colonizers and ultra rich politicians who make laws and decisions on wars and the fates of others, especially the poor and the very vulnerable.

Every hero or important human in Greek Mythology is either some form of royalty or mega rich politician/priest-priestess (of course this is with the exception of people who are explicitly stated to be poor like the old married couple in the myth where Zeus and Hermes pretend to be panhandlers). All of them have an ancient Greek lifestyle more relatable to Vladimir Putin, Donald Trump, and especially to British royalty during the British empire, than the average person.

All of them.

Odysseus, Patroclus, Theseus, Helen of Troy, Kassandra, Diomedes, Agamemnon, Perseus, Hercules, Aeneas, Paris, Any human who has a divine parent or is related to one, etc. Although sometimes the story omits it, it is heavily implied that these are people who own hundreds or even thousands of slaves, very poor farmers and the tiny barely there working class as royal subjects.

They are the ones who make laws and whose decisions massively affect the fates of so many people. So no, they can't just be forgiven for some little whim, because that little whim affects the literal lives of everyone under their rule. By being spoiled they've just risked the lives of thousands of people and possibly even gotten them killed like when Odysseus' audacity got every single slave and soldier in his ships killed or when Patroclus as a kid got upset and killed another kid for beating him at a game. (A normal person wouldn't kill another person just for winning a game but royalty and those who think they're above the law do it all the time, plus the class status of the child wasn't mentioned but the way he didn't think he'd get in trouble implies the kid was of lower class, possibly the child of a slave or a foreign merchant.)

The gods get a bad reputation for punishing the humans in mythology but, if not them, who else is going to keep them accountable when they are the law?

And whose to say the humans beneath them weren't praying to the gods in order to keep their masters in check?

Apollo is the god in charge of freeing slaves, Zeus is the god of refugees, immigrants and homeless people, Ares is the protector of women, Artemis protects children, Aphrodite is the goddess of the LGBT community, Hephaestus takes care of the disabled, etc. It wouldn't be surprising if the gods are punishing the ultra rich and powerful in these myths because the humans under their rulership prayed and sent them as they did historically.

Every time someone asks me if I feel bad for a human character in a myth, I think about the many lives affected by the decision that one human character made and if I'm being completely honest, I too would pray to the gods and ask them to please punish them so they can make more careful decisions in the future because:

They are not just like us.

We are the farmers, a lot of our ancestors were slaves, we are the vulnerable being eaten by capitalism and destroyed by the violence colonialism created. We are the poor subjects that can only pray and hope the gods will come and correct whatever selfish behavior the royal house and mega rich politicians are doing above us.

And that's why I pray to the gods, because in modern times I'm dealing with modern Agamemnons who would kill whatever family members they have to in order to reach their end goal, I'm dealing with everyday modern Achilles who would rather see their own side die because they couldn't keep their favorite toy and would gladly watch their subjects die if it means they eventually get their way. The ones that let capitalism eat their country and it's citizens alive so long as it makes them more money. These are our modern "demigods," politicians who swear they are so close to God that they know what he wants and so they pass laws that benefit only them and claim these laws are ordained by God due to their close connection just like how Achilles can speak to the gods because of his demigod status via his mother.

Look at the news, these are humans that would be mythical characters getting punished by Greek gods which is why anything Greco-Roman is jealousy guarded by the rich and powerful and is inaccessible to modern worshippers because Ivy League schools like Harvard and Cambridge make sure to keep it that way. That's what we're dealing with. These are the humans these mythical beings would be because:

In our modern times the humans in mythos would be the politicians and mega rich that are currently ruining our society and trying to turn it into a world where only the rich can manipulate wars and laws, just like they do in mythology.

Fuck them.

I literally have so much more to add about my disdain for them and I didn't even touch on the obvious ancient Greek propaganda.

[mariacallous]

I'm sharing this because I think it's kind of atrocious. Hasan Piker *and* Richard Reeves?! And it gets worse from there.

By the time I landed at LAX and switched my phone out of airplane mode, Hasan Piker had been streaming for three hours. I put in an earbud and watched as I filed off the plane. Visible behind him were walls of framed fan art, a cardboard cutout of Bernie Sanders sitting in the cold, and Piker’s huge puppy, Kaya, taking a nap. Piker had already shown off his “cozy-ass ’fit” (sweatpants with kitschy bald eagles, a custom pair of platform Crocs), and recounted his experience the previous night at the Streamer Awards, a red-carpet event honoring A-listers on Twitch—the popular live-streaming site where he is one of the biggest stars, and the only prominent leftist. He’d begun the day’s broadcast by rattling off a standard opening monologue: “Folks, we’re live and alive, and I hope all the boys, girls, and enbies”—nonbinary people—“are having a fantastic one.” To anyone listening for shibboleths, this would have pigeonholed him as a progressive. Also within view, though, were three towers of Zyn cannisters, and a “Make America Great Again” hat, which he sometimes wears ironically. He has the patter of a Rutgers frat bro and the laid-back charisma of a Miami club promoter, both of which he was, briefly, in his early twenties. Now he’s thirty-three—so old, in streamer years, that his fans call him “unc.”

I ordered a Lyft, then flipped back to Piker’s stream. By then, he was talking about the overthrow of the Assad regime in Syria, which had happened overnight. I watched as he cycled from BBC footage to Wikipedia, pausing every few seconds to add a diatribe or a joke. The angle he was developing was that Western journalists seemed too eager to portray the leader of the Syrian rebel forces in a heroic light. “I’m very skeptical of the fucking former Al Qaeda guy,” Piker said. A little while later, his doorbell rang, and he leaned over to buzz in a guest—me. I looked up from my phone to see him standing in his doorway. He doesn’t run ad breaks, so whenever he needs to do something off-camera, like answer the door or use the bathroom, he plays a video and attends to his business quickly, before his viewers can get bored. “I’m live right now, but we can talk when I’m done,” he told me, already walking away. “Try and stay out of the shot.”

In last year’s Presidential election, Democrats lost support with nearly every kind of voter: rich, poor, white, Black, Asian American, Hispanic. But the defection that alarmed Party strategists the most was that of young voters, especially young men, a group that Donald Trump lost by fifteen points in 2020 and won by fourteen points in 2024—a nearly thirty-point swing. “The only cohort of men that Biden won in 2020 was eighteen-to-twenty-nine-year-olds,” John Della Volpe, the polling director at Harvard’s Institute of Politics and a former adviser to Biden’s Presidential campaign, told me. “That was the one cohort they had to hold on to, and they let it go.”

Candidates matter; so does the national mood, and the price of groceries. Yet some Monday-morning quarterbacks also noted that, just as 1960 was the first TV election and 2016 was the first social-media election, the 2024 Presidential campaign was the first to be conducted largely on live streams and long-form podcasts, media that happen to be thoroughly dominated by MAGA bros. The biggest of them all, Joe Rogan, spent the final weeks of the campaign giving many hours of fawning airtime to Trump—and to his running mate, J. D. Vance, and his key allies, such as Elon Musk—before endorsing Trump on the eve of the election. “At no point was I, like, ‘Only I, a dickhead on the internet, am qualified to teach these kids why we need a functioning welfare state,’ ” Piker told me. “I just felt like no one else was really in these spaces trying to explain these things. Certainly not the Democrats.”

Piker has almost three million Twitch followers, and, as with most guys who talk into microphones on the internet, his audience skews young, male, and disaffected. At the peak of his Election Night stream in November, he had more than three hundred thousand viewers. He broadcasts seven days a week, eight to ten hours a day, usually from his house in West Hollywood, and he doesn’t use visual pyrotechnics to hold his viewers’ attention. Most of the time, what you see on his stream is an overlay of three things: a fixed shot of Piker sitting at his desk; a screen share of whatever he’s looking at on his computer; and his chat, where fans supply pertinent links, caps-lock shit talk, and puppy emojis, all surging in real time up the right side of the screen.

Although Piker hates Trump, he’s hardly a loyal Democrat. At bottom, he’s an old-school hard leftist, not a liberal. (On his bedside table he has some protein Pop-Tart knock-offs and a copy of “The Communist Manifesto.”) Many of his opinions—for example, that the “American empire” has been a destructive force, on the whole—would surely be off-putting to the median voter. But he is just one of many independent media creators with an anti-Trump message—in recent weeks, the political-podcast charts have included “The Bulwark,” “This Is Gavin Newsom,” and even a show called “Raging Moderates.” For a couple of weeks last month, a liberal show called “The MeidasTouch Podcast” beat out “The Joe Rogan Experience” for the No. 1 spot. “Corporate media, too often, has a both-sides perspective,” Ben Meiselas, one of the “MeidasTouch” co-hosts, told me. “We do not mince words about the threat to workers, the threat to democracy.”

One piece of fan art on Piker’s wall is a cartoon of him operating a day-care center, shielding a roomful of lost boys from the malign chaos of the open internet. “You gravitate to him because he’s just a voice you find relatable,” Piker’s producer, who goes by Marche, told me. “A lot of people don’t even put a political label on it, at least at first.” Piker gets up early every morning to work out, posting his daily stats so that his fans—his “community”—can follow along from home. He gives dating advice and motivational speeches. At a moment when there seems to be an ever-shortening algorithmic pipeline from bench-pressing tips to misogynist rage, Piker tries to model a more capacious form of masculinity: a straight guy, six feet four and movie-star handsome, who’s as comfortable wearing camo to a gun range as he is walking a red carpet in split-toe Margiela boots. Once viewers have come to trust him, they may be more open to his riffs on the rights of the poor or of trans people—delivered not as a primer on Judith Butler but in the register of “Bro, don’t be a dick.”

I pulled up a chair, just out of frame. Kaya ambled toward me, vetting my scent. Piker talked, almost without interruption, for four more hours, holding forth about recent internet drama, a documentary about the history of NATO, and the UnitedHealthcare C.E.O.’s assassin, who had not yet been identified. Within reach of his rolling desk chair was a mini-fridge full of cold brew and Diet Mountain Dew. Some of his takes were too unpolished for prime time. (“Bro, these guys are so cucked,” he said, critiquing a clip from a rival podcast on the right.) Then again, a live stream isn’t supposed to be a tight, scripted lecture. It’s supposed to be a good hang.

“I gotta end the broadcast here,” he said, shortly after 8 P.M. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” After turning the camera off, he seemed to deflate a bit. Comments were still floating up one of his monitors—the thousands of fans in the chat had dwindled to a few hundred, the inner circle who were devoted enough, or lonely enough, to keep one another company after the feed had gone dark. “The Democrats are smug and condescending, and everything they say sounds fake as shit,” Piker said. “Trump lies constantly, yes, but at least people get the sense that he’s authentically saying what he’s thinking.”

He put his feet up and reached for a fresh Zyn pouch. “Young men, like a lot of Americans, feel increasingly alienated,” he continued. They can’t afford college or rent, they can’t get a date, they can’t imagine a stable future. “The right is always there to tell them, ‘Yes, you should be angry, and the reason your life sucks is because of immigrants, or because a trans kid played a sport.’ And all the Democrats are telling them is ‘No, shut up, your life is fine, be joyful.’ ” No one has ever accused Piker of being a moderate, but in this case he is trying to forge a compromise. “My way is to go, ‘Look, be angry if you want. But your undocumented neighbor is not the problem here. You’re looking in the wrong direction.’ ”

In 2015, the economists Anne Case and Angus Deaton wrote that “white non-Hispanics without college degrees” were experiencing an anomalous spike in mortality from opioids, alcohol, and suicide. They later called these “deaths of despair.” In 2016, J. D. Vance, then an anti-Trump conservative, published a memoir, “Hillbilly Elegy,” about the struggles of white rural families like his own. Promoting the book on PBS, he explained (but did not yet excuse) why such voters were drawn to Trump: “I think that the sense of cultural alienation breeds a sense of mistrust.” The first Trump Administration didn’t deliver many material gains to the rural poor—deaths of despair continued to rise, and wages continued to stagnate—but at least Trump spoke to their anguish and seemed outraged on their behalf. In retrospect, the question may not be why so many non-urban non-élites became Trump Republicans but what took them so long.

Around the same time, social scientists started to notice an overlapping crisis. The statistics were grim—twenty-first-century males were, relative to their forefathers and their female contemporaries, much more likely to fall behind in school, drop out of college, languish in the workforce, or die by overdose or suicide. The title of a 2012 book by the journalist Hanna Rosin declared “The End of Men.” The following year, the economists Marianne Bertrand and Jessica Pan published a paper called “The Trouble with Boys.” In one survey, more than a quarter of men in their teens and twenties reported having no close friends. When Covid hit, men were significantly more likely to die from it.

“In the fifteen years I’ve been looking at the statistics, the outcomes for men have not changed,” Rosin told me. “What did change, tremendously, is the culture.” The last Democratic Presidential candidate to win the male vote was Barack Obama. When Bernie Sanders ran for President, he had a zealous male following, but many top Democrats treated the “Bernie bros” less like a force to be harnessed than like a threat to be vanquished. A “White Dudes for Harris” Zoom call raised millions for Kamala Harris’s campaign, but it would have been anathema to her base if she’d given a speech about what she planned to do for white dudes. This was, meanwhile, a key part of Trump’s appeal.

In a 2022 book, “Of Boys and Men,” Richard Reeves, a social scientist and a fellow at the Brookings Institution, blasts Republicans for exploiting “male dislocation” and misogynist fury at the expense of women’s rights. But he also lambastes Democrats for “pathologizing masculinity.” He gives an example from his sons’ high school in Bethesda, Maryland, where boys passed around a spreadsheet ranking their female classmates by attractiveness—behavior that Reeves describes as “immature,” even “harmful,” but not worthy of an international incident, which is what it became. He writes that “indiscriminately slapping the label of ‘toxic masculinity’ onto this kind of behavior is a mistake,” likely to propel young men “to the online manosphere where they will be reassured that they did nothing wrong, and that liberals are out to get them.”

