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campgender · 6 months ago

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mac’s tags

links + descriptions under the cut

note: some of these tags tumblr doesn’t like to link because of special characters; those will be added as tags to this post so they can be accessed from there.

all of the excerpts i post are tagged as “mac’s bookshelf.”

butch, femme, both

everything goes back to femme – some of the infinite fem(me) ways, both my own & others’. line from “Between My Fingers” by Stacey Park Milbern

they are our stigmata – butches & butch ways. line from “The Butch Question” by Judith P. Stelboum

butch/femme – romantic, platonic, sexual, & beyond

but what gets it for me is high femme – high femme posts & resonances; line from Stone Butch Blues by Leslie Feinberg

οἱ λίθοι κράξουσιν – “the stones will cry out,” from Luke 19:40. tag for stone sexuality more broadly - stone topping & bottoming, clothed sex, sex without touching

mutual polarization – femmebottom4femmebottom; answers to the perpetual “what’re they gonna do, get in bed & hold hands?”

double role playing – futch, stem(me), & others who embody both butch & fem(me) identities. phrase from a quote by narrator Mattie interviewed in Boots of Leather, Slippers of Gold

sex

impurity culture – sex ed & building a sexual ethic

tomorrow sexting will be good again – sexting-as-sex + related practices & boundaries. a play on Foucault’s quote “tomorrow sex will be good again,” also the title of a book by Katherine Angel

places to be had by – non-normative sex from a crip high femme lens. denial, vaginismus, impotence & other non-penetrative wonders. line from “The Cure for Melancholy Is to Take the Horn” by Natalie Diaz

another night wandering the desire field – longing & fantasy; line from “From the Desire Field” by Natalie Diaz

eat your meals at the red table of my heart – the feminine urge to treat a man like your dog & other assorted high femmedom viscera. line from “If I Should Come Upon Your House Lonely in the West Texas Desert” by Natalie Diaz

why not take me now as i am? – kink, leather, promiscuity, cruising; line from “Shameless” by Tyler Glenn

bottom text – bottoming & the meanings imposed on it

one must imagine the wound man in sexual ecstasy – S&M

simone weil says that when you really love you are able to look at someone you want to eat and not eat them – looking at someone you want to eat. line from “After the Movie” by Marie Howe

indignity of risk – forthcoming poetry chapbook about eroticizing / playing with chronic illness

asexual tendencies – phrase from Asexual Erotics by Ela Przybylo

spirituality

in the dark i thought i heard somebody call – spiritual experiences, posts that resonate with my spiritual beliefs + practices. line from “To the Dogs or Whoever” by Josh Ritter

habitual intertwinement – drug use; phrase from “4mg of Phenomenology” by Dr. Simone Dennis

quaker tag – Quakerism & pantheism

❌ – rage in the key of religious trauma. the red X symbol was used by Tyler Glenn (in lipstick on his face & later a tattoo on his wrist) in his 2016 album Excommunication

i got the holy roll ❤️‍🔥 – christian trauma but make it fashion. line from “Fever Pitch” by Rainbow Kitten Surprise

self-image, mirroring, & ancestry

she steals the show (she is the show of difference) – a gender tag of sorts. line from “Revealing Femmegimp” by Loree Erickson

epistemic love poem – hermeneutical justice; the frameshifts that enables us to recognize our own oppression + discuss our experiences. phrase from poem of the same title by Heather McHugh

all day my body accepts what it is – things that make me go “me shaped!” + fat art, fat fashion. line from “August” by Mary Oliver

fag4dyke <3

you are the result of the love of thousands – ancestorship in general; line from Dwellings: A Spiritual History of the Living World by Linda Hogan (i haven’t read this i just liked the quote)

unnatural frequency – people & figures i consider personal ancestors + moments of highly specific resonance across time & space

fashion

lipstick technology – phrase from The Color Pynk: Black Femme Art for Survival by Omise’eke Natasha Tinsley