At some point between Bill Clinton playing the saxophone on “The Arsenio Hall Show” and Hillary Clinton describing potential voters as “deplorables,” the Democrats came to be perceived as the party of scolds and snobs. Liberals used to be the counterculture; today, they’re the defenders of traditional norms and institutions. This may not have been the best political strategy at any time; it certainly isn’t now, when trust in institutions has never been lower. It’s impossible to know how many young men fit into this category, but there is clearly a kind of guy—the contemporary don’t-tread-on-me type who demands both the freedom to have gay friends and the freedom to use “gay” as an insult—who resents the idea of his morality being dictated by the family-values right or his speech being curtailed by the hall-monitor left. When pressed, many of these young men seem to have bought the pitch that, of the two parties, the Republicans were the less censorious. This may have been a miscalculation—the current Trump Administration has already banished dozens of words from government websites and, just last week, arrested a former Columbia student for what seems to be protected speech—but you can’t convince voters that they’ve been misinformed simply by lecturing them. The lecturing is part of the issue.

“Democrats got used to speaking about men as the problem, not as people with problems,” Reeves told me. “But of course men do have problems, and problems become grievances when you ignore them.” He knows a lot of well-connected Democrats in Washington, and for years he has urged them to campaign on men’s issues—“not in a zero-sum way, certainly not taking anything away from women, but just to show boys and men, ‘Hey, you’re also having a tough go of it, we see you.’ And the response I always got was ‘Now is not the time.’ ”

Rosin told me about a husband and wife she’d met in Alabama, in 2010. The husband lost his job, and the wife became the breadwinner, an arrangement he experienced as deeply shameful. “She would put the check down on the kitchen table, she would sign it over to him, and he would cash it, and nobody would speak about it,” Rosin said. “But then ‘man-victim’ became a viable identity.” As Rosin stayed in touch with the man, he started exhibiting a more “mischievous” expression of men’s-rights sensibilities, wearing a T-shirt that read “My Cave, My Rules.” This coincided with the rise of Trump, the man-victim’s patron saint. He didn’t offer detailed policy solutions to any of the underlying sociological problems, but, again, he addressed them directly. (“It is a very scary time for young men in America,” Trump said in 2018.)

Like most internet terms, “manosphere” is vague and protean; it has been applied to Ben Shapiro, a father of four who delivers conservative talking points in a yarmulke, and to Andrew Tate, a Bugatti-driving hustler who has been charged with human trafficking. In 2016, after a reedy Canadian professor named Jordan Peterson refused to use gender-neutral pronouns, he was taken up as a folk hero, like Galileo standing firm against the Inquisition. Peterson has almost nothing in common with, say, Dave Portnoy, another mascot of the bro-sphere, who mostly just wants to be left alone to eat pizza and drink beer by the pool. Yet they all seem to be meeting a demand in the cultural marketplace, one that could be as simple, at its root, as a dorm-room poster of Marlon Brando on a motorcycle or Johnny Cash flipping off the camera.

Last month, Richard Reeves was a guest on a popular podcast hosted by Theo Von, a formerly apolitical comedian who recently went to Trump’s Inauguration. Von, an infectiously affable guy with a mullet, presents himself as a curious goofball with essentially no prior knowledge on any topic. At one point he spoke—without much nuance, but also without apparent malice—about the plight of the white man. “I’m not speaking against any other group,” he said. “I’m just saying . . . you can’t make white males feel like they don’t exist.” Von grew up poor in a small town in Louisiana. “Yes, I know there’s privilege, but if you grew up with nothing you didn’t fucking feel any privilege sometimes.”

If Von had made this observation at a Trump rally, or on X, he might have been led from just-asking-questions guilelessness to more overt white aggrievement. If he’d made the same point in a liberal-arts seminar, or on Bluesky, he might have been shouted down. (When I got to this part of the podcast, I have to admit, my own inner hall monitor was on high alert.) But Reeves, looking a bit trepidatious, tried to thread the needle, introducing some academic caveats without coming across as a scold. “The U.S. has a uniquely terrible history when it comes to slavery,” he said. But he also noted that low-income white men were at particularly high risk of suicide. “Two things can be true at once,” he said.

The hallmark of social media is disinhibition born of anonymity. On the internet, no one knows whether you’re a dog, a Macedonian teen-ager, or the Pope wearing a puffer jacket. Podcasts, on the other hand, are built on parasociality: Michael Barbaro isn’t your friend, but, after making coffee with him in your ear a hundred times, you start to feel as if he were. And then there’s the world of always-on streaming, in which the temptations of parasociality are even more acute. The inputs are both aural and visual. The hosts respond to your comments in real time, at all hours. You can remind yourself not to bond with the pixels on the screen, but you may fall for the illusion all the same, like a baby chick imprinting on a robot. Piker treats fans in a way that can be confusingly intimate, giving them avuncular life advice one minute and thirst-trap photos the next. His Twitch handle is Hasanabi, “abi” being Turkish for “big brother”; his fans are called “Hasanabi heads,” or “parasocialists.”

Even as most of his fellow-streamers have drifted to the right, Piker has remained a staunch leftist. His explanation for this is that he is from Turkey, where “the idea that American economic and military power runs the world—that was, like, ‘Yeah, duh.’ ” He was born in New Jersey and grew up mostly in Ankara and Istanbul, in an upper-middle-class family, spending summers with relatives in the U.S. and watching a lot of American TV. (He speaks English with an American accent.) His father, an economist, is “more of a neolib, World Bank-loving type,” Piker told me. “We argue about it all the time, but it’s not heated.” His mother, an art-and-architecture historian, is more aligned with his politics. “The inequality is just so blatant,” she told me. “It was never fair, but now we have the internet—everyone can see it.”

Despite Piker’s brand as a brash outsider, he is, in an almost literal sense, a nepo baby. After graduating from Rutgers, in 2013, he moved to Los Angeles and got a job with his maternal uncle, Cenk Uygur, who happened to be the founder and host of “The Young Turks,” one of the biggest left-populist talk shows on the internet. The show had a considerable footprint on YouTube, but Piker helped it adapt to punchier formats that were better suited to Facebook and Instagram. “You’ve got to understand, I remember when this was a pudgy kid and I was changing his diapers,” Uygur told me. “Now, suddenly, he’s this handsome man, he’s dynamic, he’s killing it in front of the camera.” Piker hosted a recurring video segment called “Agitprop,” and picked fights with the right-wing influencers of the day, such as Tomi Lahren and Representative Dan Crenshaw. He got himself in trouble—“America deserved 9/11” was not a particularly good take, even in context—but he also expanded his name recognition. In 2017, BuzzFeed dubbed him “woke bae.”

Although he made some of the outlet’s most popular videos, he didn’t own the I.P. (Even when the boss is your uncle, you can still be alienated from the means of production.) So, in 2020, he decided to go solo, on Twitch. His mother joined him in Los Angeles, and they formed a pandemic pod in a two-bedroom apartment. “He was on there non-stop, shouting about video games or sex advice or whatever,” she told me. “His fans would see me in the background, cringing, and they would send me earplugs in the mail.” That year, he spent forty-two per cent of his time live on camera. (Not forty-two per cent of his waking hours—forty-two per cent of all the hours in the year.) In a call-in segment called “Chadvice,” Piker coached men through the small terrors and triumphs of daily life. One twenty-eight-year-old from Finland described himself as having an Asperger’s diagnosis and an “abject fear of rejection”; Piker, with solicitude and just enough amiable ribbing, spent half an hour talking him through the social mechanics of a first date.

When Twitch first launched, it was a niche platform where bored adolescents could watch other adolescents play video games. In 2014, Amazon bought it for nearly a billion dollars—an eye-popping amount, at least back then—even as mainstream analysts knew almost nothing about it. “My demographic hem is showing,” the columnist David Carr admitted in the Times; still, he concluded, “there is clear value in owning so much screen time of a hard-to-reach demographic of young men.” One article referred to Twitch as “talk radio for the extremely online.”

I first met Piker in February of 2020, on Boston Common, while covering a rally during Bernie Sanders’s Presidential campaign. Most of us travelling correspondents were youngish reporters from oldish outlets, wearing blue button-downs and carrying notebooks in the back pockets of our Bonobos. Piker wasn’t much younger, but he dressed as if he were from another planet, in black nail polish and cargo pants that, at the time, struck me as incomprehensibly wide. He carried an “I.R.L. backpack,” a portable camera setup that streamers use (I learned) when they venture out into the world. Admirers in the crowd kept interrupting him and asking for photos, a nuisance that, for whatever reason, didn’t afflict the rest of us. I still didn’t get why viewers would hang around on his stream all day when they could get an unimpeded view of Sanders’s speech on YouTube. Obviously, my demographic hem was showing. You might as well ask why a fan would watch a football game at a bar when he could concentrate better alone, or read a summary of the game in tomorrow’s paper. Piker’s followers wanted to watch the rally through his eyes because they wanted to be his friend.

In October, 2020, Piker spent a couple of hours playing the group video game Among Us with some special guests, including the congresswomen Ilhan Omar and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. They occasionally mentioned the ostensible purpose of the event—getting out the vote—but mostly they made easygoing small talk. On Election Day, Piker streamed for sixteen hours straight, chugging energy drinks. His mother made several onscreen cameos, delivering him plates of home-cooked food. “I wouldn’t do it for this long if it wasn’t for you,” he told his viewers at the end of the night. “Love you bro!” a commenter typed. “See you tomorrow.”

After the 2024 election, Democratic strategists argued that what the anti-Trump coalition needed was a “Joe Rogan of the left.” There once was such a person. His name was Joe Rogan. “I’m socially about as liberal as it gets,” Rogan said earlier this month. He has a live-and-let-live attitude about sex, drugs, and abortion. (He is also extremely open to conspiracy theories about 9/11, J.F.K., and Jeffrey Epstein, an inclination that was left-coded until very recently.) In 2014, when Rogan was a fan of “The Young Turks,” Piker met him at the Hollywood Improv, and they sat and talked for two hours. (The topics included “weed, psychedelics, the state of media and girls,” Piker wrote at the time. “Top ten coolest moments of my life.”) During the 2020 Democratic primary, Rogan interviewed three Presidential candidates—Tulsi Gabbard, Andrew Yang, and Bernie Sanders—and concluded that Sanders was his favorite. “I believe in him,” Rogan said. “He’s been insanely consistent his entire life.”

It’s hard to fathom now, but Rogan’s support was then considered a liability. “The Sanders campaign must reconsider this endorsement,” the Human Rights Campaign wrote, citing transphobic and racist remarks from Rogan’s past. In retrospect, this was the height (or perhaps the nadir) of a kind of purity-test politics that was making some swing voters, including Rogan, feel less at home in the Democratic coalition. In 2022, Neil Young removed his music from Spotify to protest Rogan’s vaccine skepticism; Rogan took ivermectin, which CNN mocked as a horse dewormer. “I can afford people medicine, motherfucker,” Rogan told CNN’s chief medical correspondent, adding that the medication had been prescribed by his doctor. “This is ridiculous.”

In 2016, every one of Trump’s baby steps toward normalization—doing a goofy dance on “Saturday Night Live,” getting his hair ruffled by Jimmy Fallon—was treated as a scandal. But by 2024 anyone with access to Spotify or YouTube could find hours of flattering footage of Trump looking like a chill, approachable grandpa. While interviewing Trump at one of his golf clubs, Theo Von used his free-associative style to great effect, prompting as much introspection in Trump as any interviewer has. (Von: “Cocaine will turn you into a damn owl, homie.” Trump: “And is that a good feeling?”) Trump invited the Nelk Boys, prank-video influencers with their own brand of hard seltzer, to eat Chick-fil-A on his private plane. He sat in a Cybertruck with the baby-faced, fascist-curious streamer Adin Ross, testing the stereo. “Who’s, like, your top three artists?” Ross asked. “Well, we love Frank Sinatra, right?” Trump said. Ross invited him to pick a song, and Trump, “thinking that it’s gonna come back under proper management,” picked “California Dreamin’.”

Collectively, these shows reached tens of millions of potential voters. Most were presumably young men, many of them the kind of American who is both the hardest and the most crucial for a campaign to reach: the kind who is not seeking out political news. Trump ended his parasocial-media tour by sitting in Joe Rogan’s studio, in Austin, for three hours. That’s too long for anyone, even a champion of rhetorical rope-a-dope, to go without gaffes—which was part of the point. While repeating his timeworn case that the 2020 election was rigged, Trump let out a shocking Freudian slip—“I lost by . . .”—before quickly trying to recover: “I didn’t lose.” Rogan laughed in his face. No one cared. On YouTube alone, the episode got more than fifty million views, and the reaction was overwhelmingly positive. “Unedited/uncensored interviews should be required of all candidates,” one of the top comments read.

Harris tried. She appeared on a few big podcasts—“Club Shay Shay,” whose audience is primarily Black, and “Call Her Daddy,” whose audience is mostly female—but she never made inroads with the comedy bros. (The closest she got was an interview with Howard Stern, a former shock jock who now seems wholesome, like Little Richard in the era of Lil Baby.) Harris’s staffers tried to get her booked on “Hot Ones,” the YouTube show on which celebrities answer innocuous questions while eating sadistically spicy chicken wings, but even “Hot Ones” turned her down. Her campaign staffers insisted that she wanted to do Rogan’s show, but that it fell through for scheduling reasons. Rogan claimed that he was eager to interview her, and that he was even willing to keep certain topics off-limits. “I said, ‘I don’t give a fuck,’ ” he told Theo Von. “I feel like, if you give someone a couple of hours, and you start talking about anything, I’m going to see the pattern of the way you think . . . whether you’re calculated or whether you’re just free.”