��how we dress the mouth reflects what we need it for – lipstick; line from Lipstick: A Celebration of the World’s Favorite Cosmetic by Jessica Pallingston

it’ll be the goddamned dress they bury me in. – red dress dreams; line from “What Do Women Want?” by Kim Addonizio

i am tough; i’ve got nails like god – nail art, fake nails as femcrip technology, high fem manicure emotions. line from the song “Nails Like God” by McCafferty

disability

life is in your house too – homeboundedness

tabula rasa – memory loss

the epic highs & lows of emotional lability – severe mood swings (in this case related to brain damage)

movements of the uncontrollable body – movement disorder; phrase from piece of the same name by Bronwyn Valentine

#mac.txt #tag index #mac’s bookshelf #οἱ λίθοι κράξουσιν #❌#i got the holy roll ❤️‍🔥#it’ll be the goddamned dress they bury me in.#wishlist 💫#mac writes #i am tough; i’ve got nails like god

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isthatovid · 4 years ago

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tag meme: list 3-5 pieces of literature/media that live in your head rent-free to the point where you have them memorized; write them down from memory, no cheating allowed! tagged by @olreid, this is your fault, you made this happen 😈

i have so much of angels in america committed to memory just because i’ve seen it so many times and pretty much constantly re-visit it. but the first lou & prior scene always sticks in my head. PRIOR: poor louis, i’m sorry that your grandma is dead. LOU: tiny coffin, huh?... i’m sorry that i didn’t introduce you to everyone. i just get so— closet-y at these family things— PRIOR: butch. you get butch. “cousin doris! you don’t remember me, i’m lou, rachel’s boy, lou”. not louis, cause if you say louis, they’ll hear the sibilant s. LOU: i don’t have— PRIOR: i don’t blame you. it continues but i don’t remember the rest of this bit until LOU: you’re in a pissy mood, the cat still missing? PRIOR: not a furball in sight. and it’s your fault. call an animal little sheba and you can’t expect it to stick around. besides, it’s a dog’s name. LOU: well i wanted a dog in the first place. (he continues on) also of course but still. still. bless me anyway. i want more life. i cant help myself. i do. and HARPER: when you pray, what do you pray for? JOE: i pray for god to crush me, break me up into little pieces and start all over again. and on a good day i can recite the tell me some more about justice scene but not today <3

an embarrassing amount of bits from glee including no! i don’t want it to get better. i want it to be better, like, right now from the michael jackson episode (audience sighs) and also BLAINE: god, roxy music makes me want to build a time machine just so i can go back to the 70s and give brian ferry a high-five. KURT: do you think i’m boring? BLAINE: are you crazy? you’re the single most interesting kid in all of ohio. (please keep in mind that blaine is dancing to roxy music during this entire conversation) KURT: i mean like... sexually. we are playing it very safe by not granting our hands visas to travel south of the equator. BLAINE: (he’s still dancing) i thought that’s what we wanted? KURT: it is. i’m just wondering, have you ever had the urge just to rip off each others’ clothes and get dirty? BLAINE: uh yeah. but that’s why they invented masturbation (here he does jazz hands) KURT: it’s so hot in this room, can we open up a window? this is what’s going on in my head at any given time. one half of me is having a crisis in a leopard print sweater and the other half is just dancing to fucking roxy music

anything that feeds into an inside joke i have with @itsmydime: in your orange shirt you look like a better, happier saint sebastian (having a coke with you by frank o’hara) take heed, dear friends to the promptings of love and truth in your heart (advices and queries 1 from quaker faith and practice) INTERVIEWER: does elmo have ears? ELMO: say whaaa? INTERVIEWER: does elmo have ears? ELMO: no. INTERVIEWER: does elmo have a last name? ELMO: elmo monster! naturally! (from the sesame street wired autocomplete interview)

BOY: hey, justin! wanna suck me off? BRIAN: no! but i’ll kick your tight little virgin ass so hard you wont sit down for a week! from the first episode of queer as folk US. iconic!

also anything i have memorised for class including the entire first section of msteif’s the raven king chapter 59 for a speech & drama exam about 3 years ago which i will not write out, a million bible quotations (deuteronomy 6.4-9, proverbs 3.3 and matthew 21.12 are my favourites) and a lot of random shakespeare bits... the very mercy of the law cries out / most audible, even from his proper tongue, / ‘an angelo for claudio, death for death!’ / haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure, / like doth quit like and measure still for measure (measure for measure) for saints have hands that pilgrims hands do touch / and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss (romeo & juliet)

my brain is truly full of mush! @itsmydime @rainist @queerbucky @minecraftparrish @saoirseronanlynch @wooners @warcotuj & anyone else do this if u want to but u don’t have to tehehehe