Imagine the set of a prototypical man-cave podcast, and “Flagrant,” co-founded by the comedian Andrew Schulz, wouldn’t be far off: four dudes lounging around, with a few plastic plants and a shelf of brown liquor behind them. Trump sat with them in October, and Schulz and the other hosts buttered him up, asking him about his kids. “Barron is eighteen,” Schulz said. “He’s unleashed in New York City. Are you sure you want to reverse Roe v. Wade now?” An hour in, they cut to an ad break. “Hard-dick season is upon us, and you gotta make sure that you’re stiffed up,” Schulz said. “BlueChew has got your back.”

“Flagrant” is taped weekly at a studio in SoHo. I visited one Wednesday in February. Schulz arrived just after noon, opened a fridge stocked with cans of tequila- and THC-infused seltzer, and grabbed a bottle of water. He sports a mustache and a chain necklace, and his hair is tight on the sides and slicked back on top. (During a show at Madison Square Garden, a fellow-comedian described Schulz’s look as “the Tubi version of Adolf Hitler.”) He’s a throwback to an old New York archetype: the melting-pot white guy who tells hyper-specific ethnic jokes with a sly smile and, for the most part, gets away with it. He did a crowd-work special that included sections called “Mexican,” “Colombian,” and “Black Women.” His newest special, about his wife’s experience with I.V.F., includes moments of real tenderness, but he still insists on his right to do old-fashioned bits about the battle between the sexes. “We all have feelings that are a little bit wrong,” Schulz said. “ ‘Take my wife, please’—that’s a fucked-up premise, but there’s a seed of a feeling there that’s real. It’s the comedian’s job to make you comfortable enough to laugh at it.”

Schulz grew up in lower Manhattan, where his parents owned a dance studio and he went to public school. “My family was super liberal,” he told me. “This was in the nineties, when being a liberal, to me, just meant ‘I don’t hate gay people or Black people’—normal shit.” He now thinks of himself as apolitical, and he acknowledged all the reasons to distrust Trump, but the word he kept using, whenever Trump came up, was “enticing.” “I still appreciate a lot of the policies Bernie talked about, universal health care and all that,” he said. “But culture-wise? Vibe-wise? When all you hear from one side is ‘That’s not funny, that’s over the line’—realistically, where are people gonna feel more comfortable?”

Trump is known for his bloviating, but Schulz suggested that his greater talent may be a kind of listening. “Democrats are tuned in to what people should feel,” he said. “Trump is tuned in to what people actually fucking feel.” Schulz noted that, as a boundary-pushing performer, this was also one of his own key skills: gauging micro-fluctuations in an audience’s reaction. When Trump appeared on “Flagrant,” he talked about being taken to a hospital in rural Pennsylvania after he was shot, and how impressed he was with the “country doctors” who’d treated him. “I laughed at that, ’cause I just thought ‘country doctors’ was a funny phrase,” Schulz told me. “He clocks me laughing at it, and in the next sentence he immediately says it again, and he watches me to make sure I laugh again.”

“Flagrant” bills itself as “THE GREATEST HANG IN THE UNIVERSE!” I spent the rest of the day watching Schulz and his co-hosts tape an episode (and then an extra segment sponsored by an online betting platform, and then an extra extra segment for Patreon), and I could imagine some places in the universe that would have been greater. One of the running gags in the episode was that the hosts kept pronouncing the word “prerecorded” as “pre-retarded.” At one point, a host volunteered how many times he’d masturbated in a single day, and his record was so formidable that the others looked worried for him. In fairness, though, even a solid hang can’t be scintillating all the time. One function of a long-standing friendship, including a parasocial one, is simply to while away the hours, even when there isn’t much to say.

When it comes to parasocial media, MAGA has had a long head start. Before Dan Bongino was Trump’s deputy F.B.I. director, he was a popular, blustery podcaster; after Matt Gaetz withdrew from consideration as Attorney General, he announced that he would host a TV show and a podcast (his third). During the Biden Administration, about a dozen Republicans were both active podcast hosts and sitting members of Congress, while most Democrats hardly seemed interested in trying. Before the “Flagrant” taping, Schulz and I had been discussing which qualities the Democrats should look for in their next crop of leaders, and afterward he returned to the question. “They need someone who can really hang,” he said. “Obama could hang. Clinton, for sure—Bill, not Hillary. Trump can hang.” I ran through the shortlist: Pete Buttigieg? Schulz wrinkled his nose—too polished. A.O.C.? “When she’s being the working-class chick from the Bronx, I could see it,” he said. “But when she starts going on MSNBC and doing ‘We have an orange rapist in the White House’—then you start to lose people.”

Schulz said that he’d invited Kamala Harris and Tim Walz to appear on the show “numerous times,” to no avail. (The Harris campaign says that Schulz never sent a formal invitation.) He couldn’t be sure why Walz had stayed away from podcasts like his, but he had guesses. “If we’ve got on a guy who was in the military for twenty years, at some point I’m gonna go, ‘Cut the shit, Tim, you know how guys really talk,’ ” Schulz said. “And then let’s say we start busting balls, making gay jokes, whatever—does he laugh? If he does, he pisses off his people. If he doesn’t, he loses our people.” Walz was added to the Presidential ticket because he was able to talk like a regular person who could make the opposition seem “weird” by contrast. But, things being as they are, Schulz said, “the Democrats can’t let a guy like that loose.”

When Trump was on “Flagrant,” Akaash Singh, a co-host who refers to himself as a “moderate,” encouraged him to consider practicing self-restraint. “What we love about you as comedians is you shoot from the hip,” Singh said. “If you get elected, would you be a little more mindful of how powerful your words are?”

“I will,” Trump said. “And I’m gonna think of you every time.”

“Let’s go!” Singh said, jumping up and pumping his fist. “I might actually vote.”

Piker starts streaming at eleven every morning, so everything else has to happen before then, or at night. At 7 a.m. one day, he drove Kaya to a nearby park, to take her for a walk, then played basketball for half an hour. He saw me eying his car, a Porsche Taycan. “It’s not the flashiest model I could afford,” he protested, before I could say anything. “But yes, admittedly, it is a fucking Porsche.” When Piker is criticized by the right, it’s usually for soft-pedalling the brutality of Hamas, or the Houthis, or the Chinese Communist Party. (Piker is such a relentless critic of Israel that, last year, the advocacy group StopAntisemitism nominated him for “Antisemite of the Year”; when asked his opinion of Hezbollah, he once shrugged and replied, “I don’t have an issue with them.”) By the left, he is more likely to be dismissed as a limousine socialist who lives in a $2.7-million house. He has his own clothing brand, called Ideologie.

While driving home, he took a call from his manager. A major production company wanted to discuss a potential TV show, hosted by Piker, in the vein of “Borat” or “Nathan for You.” His manager asked if he wanted to be interviewed by Megyn Kelly on her radio show. “No.” A daytime show on Fox News? “No.” Buttigieg’s people had asked if Piker would interview Buttigieg on his stream. “Probably not, but I’ll think about it,” Piker said—too centrist. “If he’s thinking about running for President, I don’t really wanna be giving him clout.” In his kitchen, he took a few fistfuls of supplements: creatine, fish oil, Ashwagandha. Still on the phone with his manager, he sat at his desktop, skimming stories he might cover. Then, a few minutes before he went live, he started seeing news alerts: Luigi Mangione, the suspect in the UnitedHealthcare assassination, had just been arrested. Whatever else he’d been planning to talk about was now irrelevant. “Holy shit, they got him,” Piker told his manager. “I gotta go.”

“Mamma mia!” he said, on air. “This is the first day where there will be no Italiophobia on this broadcast.” Already, his chat was full of spaghetti emojis and “FREE LUIGI!” Piker walked a fine line—celebrating Mangione as “hotter than me” and speaking in generally exalted terms about “the propaganda of the deed,” but trying to stop short of overtly glorifying murder, which is against Twitch’s terms of service. “We, of course, do not condone,” he said repeatedly. “We condemn.” (Recently, he was suspended from Twitch for twenty-four hours after musing that someone may want to “kill Rick Scott,” the Florida senator.)

In fact, he reserved his condemnation for the finger-wagging from the “corporate media,” as exhibited everywhere from Fox News to CNN. “Bro, they can’t let anybody have anything,” he said later. For six hours straight, his chatters sent him links to new information as it emerged—Mangione’s Goodreads account, his Twitter history, his high-school valedictorian speech. On my own, I would have been tempted to spend the day following the same bread crumbs, struggling to retrace Mangione’s path to radicalization. But it was easier to let Piker and the forty thousand internet sleuths in his chat make sense of it for me.

Many of Piker’s viewers come to him with inchoate opinions. He aims to mold them. But, he told me, of the stream, “at the end of the day, it still has to be relatable and entertaining.” One of his maxims is “Read the room.” In his case, this means posting many hours of content about nothing in particular. Stavros Halkias, a comedian and a friend of Piker’s, told me, “He’s built up enough trust with his audience that, if he’s being boring and academic for forty minutes, they’ll stick with it until he starts doing something more interesting, playing a Japanese dating simulator or whatever.” Some days, he puts on a Trump hat and streams as Hank Pecker, a “Colbert Report”-style satirical character updated for the MAGA era. In another room of his house, Piker records a weekly podcast with three buddies, an apolitical chat show on which one of the most heated topics of recent debate was proper manscaping technique, and another was whether one of them farted. Marche, the producer, was proud to tell me that the podcast’s audience is about sixty per cent male—“which sounds like a lot, but actually most shows in this space are eighty-twenty male, or eighty-five-fifteen.” One theory for this lopsidedness is that, given all the “End of Men” statistics, women have better things to do with their time, such as holding down meaningful jobs and cultivating lasting relationships, while men are stuck playing video games with their imaginary friends.

Recently, on a MAGA-bro podcast, Piker reached across the aisle, adapting “eight hours for what you will” to the current decadent moment. “Deep down inside, most people just wanna be comfortable,” he said. “They wanna have a roof over their heads, they want a fuckin’ nice meal, get some pussy . . . play Marvel Rivals.” In recent years, Piker has stopped using the word “retarded,” but he still uses the word “pussy,” even though it may sound misogynist, and “lame,” despite fans who consider the term ableist. “I don’t give a shit,” Piker said. “If you can’t handle it, then I guess I’m not for you.” When his commenters try to tone-police him, Piker will often single one of them out and say, “Congratulations, chatter, you’ve won Woke of the Day.” It’s not a compliment.

The day after Mangione’s arrest, Piker had back-to-back interviews with Lina Khan, then the chair of the Federal Trade Commission, whom Piker called “the LeBron James of regulators,” and with the writer Ta-Nehisi Coates, promoting his new book. In the chat, a user named PapiJohn36 wrote, “Not to be parasocial, but I love this man.” Piker’s mother stopped by during the Coates interview. “Hasan, check your messages!” she shouted from the kitchen. Piker, grudgingly but dutifully, read his mother’s message aloud: “I got his book for the content and fell in love with his writing.”

“Thank you, Hasan’s mom,” Coates said. In the living room, Piker’s father was sprawled on the couch watching “Love Actually.”

Halkias, the comedian, showed up later that afternoon, with a bag of dirty laundry and a calendar featuring photos of himself posing in the nude. While many of Halkias’s comedian friends have taken a reactionary turn, he has stuck to his progressive principles, but he has never been a hall monitor. (He got his start on a podcast called “Cum Town.”) “Ladies and gentlemen, boys, girls, and enbies,” Piker said, “we’ve got the left’s Joe Rogan here in the building!” In the “Rogan of the left” discourse, both Piker and Halkias are frequently mentioned as top prospects. Even if they were secretly flattered by the designation, the least alpha thing they could do—the least Roganesque thing they could do—would be to thirst for it. “Free Luigi,” Halkias said, taking a seat. “He’s too sexy to be behind bars.”

As a model for the future of progressive media, Piker checks only some of the requisite boxes. A while back, he was a guest on “Flagrant”; when I asked one of the show’s staffers about Piker’s performance, he gave it a middling review. “Good guy, clearly knows his shit, but he sort of comes off like he thinks he’s the smartest guy in the room.” Piker sometimes succumbs to the socialist bro’s cardinal sin of pedantry, and he can seem like a jejune know-it-all trying to reduce any societal problem to a one-word culprit, usually “capitalism” or “imperialism.” Some segments of the Democratic coalition would find Piker to be edgy, or crass, or even despicable. But, if “Rogan of the left” is to mean anything, it would surely mean a higher tolerance for controversy, even at the risk of alienating parts of the base.

On the scale of “whether you’re calculated or whether you’re just free,” Piker is freer than most Democratic surrogates, Ivy League overachievers who sound like chatbots trained on stacks of campaign brochures. But he is less free than the average MAGA bro, who is unconstrained by the need for any consistent ideology. “He’s funny, but not that funny,” Halkias told me. “You can tell him I said that.” Halkias has his own podcast, on which he gives advice to callers. On the normier part of the spectrum are liberal influencers like Dean Withers and Harry Sisson, who have transferred the “debate me, bro” spirit of early YouTube to TikTok Live.

One afternoon, in L.A., I visited the office of Crooked Media, which was decorated with some Yes We Can iconography and had glass-walled conference rooms with cheeky names such as “Sedition” and “Conspiracy.” When the company began, in 2017, its three founders, former Obama staffers named Jon Lovett, Tommy Vietor, and Jon Favreau, were treated as audacious upstarts challenging the media hierarchy. Now they are middle-aged bosses in Henleys and tapered jeans. We sat in “Legitimate Political Discourse.” A long table had been laid with LaCroix and PopCorners. “We have become the out-of-touch lib establishment,” Vietor said. Lovett added, “My, how time flies.”

Crooked now has more than a dozen podcasts, including its flagship show, “Pod Save America.” Vietor recounted a time, a few years back, when a friend invited him to appear on a show put out by Barstool Sports, a bro-y podcast network that leans right. Vietor, worried about guilt by association, turned it down. “Looking back, that was so stupid,” he said. “The ‘how dare you platform someone you disagree with’ era is over. Fuck that.” (He has since appeared on the show.) In 2018, Favreau was hosting a show called “The Wilderness,” about how the Democratic Party lost its way, and wanted to include a clip of Obama reaching out to the white working class. “A younger producer listened and went, ‘I’m not sure this plays well today,’ ” Favreau said. “And I went, ‘That’s part of the problem!’ ” After the 2024 election, Piker appeared on “Pod Save America.” Lovett got pushback from moderate fans, who objected to Piker’s anti-Zionism, and from progressive fans, who objected to Lovett’s next interview, with a Democrat who wants restrictions on trans women in sports—but he shrugged it off. “It’s a big tent,” Lovett said. “It’s got Dick Cheney in it. It’s got Hasan Piker in it.”

The “Rogan of the left” formulation isn’t entirely vacuous, but it’s easy to misinterpret. Rogan-like figures can’t be engineered; they have to develop organically. Their value lies in their idiosyncrasies—their passionate insistence on talking about chimps and ancient pyramids, say, rather than the budget ceiling—and in their authenticity, which entails an aversion to memorizing talking points. Many Democrats assume that what they have is a messaging problem—that voters don’t have a clear enough sense of what the Democrats are really like. But it’s possible that the problem is the opposite: that many swing voters, including Joe Rogan, got a sense of what the Democrats were like, then ran in the opposite direction.

The good news for Democrats is that the right does not have a monopoly on relatability. A week before his interview with Trump, Theo Von conducted an interview with Bernie Sanders while wearing a Grateful Dead shirt. “You ever see the Grateful Dead?” Von said, as an icebreaker. Sanders, apparently unfamiliar with the concept, frowned and said, “Um, no.” From any other politician, this would have been malpractice, but with Sanders the crankiness is part of the crossover charm. (“He literally just talks common sense,” one of the top YouTube comments read.) A few months later, Rogan interviewed Senator John Fetterman. “Trump is not polished, but you get a sense of who he is as a human being,” Rogan said. Fetterman agreed, alluding to a line from “Scarface”: “All I have in this world is my balls and my word.”

Reeves, the social scientist, told me, “There is a strong correlation between which Democratic lawmakers are in my inbox and which ones have the year 2028 circled on their calendar.” Senator Chris Murphy, of Connecticut, read Reeves’s book in 2023 and praised it on X; many of Murphy’s constituents, including his fourteen-year-old son, took issue with his post. Nevertheless, he persisted, writing a follow-up on Substack: “We should try to do two things at once—fight for the equality of women and gay people, while also trying hard to figure out why so many boys are struggling and why so many men are feeling shitty.” Sanders and Fetterman share what could be described as populist instincts, but ideologically they are leagues apart. On the level of pure affect, though, they may represent elements of a style that other politicians could crib from. “Personally, I find the performance of masculinity to be totally boring,” Hanna Rosin told me. “But if that’s what fifty-one per cent of Americans need—someone who reads as some version of ‘gruff, manly dude,’ but whose heart is still in the right place—then I’m willing to go along with it.”

Twitch stars often appear on one another’s streams, hoping to pick up some new fans. One afternoon, Piker headed to Zoo Culture, a gym in Encino owned by a streamer and fitness influencer named Bradley Martyn, to do a “collab.” It would also feature Jason Nguyen, a twenty-year-old Twitch star from Texas who goes by JasonTheWeen. “Bradley’s a big Trump guy, and we talk politics sometimes, but mostly we just talk about gym-bro shit,” Piker told me. “Jason probably leans Trump, if I had to guess, but his content isn’t really political at all.” (“I dont lean towards anyone,” Nguyen wrote when reached for comment. “I dont want anything to do with politics 😭.”)

By the time we got to the gym, Nguyen was already there, performing for the camera by flirting with a woman on a weight bench. “Is Jason rizzing right now?” Piker asked Martyn, who nodded. “Is it working?” Piker asked the woman. She replied, “A little bit.” Before she left, she gave Nguyen her Discord handle.

“Bradley, I’ve got something for you,” Piker said, removing his long-sleeved shirt. Underneath, he was wearing a tank top with a Rambo-style cartoon of Trump and the words “LET’S GO BRANDON.” “I was coming into hostile territory, so I had to fit in,” Piker said.

“It’s perfect,” Martyn said.

Martyn, who is six feet three and two hundred and sixty pounds, looks vaguely like Bradley Cooper on steroids. (Martyn has taken testosterone supplements, which Piker once brought up in a jocular debate about trans rights: You do hormone-replacement therapy, so why can’t they?) Nguyen is much smaller. “My chat just said, ‘There’s three muscleheads in the gym right now,’ ” Nguyen joked, not even pretending to look at his phone. Piker roasted Nguyen with a fake comment from his own chat: “Jason looks like a twink.” They wandered from station to station—first bench-pressing, then deadlifting—as their cameramen followed. “We’re just here to have fun,” Piker said. Then, dropping into a mock P.S.A. voice: “And also reach out to the young men out there who are lost—who feel anchorless, rudderless—by lifting some heavy weights.”

One flat-screen TV showed Joe Rogan interviewing Elon Musk, on mute, with no captions. Two shirtless guys, between reps, compared crypto wallets. “During Covid, they let liquor stores and strip clubs open, but they shut us down,” Martyn told me. “And then all the inflation, all the wars—it’s not like I trust any politician, Trump or Kamala or anyone, to be a perfect person. It’s just—if we never try anything new, how can we get a different result?” Last fall, when Martyn interviewed Trump, he brought up “the deep state” and asked, “How would you actually make an effective change there?” It wasn’t a specific question, and Trump didn’t have a specific answer. “We’re changing that whole thing around,” he said. Apparently, this was good enough for Martyn.

The day after the 2024 election, Martyn appeared on Piker’s stream to explain his support for Trump. They started with small talk. “Why do you have so many Zyn containers behind you?” Martyn said.

“I fucking slam those bad boys daily,” Piker said.

“Look at us relating, bro,” Martyn said.

When they got around to politics, Piker said, “One side at least acknowledges that people are angry—the Republicans.” The Democrats’ proposed solutions were inadequate, he said, but Trump would only make things worse. Martyn smiled and replied, “You’re gonna have to say sorry when he does what he says he’s gonna do.”

They ended the gym session by daring each other to take turns sitting in Martyn’s cold plunge. Piker resisted at first—“I didn’t bring a towel, a bathing suit, nothing”—but he went in anyway, in his gym shorts, and his commenters went wild. “Hey, Hasan’s chat, I hope y’all are happy he took his shirt off,” Nguyen said, facing Piker’s camera. Then he checked his phone: the woman from the weight bench had already sent him a message.

“Wait, she did?” Piker said, with a grin. “You’re about to lose your virginity, I think.”

[contemplatingoutlander]

Yoel Roth, PhD used to be in charge of the trust and safety team at Twitter. This is a must-read article to better understand how the far right is attacking anyone who wants to guard against disinformation being shared on social media. Consequently, the link above is a gift 🎁 link, so anyone can read the entire article, even if they do not subscribe to the NY Times.

Below are some excerpts:

When I worked at Twitter, I led the team that placed a fact-checking label on one of Donald Trump’s tweets for the first time. Following the violence of Jan. 6, I helped make the call to ban his account from Twitter altogether. Nothing prepared me for what would happen next. Backed by fans on social media, Mr. Trump publicly attacked me. Two years later, following his acquisition of Twitter and after I resigned my role as the company’s head of trust and safety, Elon Musk added fuel to the fire. I’ve lived with armed guards outside my home and have had to upend my family, go into hiding for months and repeatedly move. This isn’t a story I relish revisiting. But I’ve learned that what happened to me wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t just personal vindictiveness or “cancel culture.” It was a strategy — one that affects not just targeted individuals like me, but all of us, as it is rapidly changing what we see online. Private individuals — from academic researchers to employees of tech companies — are increasingly the targets of lawsuits, congressional hearings and vicious online attacks. These efforts, staged largely by the right, are having their desired effect: Universities are cutting back on efforts to quantify abusive and misleading information spreading online. Social media companies are shying away from making the kind of difficult decisions my team did when we intervened against Mr. Trump’s lies about the 2020 election. Platforms had finally begun taking these risks seriously only after the 2016 election. Now, faced with the prospect of disproportionate attacks on their employees, companies seem increasingly reluctant to make controversial decisions, letting misinformation and abuse fester in order to avoid provoking public retaliation.

I encourage you to use the gift link above and read the entire article. It is worth your time.

[mightyflamethrower]

15 Facts About E. Jean Carroll’s Allegations Against Trump the Media Don’t Want You to Know

1.  Bergdorf Goodman has no surveillance video of the alleged incident.

2.  There are zero witnesses to the alleged sexual attack.

3.  Carroll first came forward — conveniently — with the allegations while promoting her book What Do We Need Men For? in 2019, which featured a list of “The Most Hideous Men of My Life.”

4.  Carroll was unable to remember when this alleged attack even occurred. She told her lawyer in 2023, “This question, the when, the when, the date, has been something I’ve [been] constantly trying to pin down.” She has jumped years — originally beginning with 1994, then moving to 1995, and even floating to 1996. She cannot remember the season in which the alleged attack occurred either.

5.  The Donna Karan blazer dress she claims to have worn during the alleged incident was not even available at the time of her claims. Trump Attorney Boris Epshteyn told reporters, “She said, ‘This is the dress I wore in 1994.’ They went back, they checked. The dress wasn’t even made in 1994.”

“And that’s why the date’s moved around. This is the 80s. Is it the 90s? Is it the 2000s? President Trump has consistently stated that he was falsely accused, and he has the right to defend himself,” he added.

6.  She never came forward with these allegations over the years despite constantly being open about sexuality, posting things that were very sexual in nature on social media — many of which Trump has shared. They include remarks such as “How do you know your ‘unwanted sexual advance’ is unwanted, until you advance it?” and “Sex Tip I Learned From My Dog: When in heat, chase the male until he collapses with exhaustion … then jump him!”

7.  She said she was never raped, telling the New York Times’ podcast, The Daily,“Every woman gets to choose her word. Every woman gets to choose how she describes it. This is my way of saying it. This is my word. My word is ‘fight.’ My word is not the ‘victim’ word. I have not — I have not been raped,” she continued. “I have — something has not been done to me. I fought. That’s the thing.”

8.  She named her cat “Vagina.” “Her dog, or her cat, was named ‘Vagina.’ The judge wouldn’t allow us to put that in — all of these things — but with her, they could put in anything: Access Hollywood,” Trump told CNN.

9.  Joe Tacopina, an attorney for Trump, pointed out in May 2023 that Carroll’s entire story has incredible similarities to a 2012 episode of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. In that episode, titled “Theatre and Tricks,” an individual talks about a rape fantasy in Bergdorf Goodman — the same department store where Carroll claims the incident took place.

10.  Speaking of shows, Carroll loved Trump’s show The Apprentice.

“I was a big fan of the show. Very impressed by it,” Carroll said on the witness stand, adding that she “had never seen such a witty competition on TV, and it was about something worthwhile, competing.”

11.  Carroll made a joke associating sex with Bergdorf Goodman in a November 1993 edition of Elle, which was before the alleged Trump attack took place. As Breitbart News detailed:

Carroll was responding to a letter from a female reader concerned that she was having trouble achieving orgasm through sexual intercourse alone while the reader said that she could climax through foreplay. “Is there any way I could learn to reach orgasm through sex?” asked the reader in the November 1993 edition. “Maybe books I could read?” Carroll replied with the following advice (emphasis added): Dear Snowed Under: Stop flagellating yourself. Gadzooks! At least you have orgasms. And if that isn’t spontaneous sex I don’t know what is. Most women (about 70 percent) experience difficulties climaxing through intercourse alone. So you’re perfectly normal. Begin by reading For Yourself by Dr. Lonnie Barbach. She’ll give you excellent instructions on how to have an orgasm during intercourse. Then after 313 queenhell love-wiggles, move on to Gretta Garbo’s favorite love position – the top. (In erotic scenes, Garbo is always above the man. So are Sharon Stone, Bette Midler and Katherine Hepburn). Indeed, this location works better for women than the fourth floor of Bergdorf’s.

12.  Carroll is financially backed by anti-Trump Democrat megadonor Reid Hoffman, who has openly admitted to visiting convicted sex offender Jeffrey Epstein’s private island.

13.  Democrat party activists back her as well, as Breitbart News detailed:

Indeed, one of Carroll’s attorneys is Roberta Kaplan — a Democrat Party activist who led the group Time’s Up. She left the activist group after it was revealed she was aiding former New York Gov. Andrew Cuomo in attempting to discredit the Democrat’s accusers. It served as a great irony as Time’s Up seeks to defend women from what it claims is discrimination and harassment. This fact has led to mounting speculation that Kaplan only gets involved in cases that she views as politically expedient. Further, Federal District Judge Lewis Kaplan is overseeing the process and has connections to Carroll’s other attorney, Shawn Crowley. She was actually a law clerk for Judge Kaplan, and he officiated her wedding. That aside, Trump has denied knowing the left-wing activist as the only evidence of any contact is a single picture with Carroll greeting Trump and his ex-wife Ivana at an event greeting line over 35 years ago. Carroll has yet to provide solid evidence of this alleged encounter and will not use the dress that she claims had DNA on it from this alleged incident. Even Trump publicly said the dress should be part of the case. Further, there are no eyewitnesses of this alleged incident, which supposedly occurred at the popular New York City department store.