#there is so much i could have written out... all of the movie wild child and about 4 poems as well as every critical analysis quotation i #memorised for english class #but emma you had to know i would mention <3 joe pitt <3 #tag games #issy.txt

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willpowerbutch · 6 years ago

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Willpower Butch: In Profundis

Dawn clambered over the LA quarantine like a wearied soldier storming a hill – the hill that has become the burning bosom of the Gay-Transgender. Since NASA identified God in the night sky, flying toward earth to assess His children, society has been thrust into a state of nihilistic chaos. The Christians rejoice, and the Gay plot on how to turn Him over to their wickedness. The Transgenitalists, banned from public restrooms, desecrate suburban streets with their bodily fluids in an expression of protest, making neighborhoods where once children could freely get hit by cars while playing Pokémon Go into a biohazard.

(God, who is due to arrive this summer, is shooting through space right now.)

Morning threw these degenerates into relief as they staggered over the pavement of Duplass Avenue and into oncoming traffic, waving stolen underwear on long strips of decrepit building vinyl: the art gallery spinsters who invented Mitski; adults who cosplay as memes; “grandfathers” who loiter in the Youth Bibles section of book stores; and, most troublingly, the bodies of fallen straights, levitating up through the storm drains on the wands of gay necromancers – in short, the entire Green Party – were only the first denizens I encountered along the harrowing road to James Franco’s homo-cidal circus. Everywhere, there were the remnants of bar food and suspicious in-laws. All this was the plutonic vision which greeted my trusted correspondent and I as we strode heterosexfully down the block.

Paragon Shag beside me had not been the same since our eviction from the House of Those Motherfuckers Who Wear Sandals. Only the whiff of pedicure oils on a passing European businessman would send him into such extravagant declamations on the aesthetics of marginalization that I would be impelled to beat the fuck out of him.

“Shag,” I spoke unto him as we arrived at our destination, the Villa de Hermaphrodita, that crypt of human bipedalism. “What is this stench wafting from your chest?”

“Deodorant,” said he.

“I fear for you, Shag. You are aware that deodorant is a witch’s brew intended to inculcate children into the homosexual lifestyle.” He knew as I did that those who use it too much become ravenous beasts, mere British culture journalists, addicted to the scent of Orientalism and male crying.

“Precisely so. We cannot allow ourselves to be overtaken by those limping nancies. With this, we shall confuse their predatory instincts.” And just then, a furious piss communist passed us by, navigating by the odor of listless pretension to James Franco. “You see?” said Shag, turning to me suddenly. He took my arm in the manner of the Romans, up to my elbow. “We are brothers, Mr. Butch, and not in a YouTube Red sort of way, nor in the sense that two different-looking male roommates claim to be, nor in the manner of college boys who make out at strangers’ house parties and tell everyone that it’s part of their fraternity hazing ritual, nor like bohemian male friends who have a large age gap in a hot way, nor indeed like the Quakers, who we all realize developed oatmeal as a gateway to eating spunk.”

He spoke prettily, and I could do nothing but convert my doubt into glorious masculinity. We had come to investigate Franco, after all, whom we suspected of creating twinks to try to turn himself gayer.

We entered the villa -- and there he was, directly before us, barefaced and shockingly confident for a man who looks like a toilet squeegee, licking chocolate off the thighs of a servant boy. James Franco: provocateur of the Gay and war poet of their slick uprising against biological persons.

“Wow,” he greeted us running a hand through his hair. “This is, like, crazy. I haven’t been tag-teamed by two bears since I was on the set of Milk. Did you come to see how I kidnap women and transform them into twinks to make myself gayer?”

We were speechless before this display of arrogance, but Franco’s attention had already been diverted. The servant boy’s epaulet had come unbuttoned.

“Well,” said Franco, hooking him by the shoulders, “the evidence is piling up, huh?”

“Sir?”

“Tell me,” Franco mewled in a squalid attempt to sound erotic, “while you’re existing in a state of, like, untroubled happiness because of straight privilege, do you ever wonder how it feels to have ornery fetish sex with glamorous-yet-blasé strangers every second of your life like the Gay-Transgender are expected to do?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, now you’ll have nothing but time for that, man – as the newest member of the Heterosexual Circus.” Turning mercurially, as if astonished to discover that Shag and I had not moved, Franco addressed us. Raising his arms, he shouted, “Birth is Death! Reason is Treason! Empiricism is Imperialism!”

We could not bear to witness the poor boy’s torture by being forced to be bad at dancing in front of gay perverts. As Shag and I shuffled back onto the street, idly kicking the shit out of a taxi that had parked on the sidewalk, I was emasculated by a notion unrelated to the sweating power of my manhood: that we had not heard the last of these frightful slogans.

*******************************************************************************************

It did not take long for us to find a trap door at the other side of the villa, under a cypress tree. It was locked, but not for a man. Reducing it to smithereens with a mere touch of my beard to it, we descended into a lively disco club where, clinging to the shadows, we moved about curiously. There was in one of the dance-floor cages a sight which startled us.

“Gayflame!” called Shag. “Reddie Gayflame!”

“It’s just Sexchaynge now,” she whispered above the music, on the verge of tears because her body was undergoing a dramatic change.

“But, Sexchaynge,” Shag advanced fretfully, leaving enough distance so as not to be endangered by her femininity, “I thought you were a Gay as well.”

“I was, but I gave it up. You see, I believe in doing things as hard as I can, like Hugh Dancy -- but I knew that I would never be the gayest of all. Not while Ben Whishaw still has a career as an international sex fae... So, why not become a transgender instead, I thought to myself, since there’s less competition?”

Shag nodded sagely.

“Anyway, there is somebody else here that you ought to meet. Follow me.”

My correspondent and I were led into the adjacent hallway, where loomed a misshapen yet familiar silhouette. Suddenly recognizing it, I cried out, “It is the Lord of Lust, the fluent horizontal dancer ‘himself,’ Ben Whishaw! You fiend! You devil!”

But when the vampire stepped into the light, it turned out to be only Twinkathee Charlotterampling, who is merely probably an insatiable fairy.

He threw himself into Paragon Shag’s arms, weeping. “I knew you would never go back to Italy, so I came here to find you. Oh, please say that we can stay together, Daddio. Listen, I can even help you out: Gay Franco isn’t only turning women into twinks, he is then cloning the normal homos! Next, there will be enough fit gay guys to have sex with each other, and Franco will be our only option. Then where will I get any action with men who don’t look like a rejected Muppet? It’s a direct assault on bottoms, and not the fun kind, like when Benedict Cumberbatch gets turnt on Corvo and tries to turn my ass into Christmas lights,” spoke Timpani, gulping. “It’s against my huwoman rights.”

The dimensionless sex balloon’s discourse rained down upon me the spume of flaccid object permanence, and I was forced to rebuke him. “You skinny-jeaned Socratic, you purveyor of gay lies. Humans are not women. And the only right you have is to stop dangling your driftwood in front of every sailor you lay eyes upon. Knave!”

We resumed our progress down the hallway, the two of us and our limpid sidekicks, who stopped every so often to slather their tongues over errant broomsticks. At last, we cruised into a large room, which contained in its rear a glass chamber that held a strange, dark machine within.

“It’s the TRANSporner,” said Timpani Gayparade.

Turning to Shag, I asked, “What do you suppose it is, my macho companion? I cannot well understand the cartoon elf’s French.”

“It must be how Franco transfigures women into the Gay. My God,” Shag exclaimed, “it’s full of emo music.” Grabbing Gayparade’s weird jaw, he brought him into his line of sight so he could address him. “You – What else has Franco created?”

“He has an entire lab devoted to cloning the Gay,” Timpani laughed drily. “And it’s completely, like, impenetrable. Any man who goes in there is brainwashed into Franco’s horde. Only a woman could do it.”

“A woman?” we shouted together.

Twinkathee nodded.

“But we have so few in our warehouse. What if Franco merely kills them? We cannot afford to risk one,” Shag bemoaned.