14.  The lawsuit was only able to proceed after Democrats created the Adult Survivors Act in 2022. She conveniently pursued this suit in November following the law going into effect, which allowed her to avoid the statute of limitations for this case.

15.  Carroll once said, “Most people think of rape as sexy.”

Donald Trump Jr. also retweeted a list of facts about Carroll, urging others to take a look:

- She couldn't recall the date, month, season, or year the incident happened -

She never told anyone about it, despite being publicly obsessed with her own sexuality -

The dress she claims to have been wearing didn't exist at the time -

Her description of the dressing room at Bergdorf Goodman was inaccurate, making her sequence of events impossible -

Her lawsuit was bankrolled by Jeffrey Epstein pal and Democrat (and Nikki Haley) mega-donor Reid Hoffman -

Democrats created a law (The Adult Survivors Act in 2022) to enable her lawsuit to proceed - Her accusation is the exact plotline of an episode of Law & Order (one of her "favorite shows") -

Trump's Apprentice was also one of her favorite shows -

She has a history of falsely accusing men of r*pe, including Les Moonves - She told Anderson Cooper, "most people think of r*pe as being sexy. Think of the fantasies." -

She made a career promoting promiscuity, even writing glowingly of sexual assault and naming her cat Vagina

We owe Stalin and Hitler a huge apology. We are ever so bad as they ever were. This isn't Justice. Its punishment for for disobeying the deep state elites.

[posttexasstressdisorder]

CNN 5/19/2025

‘Sesame Street’ taking up residence on Netflix

By Lisa Respers France and Liam Reilly, CNN

Updated: 12:32 PM EDT, Mon May 19, 2025

Source: CNN

We can definitely tell you how to get to “Sesame Street.”

It was announced Monday that the popular longstanding children’s program has found a new home at Netflix.

“For more than a half a century, ‘Sesame Street’ has been a beloved cornerstone of children’s media, enchanting young minds and nurturing a love of learning,” a press release states. “Now Elmo, Cookie Monster, Abby Cadabby, and all their friends are coming to Netflix later this year, with Sesame Street’s all-new, reimagined 56th season — plus 90 hours of previous episodes — available to audiences worldwide.”

The news comes after Warner Bros. Discovery, CNN’s parent company, opted not to renew its contract to stream the series on Max (returning to the name HBO Max.)

“The new season will feature fresh format changes and the return of fan-favorite segments like Elmo’s World and Cookie Monster’s Foodie Truck,” the streamer announced. “Additionally, episodes will now center on one 11-minute story, allowing for even more character-driven humor and heart.”

The series will still be available on PBS. President Donald Trump recently signed an executive order to end federal funding for PBS and NPR.

“I strongly believe that our educational programming for children is one of the most important aspects of our service to the American people, and ‘Sesame Street’ has been an integral part of that critical work for more than half a century,” Paula Kerger, the PBS president and chief executive, said in a statement.

Sherrie Rollins Westin, the president and chief executive of Sesame Workshop — the organization behind the show — emphasized that the deal combines Sesame’s research-based curriculum and Netflix’s global reach, “ensuring children in communities across the US continue to have free access on public television to the Sesame Street they love.”

Netflix, meanwhile, touted the acquisition as a major win. The company announced the deal on X with a video of Cookie Monster devouring the Netflix logo, accompanied by “N IS FOR NETFLIX!”

The new deal provides the beloved children’s TV show with a much-needed lifeline after months of turmoil following HBO’s and Max’s decision to opt out of renewing a contract with “Sesame Street.” Since the December announcement, Sesame Workshop’s coffers have been stretched thin, leading it to lay off staffers in March as it approached production of Season 56.

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[nin-twst]

Welcome to Marga- I Mean- Maquiaville!

Part 1

SUMMARY: Yu gets a one-in-a-lifetime opportunity to accompany Vil to a prestigious film festival! That is to say... What horrors will ruin her somewhat peaceful school life this time?

A/N: i was gonna do silly goofy comics but i got insane art block so writing it is!! idk i just thought i wanted to start writing more so why not start w the events? as always stay hydrated have fun <33

start · next >

“Prefect, I have a favor to ask of you.”

Yu looked up from her spot in one of Night Raven College’s many gardens. Vil was approaching her, a nonchalant air around him despite the crowd of people following behind him.

“Yes?” She put down her laptop, taking a brief break in her work. “What’d you need?”

“I am to attend an event, and I wish for you to come along,” Vil responded, ignoring the protests and begging from the students behind him. 

“Just me?”

“I am able to bring three others.”

“As such,” Azul interrupted, adjusting his glasses with a smirk. “I have a proposal to choose the remaining three. A lottery is only fair, no?”

Jamil raised his hand. “I hate to admit it, but I agree.”

“Yeah! Fair is fair, right?” Ace exclaimed. “And you’re not getting off the kook either, Prefect!”

Vil scowled. “I specifically requested for them, so-”

“No, no.” Yu cut him off. “I agree. Fair is fair.”

A lottery meant there was a chance she wouldn’t be chosen, and that would be one less event she would have to participate in. If there was anything she learned, anything off campus meant trouble. As curious as she was about exploring Sage’s Island, her laziness trumped any other feeling. 

Yu was the last to arrive at the mirror chamber. Jamil, Azul, Ace, and Vil were all casually chatting. She would normally care about making them wait, but the fact that she wanted to rest in her room was outweighing her guilt. Maybe if she was late enough, they would ditch her…

Yeah, right. As if Vil would let that happen. 

“I never said anything about how you decided,” Vil said as she got close enough to hear their conversation. “Thus, there is no reason for me to object to your methods.” 

“And there’s our lucky boy!” Ace patted her back as she joined the group. “I rigged the lottery, and you ended up getting chosen anyway! It must be fate, ey?”

“Right,” she said through clenched teeth, tightening her fists. “Right…”

As they stepped through the mirror, she let out a breath at the mess she was about to walk into. What was the world up to this time?

Hollywood, apparently.

While the other three were gawking at the sight, she started to dissociate. There’s no way she could afford anything, and Vil was most definitely going to dress them up for the film festival. That meant one of two things: he was being generous to preserve his image or he was expecting something out of them in return. While the first one seemed unlikely, it wasn’t entirely plausible. Before being a Night Raven College student, Vil Schoeinheit was a renowned actor. With his seemingly infinite amount of funds, it would behoove him to ensure his guests wouldn’t ruin his reputation as the fairest of them all. On the other hand…

Well, he is a Night Raven College student.

“A live action Beautiful Queen?” Jamil questioned, catching her attention. “Fascinating…”

“That’s a super popular one!” Ace exclaimed. 

“Yes, yes.” Vil led them towards what looked like a fancy strip mall. “Even though I am only a model, I have a duty not to disappoint my fans.”

Her intuition was starting to seem more and more correct. It was getting scarier each step closer they got to the luxury stores. Yet, her companions were none the wiser. Stupid adult experiences ruining her ability to suspend her disbelief. She couldn’t even pay attention enough to notice Ace and Azul bouncing around the different displays. 

They stopped in front of what seemed to be a clothing store, except it was one she would only dream of stepping into. It’s like the ones seen in movies and TV shows. Not real life. 

Never real life.

“This-!” Both Jamil and Azul exclaimed in recognition. Never a good sign. 

“We’re shopping at Luxe?” Azul’s jaw hit the floor. “That’s the high-end store of high-end stores!”

“What’s that?” Grim huffed. “Doesn’t sound very tasty to me…”

“Luxe is like-” Ace gestured wildly. “It’s everywhere! It’s the brand!”

Yu couldn’t say that she had heard of it before, but she felt her and Grim were exceptions. One was a magical creature from who knows where and the other was from a different dimension. If there were to be any outliers, it would be them.

“These fabrics…” Jamil commented. “I’ve heard of the quality, but it’s something different seeing it in person.”

Vil smiled. “You have a good eye, then.”

“The Scalding Sands does a lot of business in the fabric industry. I happened to pick a thing or two.”

A worker approached them with a customer-service smile on their face.  “Surely you must know the value of our curtains, then.”

The fucking curtains? Sure, Yu could admit she didn’t know much about fabrics and clothes, but what did the curtains have to do with anything? Despite her thoughts, Jamil was amazed over the drapes, going back and forth with the employee with Vil chiming in every so often. She didn’t get it, and she didn’t think she would ever get it. Oh well.

Ace whistled. “Damn. I could only imagine wearing luxury clothes like these!”

“Of course. We’re only students, after all,” Jamil retorted.

“Kalim could buy the whole store, though!”

“...He doesn’t count.”

Yu had to agree with him on that one. Actually, was there a housewarden that wasn’t insanely rich? Damn- She should have gotten closer to them faster!

Another employee stepped onto the floor, but he was dressed more fancily. A manager, perhaps?

“Mr. Schoenheit,” he said. “What a pleasure to do business with you once more.”

Oh no. 

Vil smiled in return. “The pleasure is mine. I am here to pick up my order.”

Oh no. 

[greyyson-but-no]

everything wrong with dreams reddit response:

a slur can only be reclaimed if it starts to be used in a positive light, those are "the rules" he seems to not understand. a perfect example is the word 'queer' used as a slur for gay people but now an umbrella term for gay people if they don't want to be specific. being autistic does not just immediately apologise for using the r slur, especially when you are using it as a derogatory insult. it would have to be slowly integrated back into a large populations vocabulary IN A POSITIVE WAY. in fact, him using it the way he did proves that the relaxing around using terms like that does need to be supervised and probably shouldn't happen at all.

tommyinnit has not posted lies about you my guy (talking as if he's gonna see this is crazy but it's for effect you get me?) he told his side of your relationship over these five years and a lot of the stuff you did was a bit weird man! and proof that it's just not you (because wow! everything's not about you dream!) is the brighton biter (gross but it's necessary) when all the shit came out about him we made him accountable! and majority of his old fans dont support him anymore. the only reason tommy has stayed out of mention brighton biter is because he's shut up and not said a word, whereas you pop up every five minutes to whine about and make yourself out to be the victim just to stay relevant!

tommy is not going around being the "internet police" that's for sure. he's talking about his experiences in his occupation and if terrible ccs are exposed for being terrible ccs through that, then maybe they shouldn't have done what they did?

he says that the worst of the worst dream stans hsge now ended up being tommyinnit fans which is a crazy accusation. the only reason he thinks we're the worst of the worst is because we hold ccs accountable and don't worship the ground they walk on, like seemingly most dream stans. that's not me saying every single tommyinnit fan is perfect, but for the majority, we're not fucking weird like he makes us out to be. the difference between dream and tommy is the fact that he doesn't see us as less than him, whereas dream sees his fans as numbers on a screen and people who worship all he does. it's crazy that that leads to a good relationship between fan and creators (/s). it's not that difficult to do the same.

he is also immediately backing and supporting 1. a guy who covered up an SA case and 2. trump supporter. so, who's the fucking weirdo now? those are literally the worst of the worst, and if dream is openly supporting and backing them, who knows what he actually believes behind the scenes.

"twitter is somehow even less reasonable" YOU SAID A SLUR??? MY BROTHER IN CHRIST.

[my-my-my]

Get to know mutuals ^-^ tagged by @bankaizen (thank you for the tag ❤️)

I'm sorry, it's so long!! I'm putting it behind the read more for easier reading.

What’s the origin of your username? It's a song by Armand Van Helden! He's one of my favourite DJs haha.

OTP(s) + shipname: TUna LMAO (Tidus/Yuna) from FFX, Fanille (Fang/Vanille from FFXIII), Touya/Yukito from CCS, GinRan and Unohana/Isane from Bleach. Yakuza: Daigo/Mine. Also a big fan of Canon Character/OCs!!!

Favourite colour: Turquoise/teal - most of my fountain pen inks are in that colour range lol

Song stuck in my head: The Macrodata Refinement Dance Party mixed by ODESZA

Weirdest habit/trait: If I'm at a restaurant, I fold my used napkins neatly to be disposed of.

Hobbies: I have a lot! Aside from writing, there are:

(junk) journaling, which in turn, lead me to my stationery and fountain pen hobbies

playing the piano (been playing since I was 5)

swimming (was a competitive swimmer for most of my child and teenage years)

I garden in the spring/summertime

I also love to cook and have done dinner parties for my friends (but I don't enjoy baking)

I'm also into photography

I wish I had more time in the day for it, but I also try to do some language learning!

If you could have any job you wish what would you have? A food/travel writer/reviewer!

Something you’re good at: I've been told I'm good at giving advice and listening to people. Personally I'm very good at directions! There have been a few times where I've been stopped on the street and helped people navigate their way around.

Something you hate: Oranges :(, I can't stand the colour, the smell and the taste.

Something you forget: Hmmm not sure! I guess phone numbers. I only remember the numbers of my immediate family...

Your love language: Gift giving! I love getting people gifts and try hard to get something meaningful and/or practical. I'll try to remember little details about my friends and find something along the lines of that. I also love receiving gifts lol.

Favourite movies/shows: Ahhh so many! For animanga: Bleach, Samurai Champloo, xxxHOLiC, Sailor Moon, JJBA Diamond is Unbreakable. For movies: Spirited Away, Sorry to Bother You, Drive, Kill Bill Vol 2, Sympathy for Lady Vengeance, The Fall. Shows: Hannibal, Regular Show, 30 Rock, Prison Playbook (k-drama), Hotel del Luna (k-drama), Racket Boys (k-drama).