“You see this?” Twinkathee peered up at Shag and shook his head despondently, pendulating his curls like Quentin Crisp’s spinal column. “This is only the first step. Once Franco masters cloning, the gays will be able to have orgies with themselves, and then they’ll spend eternity competing to see who can suck the most of his own dick. We can’t let God know that we ripped off twincest from Leviticus; he’ll think that we’re total fucking nerds. Shag,” Timpani huffed Frenchtastically, “I know this is the last thing you want to hear–”

“Silence, you animated meringue.”

“—but Ben Whishaw is the only homo who still dares to manufacture women. We need him.”

(A diagram of some of the unique anatomical characteristics of women.)

There was little sound then – nothing but the shaking swallow of breath and a distant applause, floating down from the circus where Franco was, variously, receiving his latest recruits. Tears of frustration had sprung up to rim Gayparade’s eyes. There was something accusatory in his gaze at my friend; such a look might have paused me in my celebrations of erectile power, if it had been produced by a man and not by a melancholy bagel fingerer.

Twinkathee lifted his chin, which surprised me because most homosexuals lose executive function of their necks by his age. “You know I’m right. And you know that you have to make him come.”

“He already has,” I interjected, “Whim Bitchaw, Colin Firth, Tom Tykwer, Patrick Stewart, and Judi Dench all at the same time. Oh, you mean come here.” I turned unto Shag, who shirked his eyes. “Why, Shag? What can this eroticized bungee cord mean?”

Slowly and with great shame, Shag reached into the pocket of his suit jacket, right above his heart, and pulled out a condom. “This – this is how we summon Ben Whishaw.”

“With a condom?”

I was surprised, but my skepticism soon changed to heroic terror as Shag tore at the wrapper with his teeth and emptied its contents onto the floor.

“Ben cannot resist the scent of a condom that is left unused. He will come now whether we want him to or not.”

Soon, Ben Whishaw came.

He came – in a flourish of glitter and sharpie tattoos -- attended by his insidious Cummunists: nudists brandishing firecrackers at uncomfortably-pretty busboys, male lingerie models, lions mounted by braless Valkyries, weeping Bavarian youths, the entire population of Barcelona, Michael Shannon, and a parade of cats, all singing “Cake” by Rihanna at the top of their lungs. BBC4 was empty that day; all the mouthwash Mary-Janes were on earth, rutting against children’s harmonicas, instilling fear in all but the most excellent specimens of manliness.

“Rejoice,” Ben Whishaw sang as his silky knees folded to the ground, chafing immediately. “Rejoice, you who have beheld the bawds of my bedchambers, the Greeks of old beachfront restaurants, the harbingers of fantasy sex tours like Ezra Miller’s career. I have come, and so shall you.” Swanning over to address Shag, he bit his lip. “Darling, I am here for you! What do you need, hot stuff?”

“Women!” he shouted manfully.

“What for? You aren’t still trying to figure out which hole is the mouth, are you?”

“Nay,” he replied, “my brother Butch told me. We need them to infiltrate Gay Franco’s hideout and destroy his cloning technology.”

“And you,” the hunch-hip padded towards me, “this is your brilliant plan? You send women to do your dirty work for you? What are you afraid of, big boy, and what can I do to ease that stress?”

“Naw, son,” called out Michael Shannon from afar, “do you want a garden salad with that skewer, or should I just serve you a knuckle sandwich?”

But Whishaw held up a slim, delicate wrist, jangling his fetish jewelry, silencing him. “I will say it to you strai—” he hacked painfully, “directly. I will give you my women, whom I had intended to use to lure fathers into a gay orgy, thereby undermining their paternal confidence. This, of course, would homosexualize the youth. But I will command them to join your cause instead... for a price.”

“Speak, elongated child!”

“Your beard,” said he.

I was struck silent.

“I need your beard,” he repeated, endless tears gathering in his eyes. “It’s for my play. The director is afraid that I’m not hairy enough to be Marilyn Monroe.”

“Why,” I puffed my chest, but it didn’t look gay or like breasts, “of all the evil perversions your kind have committed against man, this is the one that I shall never entertain to forgive.”

“That is the deal, Comrade Butch: your sublime brush for my women.”