Favourite food: Too many... I think I could eat soup dumplings/xiaolongbao by the bucket loads. Or Sri Lankan crab curry mmmm. I also can't say no to chocolate cake 🫣

Favourite animal: bears!!! I know they could kill me, but why are they friend-shaped :(

What were you like as a child? I was an easygoing child and VERY curious. I would wake up in the middle of the night to do "science" experiments. Like one time I woke up around 3am and I dug up the front yard to find "cool rocks" 💀 or buy mentos from the local convenience store, wait for everyone to go to bed, then sneak into the kitchen and put the mentos in my parents 2L coke bottle to see it explode LMAO.

Favourite subject in school: i've been in school for too long: french & geography -> science -> physics -> biology -> advanced health economics for low and middle-income countries & biostatistics

Least favourite subject: Wood working... to avoid a fail, I asked the guy who had a crush on me to help me with my final project 🫣 I also hated organic chemistry in undergrad.

What’s your best character trait: I've been told I'm very caring and calming to be around! I had a friend describe me as a "human version of a spa" 💀

What’s your worst character trait? I cut people out of my life very easily. I think I should be more forgiving, but I just... can't get passed whatever slight was made to me/loved ones. I'm trying to be understanding and compassionate, but I also don't want you near me ever again lol.

If you could change any detail of your life right now, what would it be? I hope trump and his administration dies. In my immediate life? I'd like a higher salary.

If you could travel in time, who would you like to meet? It is definitely a tie between Johann Sebastian Bach and Muzio Clementi!! They are my favourite composers. My piano exam repertoire for the Baroque and Classical periods were from their piano repertoire. I have so much fun playing them and would love to learn their thought processes.

I tag: @soprawrites @villainsrtasty @nail-art-no-jutsu @muzansfangs @snuggetfish @if-dreams-do-come-true and any others who want to do this too (also feel free to ignore if you don't wanna do this, no obligation at all!!)

[itsclydebitches]

RWBY Recaps: Vol3E1 "Round One"

Hello, everyone, and welcome to a new collection of RWBY Recaps!!

This is a unique project in that instead of writing purely for my own entertainment, these recaps are part of the Fandom Trumps Hate auction (you can check them out here if you're interested in learning more). Specifically, these recaps are a gift for the lovely Kae who requested some meta on the earlier Volumes, or work that focused on Ozpin and/or Ironwood. I figured that Volume Three would touch on all those requests and, frankly, it's an era of RWBY that I was already interested in covering. Volume 3 was a turning point for RWBY's tone and overall mythology and I'm eager to see what I think of it in 2024, after six additional seasons and a rather chaotic overhaul.

(If anyone is reading this from the future, one of the reasons why it took me so damn long to get the first recap out is because finding official streams of RWBY has become a fool's errand as it changes ownership. Fun!)

Anyway, the game plan is simple: cover all of Volume Three at an undetermined, though hopefully steady-ish pace from here on out. Technically, the deadline for our FTH fandowrks is at the end of 2024, however, I absolutely plan to continue this series past my 5k promise. As always, this will be a RWDE-focused meta (though I'm eager to see how much nostalgia carries me through the season), so if you Don't Like; Don't Read.

Everyone got that? Great!

Now, indulge me for a moment and cast your mind back. It's October of 2015. Pizza Rat is a tumblr icon, Left Shark still reigns, and everyone is arguing over whether a dress is gold and white, or blue and black (it's the former FYI ;). Amidst such quality memes RWBY begins airing again on the 24th, presumably bringing with it another season of stellar choreography and simple, if entertaining conflict. Team RWBY has just helped contain a massive breach courtesy of Cinder's machinations, Torchewick is in Ironwood's custody, the White Fang is falling under Salem's puppeteering, Penny has revealed her android identity as well as her supposed fate to save the world, the girls are beginning to acknowledge the responsibility of their chosen career path, and the mysterious Raven has been identified as Yang's birth mother. All in all, RWBY has a lot to play with going into its third season.

It's notable then that we open peacefully. The viewer is treated to a number of environmental shots to set the scene, including one of the forest with its iconic falling Fall leaves. Ruby is positioned at the edge of a cliff with her signature rose petals drifting behind her. Stylistically it fits the scene, though from a literal standpoint it also implies that she used her semblance speed to get here. Given the momentary reveal that she's speaking to her mom, that's a rather heartwarming detail.

Sidenote: has anyone given any thought to cliffs in this series? It only occurred to me recently how often they show up, often during character milestones. Here we have Ruby talking to Summer for the first time, her (bodiless) grave situated at the end of a cliff. The Beacon initiation involves chucking the kids off a cliff and seeing how they fare, an action that is the catalyst for the group's introductions/growing dynamics. Shooting Oscar off the edge of Atlas solidifies Ironwood's turn from anti-hero to outright villain. Though I'm far from a fan of this scene, Ruby's (ridiculous) near-fall off the cliff during the fight with Cordovin preludes her (supposed) growth in leadership as she stands up to Qrow. Penny lets herself fall from Amity after sacrificing herself to get it up into the air. Then, of course, we've got the girls falling off of Ambrosius' bridge, taking them to a world where - execution aside - the intention was for them all to go through major developments: Ruby is literally reborn, Jaune experiences a lifetime of struggle, Yang and Blake finally admit their feelings, and Weiss... gets over her whole country being destroyed?

Idk, we'll have to come back to that one.

I clearly don't have a big takeaway here, just the acknowledgement that this is a visual RWBY gravitates towards. Might do a whole side meta on it some day...

Anyway, as said we realize quickly this is Summer's grave with her name carved into the headstone along with "Thus kindly I scatter." Notably, she also has her rose motif there and it's likewise prominent on Ruby's belt in this scene. Looking back, we can see how RWBY did a better job at the start of sprinkling in these significant character details before, you know, dropping them completely and then attempting a rapid-fire resurrection. Meaning, I would have bought into the emotion of Ruby giving her pendant up in Volume 9 if we'd gotten these moments consistently throughout the story's run. It wouldn't take much, just a reminder every couple of episodes to maintain the momentum. Give Ruby a scene where she explains that this rose was left by Summer before she disappeared and she's treasured it ever since. Show a flashback where we learn that it was really left behind for both girls and Yang handed it down to Ruby when she was old enough to keep track of it. Give us a minor conflict where it's lost during battle and Ruby unnecessarily endangers herself in an attempt to retrieve it (perhaps in Volume 8, setting up that the object itself is not as important as the intangible love it represents). Hell, keep it lighthearted where Yang gets Ruby something rose related at the gift shop, Nora tucks a Rose into her hair while wandering the wilderness, Qrow gives the pendant a cheeky flick while talking about how Ruby's as stubborn as her mom. My point is there are a million ways the show could have built towards that scene in Volume 9 - ways like showing us that rose on Summer's gravestone - but the show dropped the ball halfway through.

Here and now though, Ruby begins catching Summer up on everything that's happened to her since she started Beacon, which serves as a useful way to catch the viewer up too - both those who, for whatever reason, may have started RWBY with Volume 3, and those who just need a hiatus refresher.

Ruby is delightfully awkward here, a personality trait that I think becomes more forced as the series goes on. She jokes that she hasn't gotten kicked out of Beacon yet - while doing that cute little rock on her heels thing - and says that she's able to "keep [Yang] in line" by being on the same team. She follows that up with, "...that was a joke" which is just quintessential Ruby to me. Love it.

She recaps that Yang has grown a lot as a fighter since Summer left, the rest of their team is made up of Blake and Weiss, together they form Team RWBY and yes, that's as confusing as it sounds. She's stopped bad guys and met some "odd" teachers, including Ozpin.

(THAT'S MY BOY!!!)

Looking back, this is actually a fascinating couple of lines. At least, I think they have the potential to be fascinating if RT had followed a clear writing path. Ruby wonders again why Ozpin let her into Beacon early, but shrugs it off under the assumption that he'll tell her one day. "You know how he is."

Yeah, I do, Ruby. Do you?

We already knew from their initial interaction that Ruby knew who Ozpin was - she recognizes him on sight - though him posing the question implies that he never visited Patch post-her birth. At least, not recently enough for Ruby to have formed a memory of them meeting. I can only assume then that she's heard enough about him from Tai and Qrow to a) be sure of his identity (any promotional material/news about Beacon would have helped with that too) and b) believes strongly that her impression of him formed since entering Beacon aligns with what her parents presumably said about him: "You know how he is." The fact that this is in reference to Ozpin's secret keeping makes me wonder how often that came up around the dinner table. Did Tai ever express frustration, a la Ironwood, that they're clearly being kept in the dark about things? Did Qrow ever dodge the girls' questions about where he's been because he can't be honest about his spy activities, aligning Ozpin's reputation with secrecy by virtue of working for him? The casualness with which Ruby shrugs off Ozpin's secrets to Summer heavily implies that Ozpin's cagey history is both well known to the family and accepted.

Honestly, I would have loved to see this woven into Ruby's core characterization, perhaps even an extension of her "simple soul." Give me a girl who is intrinsically accepting of people, including their need to keep certain things close to the chest. Teammate deliberately kept her faunus identity under wraps? Friend hides the fact that she's an android from the whole world? Ruby accepts them. Ruby gets it. The fact that Ruby does, canonically, accept their duplicity without so much as a blink is, I think, one of the reasons why I expected her of all people to be more sympathetic towards Ozpin's hidden identity. We can argue about the girls' right to the truth via participating in this war till the cows come home, but at the end of the day Ozpin's secrets are intrinsically tied up in his family, his history, and the trauma surrounding both. Let the others get mad, prioritizing information over personal motivations (that does fit their characterizations well, with Blake perhaps being an exception), but Ruby? The show has never been willing to commit to the kind of dark story that would result in a 180 character growth - endlessly forgiving protagonist becomes jaded and cynical as she experiences The Horrors - and little moments like this one further emphasize to me that Ruby, specifically Ruby, is uniquely suited to helping Ozpin not just fight, but finally finish this war. It should never have been (just) about her talent with a scythe, or even the rarity of Silver Eyes. The Gods wanted Ozpin to unite humanity and here's a young woman who unabashedly loves everyone that the world tends to despise: secret keepers and drunk uncles and faunus and Schnees and scary androids. Ruby should have been the emotional bridge!!

Okay, I swear I'm not going to make this series a rehash of my issues with the later Volumes lol. Inevitably some things are going to crop up though.

Moving on, Ruby mentions that Tai is here too and the viewer gets to see his avatar for the first time, albeit from a distance. In keeping Summer updated on her... husband? Wait, were they married? Well, in keeping her updated on her partner, Ruby says that, "He's, you know... Dad," which, unlike the Ozpin line, is just plain funny. Sure, most of her talk is very exposition-y and absolutely functions as a soft lead-in to new content, but that's not to say a story should ever put absurd dialogue in a character's mouth simply for the sake of the viewer. That is, Ruby should never say, 'Oh, Tai is here! You know, my Dad?' because the person she's talking to, Summer, knows damn well who Tai is. Television has actually gotten better about this as a whole. Once upon a time a medical drama would have the doctor yelling, 'Her skin is turning yellow - she's jaundiced! Her liver is failing!' to ensure that the viewer understood precisely what 'jaundiced' meant, never mind how absurd it was for a professional to be shouting that among their peers. (Granted, medical dramas as a whole are absurd. I say that with love.) Despite RT's general inexperience, RWBY belongs to an era of televised storytelling where leaving certain things unsaid is par for the course.

Here, the unspoken information is what it means for Tai to be, you know, Tai. We don't really know who Tai is yet- personality-wise, I mean - so Ruby's comment functions more as a way to set up our expectations rather than to connect with us in agreement. We now expect Tai to be the kind of guy who does things to make his teenage daughter sigh and go, 'That's Dad...' and we, presumably, look forward to seeing that.

Granted, the three things we do know about Tai at this point in the story consist of:

He's a fellow Huntsmen (which is an insane job)

He let his daughter join Beacon two years early to also become a Huntress (also kinda insane but I support him)

He maintains a relationship with said daughter and daughter Sr by sending them their dog in the mail (do I really need to say it?)

Based on that I suppose we can guess as to what Tai is like lol.

He calls Ruby away so they're not late for the match and she sends a last message to Summer over her shoulder: "It was good to talk." As we transition, a murder of crows flies across the sky. Or is it an unkindness of ravens? I can barely tell in real life, let alone when they're animated blobs, but either option works well enough given the upcoming revelation about the Branwen twins.

Cutting to the arena a little time in the future, the viewer is treated to some establishing shots that, while simple, are honestly pretty cool. I believe this is our first introduction to Atlas' floating environments and showing a bit of Beacon Academy in the background helps give us a sense of scale.

This event is clearly popular, with the stadium absolutely packed with people (even more are trickling in from ferrying ships) and, to RT's credit, they did a bit of work to convey diversity in this world. We see a decent variety of skin tones as well as faunus characteristics, to say nothing of the cool designs many of the competitors will get. Beyond the main cast still being overwhelmingly white, I'd say the biggest issue here is the lack of body diversity, what with everyone having the same, stick-thin figure. Yeah, RT is clearly using the same base model copied a hundred times and I'm very aware of their previous status as a small, independent company, but such visuals nevertheless stand out in a series that's been pushing a minority plotline for three seasons.

The camera swoops down to follow Team RWBY in the midst of a battle which, again, is staged in a way that's clearly meant to catch up/invite in new viewers. It's very trailer-esque as each shot lingers on Weiss, Blake, and Yang for a moment before finishing with Ruby, complete with a twirl of Crescent Rose. This is the show visually reminding you of what it's really about. Sure, we might have started with Ruby speaking peacefully by a grave, but at the end of the day RWBY is the story of a team engaging in combat situations.

Oobleck and Port are announcing the event and Oobleck throws out his standard "Doctor" when his title goes unacknowledged.

You know, I started RWBY nearly a decade ago. Four years ago I secured a PhD, so I feel that now.

Port provides another handy info dump for those "just now joining us." AKA the viewer who has no idea what a Vytal Festival is, but this is as good an excuse as any given that people are still entering the stadium. Simply put, all the Kingdoms' huntsmen schools are competing as teams first, then as duos, then as individuals to determine the final winner who will have achieved "victory for their kingdom!" Age and year are irrelevant, which makes perfect sense given the nature of RWBY's combat. You've got young prodigies like Ruby and people who sneak into Beacon like Jaune, and though the other schools/years probably don't have as much drama going on, the variety of semblances, weapons, dust use, and personal experience really makes this anyone's game. A first year might easily beat a fourth year if they won the genetic lottery with their semblance, or a student from School A might trounce someone their age from School B, depending on how much their school has sent them into real combat situations.

Given all that, I kinda wish the Festival had developed the other Kingdoms more, given that it's the perfect opportunity for the cultures to learn from one another and/or butt heads. In a perfect world, one where RT had some sense of where their story was going, I would have loved to see:

Strong development of Vacuo's citizens, especially given that it will be the focal point of Volume 10 and possibly the end of the series (if we ever get that...).

Though the gag that Weiss excepts strict, militaristic fighters from Atlas only to get Neon is funny, that 'Don't judge a book by its cover' lesson really doesn't align well with what Volume 7 and 8 try to push. Better, perhaps, to set up Atlas' dictatorship tendencies before swinging hard in that direction (and I'll get into how what we do see doesn't make the cut).

How Remnant's racism gets displayed in a highly public competition. Do Blake and the other faunus face more discrimination now that they're in the public eye? Do asshole citizens challenge wins because no way did a faunus beat that human?

How different schools approach training their huntsmen. Specifically, everyone seems to abide by the four-person team structure, so why would this competition eventually highlight duos and individuals? It seems counter to what Beacon, and by extension all the other schools, are trying to promote. This setup would make more sense if we were shown that different schools have radically different curriculum. Maybe it's eventually 1v1 because Vacuo's individualist, survival-based culture teaches huntsmen to fend for themselves; teammates are just another liability. Maybe Atlas, being militaristic, prizes safety in numbers and has students train in groups of six rather than four. Maybe Mistral is incredibly semblance-focused (a way to develop Neptune's phobia rather than just making it a gag; a fighter who can't or won't use their semblance is considered effectively useless) and if you can negate that aspect of their style somehow, you find they're lacking severely in weapon-based combat.

Again, I know that RWBY, particularly early RWBY, only had so much time per episode, but looking back it feels like there are a lot of missed opportunities in this world-watched event. None of this is even taking into account Cinder sneaking into the school, or Penny being outed as an android. If any RWBY rewriters are reading this, the Festival is a potential goldmine of characterization and cultural development. If you're going to write random RWBY books, write some about that!

One moment of cultural significance that is shown though is the Atlas security hovering around the arena. They mostly keep to the background, without any single appearance being obtrusive (yet). This is one of those moments where (some) fans look back and say, "See? Ironwood was always a controlling, military-obsessed bastard," but the reality is that this is incredibly tame by real world standards, to say nothing of the realities of RWBY's fantasy world. Regardless of how you feel about the, uh... motivations behind the security in your country (because that's a whole other conversation), you expect there to be some level of professional oversight when that many people are meeting in one place. That's a reality we have to work with, which includes all the potential pitfalls, biases, manipulations, and accidents that come with any large-scale endeavor. Toss in the fact that RWBY's security is designed to defend against man-eating monsters and I'm honestly surprised it isn't presented as dystopian here. Meaning, we easily could have been given a story where people are comparatively safe from grimm in modern day Remnant and the security functions primarily as outside control and/or a fear-mongering tactic. It's not that security is inherently unnecessary, but those walls have done a damn good job for the last generation or so, so why is James so insistent on populating this festival with his probably not-needed robots? Seems sus 🤔.

As it stands, grimm DO attack people on the regular (that was kind of a big part of last Volume's finale), security IS necessary (according to many other council professionals once James raises the issue), and it's arguably MORE necessary now - during the festival - because there are so many potentially negative emotions just waiting to crop up. Instead of "Seems sus," the reaction to having defensive robots around is more, "No duh." At the very least RWBY might have had the characters react to the security with suspicion/fear, even if that doesn't totally track with the rest of the worldbuilding, or better yet, demonstrate that there are major issues with AI leading the charge (robot mistakes kid in grimm mask for real grimm and fires a shot!). Granted, we get that through the hacking at the very end of the Volume, but here and now the Atlas ships seem to be used primarily for transporting viewers, the crowd is fully at ease with these guys, and — as we'll see later — the prospect of additional security in the form of AI is greeted with enthusiasm, not wariness, simply because it will keep real, breathing people off the front lines. Those are all important things to keep in mind when you consider whether a) The show took a very sharp turn in Volumes 7-8 or b) The show capitalized on a long established, slow burn plotline.

(Psst the answer is 'B')

ANYWAY, Oobleck is yelling about the "Spectacular spectacles on which to speculate on!" and I love him all the more. While he and Port narrate we get some non-animated shots of people viewing the Festival from around the world, though frankly it doesn't do much to help RWBY's worldbuilding. Some people watch the fights from a camper outside, others are in a minimalist apartment, still others are in what's basically a bar... if you're looking for intriguing backgrounds to drum up interest in the world outside of Beacon, you're not going to find it here. The presence of various faunus individuals is really the only thing that distinguishes these settings from a show based in the real world.

Onto the fighting! (It's about time :p) The girls are facing off against Team ABRN (pronounced "Auburn") from Haven and they're decent for a couple of one-off characters. I like the design of the girl with the skateboard - Reese - and how her weapon, the board itself, gives her a lot of flexibility in battle. Since it functions as a hoverboard she has a lot of maneuverability, she can use the board as a shield, a projectile, adapt its abilities via Dust, and - of course - she can pull both sides apart to duel wield the guns. Looking at all that flexibility, it is a little lame that she 'loses' that particular encounter with Blake by slipping on the ice, but then we're not really supposed to care about these characters. They exist solely to get us hyped for the battles to come and give a quick primer on how those battles will work. AKA, now we've learned that the battlefield itself has hazards the girls must circumvent.

Blake is cute here though. She's so concerned and I'm like yeah, girl, that looked like it hurt 😬

This whole exchange has that same vibe: one of casual playfulness, which makes perfect sense given that this is supposed to be a fun competition. They're exhibition matches, not real attempts to take the other team out (which is why Yang's supposed act later in the tournament will be seen as so heinous). The guy with the pink hair (Nadir) full on pouts when Ruby successfully traps him in a block of ice and, of course, we have the classic "Got your back!"/"My BFF!" lines in response. The girls are enjoying themselves and that's so damn wholesome to see after all the tragedies - plot and writing-wise - of the later Volumes.

Team ABRN are able to make a bit of a comeback and - *gasp* - the girls have to actually think creatively/combine techniques in order to get the upper-hand. Blake successfully tricks Reese with a clone and catches her in the midriff with a quickly timed ribbon, cleanly knocking her out of the ring. It's here that we learn a team member can be eliminated via leaving the bounds, or having their aura dip too low (remember when that was a thing?) I know I just said there's teamwork, and there absolutely is here, but it did stand out to me how Blake just like... disappears after this moment? I mean she comes back, but it's clear RT wanted each girl to have her moment in this battle, despite the fact that any member who successfully defeated their opponent would be rushing off to help the others. That should be a near defining win condition - defeat one opponent and suddenly it's a 2 vs 1 situation for someone else - but that expectation falls by the wayside until the fight's final moments.

It's a good fight though. Not the greatest by RWBY standards, but it was no hardship to rewatch for this recap either. Weiss pulls out an epic ice hand that ensnares two of the members, now rolling chaotically across the arena, and clearly she thinks this is the end of the fight. However, Arslan — the monk-type who favors hand-to-hand combat (or the one with the "Eastern martial arts influence" according to the RWBY wiki...)— simply rolls her eyes, plants her feet, and shatters the ball with a single hit. Gotta admit, it's pretty cool.

Of course, Team RWBY still comes out victorious in the end. With all of Team ABRN now in one place, the girls have one of those lovely mind-reading moments and pull off a coordinated attack, allowing Yang to sucker-punch them all out of the ring. Again, it's nice to see that kind of teamwork, as well as the adorable way they all stand there, mildly shocked that they won.

I'll take that over the brazen, cocky confidence they've gained any day.

The only thing I'm kinda iffy about regarding this fight is how Team ABRN feels a little less like a full-fledged team to me, and more like a faint Team RWBY echo. It's most noticeable in the Yang vs. Arslan sections where you've got two yellow-coded, hand-to-hand snarkers facing off. Blake and Reese both feel like the cool, alternative style members of their teams, and then you've got the Weiss-Ruby duo trying to overtake the Bolin-Nadir duo. It's admittedly a subtle familiarity that lessens with each example, but it stood out to me in the re-watch; like Team ABRN only exists to give Team RWBY someone vaguely similar to overcome. Which, granted, they do. These are not characters we're going to follow as the series progresses, so in most respects they've done precisely what they needed to do and in a way that looks cool and feels entertaining. So this isn't a criticism, really. More an acknowledgment that RWBY is a series with limits and if we want to know more about these characters/flesh them out beyond their paralleling characteristics, we'll have to do that ourselves in the fanfic.

As Ruby jumps into the air in a victory celebration, we PowerPoint slide cut to the festival later that day where she nearly collapses, asking if anyone else is starving.

Yeah, child. You just made it through a physically intensive battle in front of an audience while existing as a teenager. Of course you're hungry. Blake's stomach gives a giant, embarrassing growl in response and Weiss sarcastically bemoans the fact that there's nowhere to eat at the food-focused festival. Good times, good times.

Ruby: "It's okay, Weiss. I forget about the fair grounds too."

Before they can grab lunch though Weiss declines a call from her father and an old 'acquaintance' suddenly shows up.

Emerald.

You know, kudos to Katie here because Emerald's laugh and, "Good to see you, Ruby" sounds so fake to me now. It just oozes, 'I secretly hate you but am pulling out all my acting skills to convince you otherwise' energy. Obviously RWBY has a host of villains/antagonists that have done a plethora of heinous things, but there's something particularly skin-crawling to me about seeing Emerald in retrospect. Part of it is the deception. I don't know about anyone else, but I personally would prefer a villain who's upfront about their nature from the get-go, rather than one who pretends to be my friend before stabbing me in the back. The first scenario just lacks the same emotional punch, you know? Though the other part of it is, of course, knowing where everyone ends up. Beacon will fall. Ozpin will "die." Pyrrha will actually die, and our heroes will be sent out into a war they're in no way ready for. Yes, Salem is our ultimate Big Bad, yes Emerald has her sympathetic moments and does a heel-turn into "good guy" territory four Volumes from now... but I think the fandom often forgets that she willingly and actively participated in this horror show. This isn't someone just along for the ride because their crush manipulated them, this is someone with a working brain between their ears who has PLENTY of time to consider the ramifications of this and still went, "Yeah, I'll lie my way into orchestrating a massacre."

All this hindsight angst is interrupted by the joke (and I use that term with great reservation) that Ruby must have dropped her wallet because "Girl pockets are the worst!" Sorry, but that has such cis-guy-trying-to-relate-to-women-and-failing-miserably energy to me. Like yeah, I also hate the super small/outright fake pockets that they often sew into women's clothing and I too have smiled at women promoting pockets as part of their independent brands... but somehow hearing the RWBY writers reference it just doesn't land. It's not #problematic, just cringy.

Emerald butters them up a bit by complimenting their fighting and Weiss notes that they haven't seen Emerald's teammates in action yet. We cut to their battle where they dominate the other team, complete with a disguised Neo showing her real eye color before she knocks the competitor out. "[They did] really well," says Emerald in the fakest humble tone ever heard.

Ruby invites them all to lunch and Emerald - clearly horrified by the prospect - dodges by claiming that her teammates are too socially awkward for a meetup. In her defense, Mercury is in the process of randomly sniffing a boot, so although this is absolutely just an excuse, she's also not wrong. Like, at all lol.

Fishing for more info, Emerald asks who's moving onto the doubles round and it turns out that Team RWBY voted for Weiss and Yang. There are three things that I love about this moment:

They voted. Yes, Ruby cheekily tries to make it sound like this is all coming from her genius as team leader, but at the end of the day they decided as a team who would represent them. It's a small detail, but those stand out so much more now that we have Ruby vocally and angrily calling the shots.

(This is a ridiculous side-note I'm 99.9% sure I've mentioned before, but every time I talk about Ruby's intense form of "leadership" in the latter Volumes, I'm reminded of Rick's, "This is not a democracy!" in The Walking Dead. If you know, you know.)

They chose Weiss and Yang. From both an in-world and meta perspective, it's actually a little surprising that Ruby isn't representing them. As established, she's team leader. The team is named after her. She's the protagonist of the show. She's also, canonically, a prodigy wielding an insanely deadly weapon. Yet it's refreshing as a viewer to have a new duo taking the spotlight and within the story-world this choice reinforces Point #1: They're a team and no matter how individually talented any one member may be - or even what titles they hold - they are, at the end of the day, all on equal footing. Why shouldn't Yang and Weiss represent?

The way they both respond to this reveal is dang cute. Weiss' "I will happily represent Team RWBY" while curtseying to Emerald vs. Yang's "Yeah! We're gonna kick some butt!" while slamming her fists together. It's a great contrast and shows why these two might have been chosen. Though powerful on their own, their styles and personality are different enough to compensate for any flaws.

With all that out of the way Emerald rejoins Mercury and her smile immediately drops. She's disgusted at having to get all buddy-buddy with them, but "Orders are orders." She has this classic villain moment where she expresses shock over how they're just so happy all the time and I'm like oh, honey. Darling. Morally misaligned baby girl. Just give it a few Volumes.

We cut to Team RWBY at lunch and aRE THE BOWLS SUPPOSED TO BE THAT BIG?

I recalled that they were big as a visual gag, but not half the girls' size. Honestly? Great choice. I too want to live in a world where you can get insanely giant noodles a millisecond after you order them.

Deviating from the others, Blake nods at the seller dude and receives an equally giant bowl filled with fish. You know, I really wish RWBY had done something with the faunus' animal traits rather than turning them into an endless joke. The concept of a god merging humans with literal animals and then, generations down the line, cat-people being influenced by cat instincts as well as human instincts (because remember, we're animals too) is actually really interesting to me... but navigating the racial implications of that takes a level of nuance that RWBY was never interested in exploring. So we're just left with a Blake who is fish obsessed and chases laser pointers and hates dogs and we're supposed to laugh at all that, rather than buying into her teachings that many people use these traits to dehumanize the faunus.

Anyway, Weiss shows off a bit and pays for all their food. At least, she tries to. Turns out her card has been declined, which is more than a little confusing to her given that she was "barely into [her] monthly allowance." Hmm, could that possibly have anything to do with her ignoring her father's phone calls? Surely no one knows.

Luckily, Pyrrha shows up and offers to pay instead (it's nice having a famous BFF, huh?), but like... what were the girls' initial plans? None of them were expecting Weiss to pay, yet they act like Pyrrha is saving the day by showing up, implying that they don't have the money to cover their meal. The shop guy even takes Blake's fish away, leaving her despondent. So what? Were they planning to eat and just worry about the bill later? Actually, that sounds exactly like something these chaotic preteens would do lol. Yang especially. She was introduced while "buying" a drink before destroying the whole dang bar.

Speaking of teenagers, they all finish their bowls with the kind of appetite only seen in 14-71yos. Although, it was a near thing for Jaune. He's very close to barfing (callback!) and Nora encourages him to "aim it at the enemy!"

She continues ragging on him for a bit, failing to come up with any compliments while hyping up her team. Pyrrha is a world-renowned fighter, Ren is basically a ninja, she can bench five of herself, and Jaune is... Jaune. Nora also doesn't include him in her secondary list which implies that Jaune a) hasn't trained as much (or, more realistically, hasn't gotten as much out of it) as the others, b) doesn't possess an "awesome" weapon, and c) is still frequently yelled at by Glynda.

Poor Jaune. I don't say that very often anymore, but he's going through it here lol.

All of this leads to Nora spiraling at the possibility of them losing. This includes the oh-so-causal drop that she and Ren "have no parents and no home left to go to" which is a HELL of a thing to throw out in a comedically framed breakdown. I mean, being orphans is sad enough, but "no home left to go to" won't be explained until we learn that their town was basically wiped off the map, so damn.

Team RWBY reassures them that a fight with actual rules is nothing compared to what they've already been through. You know, the murderers, extremists, and sociopaths. "Oh," gushes Ruby, "imagine what it'll be like when we graduate!"

As Port and Oobleck call Team JNPR to the arena for their match we cut to Emerald and Mercury settling in to enjoy the festivities. In retrospect, this right here is a really nicely composed shot:

It tells us that Emerald is serious about going through with this destruction (again, she's no manipulated damsel), but she's not getting the same personal enjoyment out of it like Mercury is, as showcased by the smirk. The focus remains on them with Team RWBY framed in between. This is the villains' Volume. They're going to win. Our eyes follow the soon-to-be champions not of the festival, but the battle, while our heroes are literally and metaphorically trapped between them. Finally, Yang is the only one who looks back. We won't know this for several episodes, but she's at the heart of their plan and has every reason to cast the almost-but-not-quite-worried glance over her shoulder. Subtle foreshadowing, how I love thee.

It's shit like this that makes my brain go, "It used to be good! RWBY used to be fun AND occasionally insightful! Those overworked animators were uplifting a mediocre story and the result was good!!!"

As they take their seats who should show up but Cinder, casually using her semblance to pop a kernel of popcorn (power move). "Even if you know how a story ends," she says, "that doesn't make it any less fun to watch." True that! I mean, she's talking about knowing that Team JNPR will be moving on because they need Pyrrha to murder Penny, but I agree with the sentiment outside of that context.

Actually, do they ever explain how they manipulated the fights? I mean, they obviously entered and are winning their own battles and we know that Mercury will be staging his injury with Yang... but here Cinder makes it sound like she's pulling strings in every match. Toss that onto the list of development I would have liked for this Volume: what precisely are they doing behind the scenes? I'll have to pay careful attention going forward to make sure I don't miss anything because right now all I can recall is them looking at Penny's blueprints (presumably obtained via Watts).

Team JNPR's area is randomized into a forest and mountainous land before the battle commences. We end on that cliffhanger, complete with the superhero-esque freeze shot.

And that concludes the first episode of Volume 3! As well as my first recap in a long while. If you've followed me at all you'll know that work has been my personal Big Bad the last two-ish years. Given the scope of my responsibilities and the energy they extract, I simply don't have the time or means to write the way I used to. However, I feel like if I can muster up the willpower to finish this on tonight of all nights (people reading from the future: check the posting date and you'll understand), then I must be getting a little better at carving out writing time in my hectic schedule. All hail self-improvement!

On that positive note, everyone have a wonderful night. Or at least try to. Seriously. Text a loved one, treat yourself to a favored snack, do something that feels fulfilling. Take some deep breaths and I'll see you for the next one.

~Clyde❤️

[eugenedebs1920]

I’ve been a political junkie since before I could vote. I remember, I was in 3rd or 4th grade, listening to the radio when my mom was driving me somewhere. A news brief comes on and it’s about George H.W. Bush and Desert Storm. When the segment ended I said, “George bush sucks!” My mom got mad at me, not because of the statement, but because of the word suck, saying, “where did you learn that word Eugene?! Do you even know what suck means?” Honestly I really didn’t, but I knew it was an insult.

I have never! Not once, bailed on my civic duty to vote since turning 18. Presidential election, midterm election, special election, local. If I was given the opportunity to voice my opinion, I was about it.

I’ve always stayed pretty informed. Sometimes, like the current moment, far too much. The whole process fascinates me. Both the campaigning and the idea behind a representative , democratic election. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not wearing a light up, goofy hat. Although I did attend a Democratic National Convention once. Not the convention itself but I saw Rage Against the Machine perform for my second time, and the DNC time was free!

My first election I voted for Al Gore. I liked him. I thought he was smart. I liked his stance on the environment. I liked that he had the experience under Clinton that he had. I will also tell you, I didn’t then, nor have I ever, repped hats, or shirts, or flags of ANY president or presidential candidate. A pin or two the day I received em, or on my backpack maybe. Never though have I walked around with my political affiliation, or my affliction to a politician on full display. There were times when it wasn’t hard to tell with long hair, patchwork pants, big beard but.

That’s what has me so perplexed, not the hair and beard thing, but the devotion. I don’t get it. It would be different if it was, I don’t know, not Donald Trump! I mean, who really is that guy?

I saw him on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, a couple times as a kid, thought he seemed smug even then, I missed the whole Apprentice thing, didn’t even own a tv during that time. Was too busy living life. Is that where this follow derives from? I never saw one episode. I heard it wasn’t that good, nor did it have that high of ratings.

He isn’t a very elegant speaker. Go read a quote of his. When he says it, it kinda makes sense, but when you read one, it’s nothing. He says a bunch of words but he doesn’t say anything. It’s actually embarrassing that Trump quotes will forever be part of American history. Here’s an example from a rally when talking about Kamala Harris “back home to mommy. And she goes back home to mommy. ‘Was that you darlling?’ And then she gets the hell knocked out of her. Her mothers a big fan of ours. You know that, right? Her father, her mother. No, you always have that.” Mind you a couple things here. Right before this little snippet I clipped, he was talking about California and “whether you’re a Democrat, Republican, or independent this election is your chance to send a message”. Directly before, the next words are the mommy thing. It doesn’t piece together at all! Also. Kamala’s mom passed away quite a while ago from cancer. What is he even talking about!?

Now compare that to an Obama quote from 2004. “Yet even as we speak, there are those who are preparing to divide us, the spin masters and negative ad peddlers who embrace the politics of anything goes. Well, I say to them tonight, there's not a liberal America and a conservative America - there's the United States of America. There's not a black America and white America and Latino America and Asian America; there's the United States of America. The pundits like to slice-and-dice our country into Red States and Blue States; Red States for Republicans, Blue States for Democrats.”

See. It’s coherent, it has a driven message, it’s passionate. I can get behind that. Not talks about Hannibal Lecter, and electric boats. I don’t get it.

Moving forward.

Let’s talk about his presidency. What bills did he pass? There’s the massive corporate and wealthy tax cut that did very little for 98% of Americans. What else? Anybody? “Well, he built the wall and Mexico payed for it” that is false. There have been small sections built, but scattered, not even one long area. He increased the national debt by over $7.5 trillion. His policies, or lack there of with Covid caused hundreds of thousands of avoidable deaths. Those stimulus checks to keep Americans afloat are the cause of the inflation that we just now got back to normal. When he had to “print” money to give us so we could survive, the value of the dollar went down because there was more capital with no transaction, so with less value the dollar represents, the more things cost in relation to it. Economics is some weird, complicated, almost dogmatic stuff, but it kinda makes sense.

Then there’s the whole not accepting the election results thing. I’ve written and talked about over and over again. It’s exhausting! This is BY FAR the worst thing potentially ANYONE has done to America. More so than the 9/11 terror attacks, Pearl Harbor, Boston marathon, that’s a bold statement. Yet, through his narcissism not allowing him to concede to defeat, and claiming the election was rigged, it is an immensely damaging assault on the very foundation of this whole American democratic experiment. His words have sown doubt into the fabric of democracy with his baseless lies. He absolutely had the right to contest the results, do investigations, recounts, audits, and file suit with the evidence he had supporting his claims. The thing is, he had no evidence, there was no proof of any fraud because, there was none. Thats the end of the behavior that was acceptable. When all those court cases were dismissed for lack of evidence, that should have been it, but no.

All the tweets, all the interviews, all the scheming and plotting, after the court cases and recounts and whatnot, that’s sedition! Thats purposely conspiring against the United States. He knowingly pushed false information to Americans, who believed their commander in chief, and perpetrated the worst assault on our nation’s capital since the Civil War. Thats treason!!

The fact that that wasn’t the end is flabbergasting! The fact he is still in the public eye, let alone running for the seat he so immensely betrayed blows my f*cking mind!!

I don’t care about party affiliation, first and foremost we are Americans. First and foremost our allegiance is to the constitution. First and foremost we abide by the law. This sycophantic groveling to this guy is disgusting! It’s saddening. It’s unamerican.

This upcoming election will, and is saying a lot about us as Americans. The outcome will reflect who we are. I’m not sure I can say with confidence what that is. In the words of 4th grade Eugene, It sucks.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Steven Beschloss at America, America:

I love my country. I believe in democracy and treasure fundamental values such as justice, equality, diversity, decency and truth. That’s why—as Trump and his fascist regime aggressively pursue the dismantling of American institutions and the destruction of traditional alliances to align with dictators and other authoritarians—I cheer for his opponents. These assaults have caused me to reflect on the meaning of patriotism. I fully realized my emotional and intellectual shift when I heard Canadian hockey fans boo last week during the singing of our national anthem in Montreal. Rather than laugh it off or feel aggrieved, I understood how upset many Canadians are about Trump threatening to turn their country into the 51st American state. Honestly, I was uplifted by the booing because it told me that there are plenty of people there who refuse to humor Trump and his imperial ambitions. I was already aware of the role that our democratic allies can play in pushing back against the hostile interventions of this Trump regime. That was on full display during the Munich Security Conference when Vice President and Trump henchman JD Vance hypocritically attacked Germans for their lack of free speech and democratic commitments by refusing to embrace their far-right, neo-Nazi Alternative for Germany party.

But in spite of Vance’s arrogance—his remarks came just nine days before Germany’s election—I was buoyed by the pushback of Germany’s president Olaf Schulz and Defense Minister Boris Pistorius. Schulz posted on X to “emphatically reject” Vance’s remarks, underlining his nation’s dark history and lessons learned. “We reject any idea working together with the extreme right and it’s not on others to give us advices to do so,” he firmly retorted. And, “Out of the experiences of Nazism, the democratic parties in Germany have a joint consensus—that is the firewall against extreme right-wing parties.” Added Pistorius: “Democracy must be able to defend itself against the extremists who want to destroy it.” Yes, yes and yes again. We are clearly going to experience more support for human values from Germany’s top leadership than from America’s current leaders who could not care less that their country has long served as a global beacon of democracy. [...] Of course, there are plenty of committed opponents here. On Wednesday, Illinois Gov. JB Pritzker gave his State of the State address, in which he provided a powerful voice of opposition. “There are people—some in my own Party—who think that if you just give Donald Trump everything he wants, he’ll make an exception and spare you some of the harm.” The governor then described an instance during the pandemic when he “swallowed his pride” and tried to work with Trump to get his state the equipment it needed. “We made a deal. And it turns out his promises were as broken as the BIPAP machines he sent us instead of ventilators,” Pritzker recounted. “Going along to get along does not work. Just ask the Trump-fearing red state Governors who are dealing with the same cuts that we are. I won’t be fooled twice.” Pritzker talked about the time back in 1978 when Nazis planned to march through Skokie, Illinois. Permit me to share his reflection on that threat in a town that had “one of the largest populations of Holocaust survivors anywhere in the world.” 

Steven Beschloss wrote in his America, America Substack column that rooting against the dark and twisted vision of Trump’s America is inspiring.