There was no canon fire, there were no memorial barbecues where suburbanites play a game of subconsciously adulterous cat-and-mouse over the grill, for the sacrifice I made that day. Dear reader, it is a day that shall be marked forever with infamy, for that is the sin that hangs over whatever circumstance impels a straight man to give any piece of himself over to a queer Nancy. Do not mourn for Faust, do not pity Dante the Pilgrim for his travails in Hell; in the flash of a scalpel, I fell into a greater damnation than those dramatic homos could ever conceive.

*******************************************************************************************

When he had his ill-gotten prize, Ben Whishaw parted our company as he has left each of the tens of thousands of men he’s seduced around the world, with a lachrymose little smile, a wiggle of the ass, and a soliloquy on the transient beauty of tricking straight men into thinking you’re a woman until they’ve already removed their pants. Being a consummate phallic god, I was immune to his European witchcraft; Paragon Shag, I’m afraid, was somewhat awestruck by this coy display. But there was no time for either of us to dwell on his fabulous sorcery. The deal was done, and there awaited before us creatures yet almost as feminine as that enchanted nymph.

“So,” I said, stalking around their strange mass, “these are the notorious ‘women.’” A slim shadow fell across my face, and a chill entered my heart. “Shag, what do you make of all this?”

He proceeded to inform me, “It is supposed that women were invented by the early Catholics, at the decree of the Pope.”

“The Catholics?” I interrupted him. “But what do those queers need from women? They themselves gave rise to the two cruxes of gay culture: old men who sort of cross-dress, and bottoms who think they can top.”

“Like Michael Kors,” added Shag, “but with less herpes.”

“So, what, by God, did they want with women?” Yet Shag could only shake his head. “Women!” I shouted unto them, for their ears ring incessantly from all the cock they swallow. “What are you for?”

They seemed to consider my question. “We like Shakespeare!” shouted one. “We create life, and we perpetuate culture,” replied another thoughtfully. Said the third, “We’re trying to eliminate baby-faced depressives from the gene pool.”

“Then you’ve certainly backfired on the Catholics.” I stroked the remnant of my beard and turned to Shag. “Sir, we should waste no time in bringing them to the safety of our suspicious roadside barn. Send Gayparade back through the TRANSporner and let us put a plug in James Franc’n’o in a firm and impressive way.”

Shag nodded apprehensively, taking the marionette by the elbow and helping him toward the entry port. “Fear not,” he advised the waif, “for soon you will have no rap career again. Iggy.”

“Iggy,” Gayparade murmured after him. “Iggy, Iggy.”

They came upon the threshold of the TRANSporner, its dilated cavern of unnatural lust that had given Iggy Azalea talent and genitalia so many years before. The twink gulped, appraising it, unsure of how to proceed.

“Timpani?” Shag inflected. “What is the matter?”

But the twisted, hollow-cheeked spaghetti said nothing, impelling Shag to grip him by the hair, repeating his query in a low growl.

“Oh, Paragon!” cried the gimp at unimpressive length, “I can’t do it, brother! Being a girl is bullshit!”

“Truly,” said Shag. “I’ve read Nietzsche.”

“I won’t go back into the TRANSporner,” he wailed. “I would rather die than look like an adult human.”

Shag leant down, menace in his eyes. “Then we must leave, Timpani, quickly -- before Master Butch is able to transfer sufficient power from his penis into his legs to follow us.”

“You mean...?”

“Yes,” my noble friend, my eternal companion responded, turning to me. “I am prepared to accept my animal nature, the amoral truth of my life: there can be no more good taste, because that is for the straights. I am a total gay forever.” And thus, Shag tore the bomber jacket from his shoulders, and it fell away like his erection, revealing a strapless silver gown and taffeta stole. Rising by fabulous vampirism, he glared down at me; nevertheless, I could discern a cold and implicit sadness in his gaze, the gaze of young man after the golden summer of 1914.

“Shag,” said I, my loins quivering, “get ahold of your senses. There is no future in the Homosexuality. Every country where gay queers establish their warrens, penises shrink. This is because the Nancy makes healthy public arousal impossible by constantly bringing up Madonna.”

But he had already vanished, along with Gayparade, into a vortex of passionate mid-century female friendships.

The silence that prevailed in his wake was deafening; it was interrupted, at last, only by the genital whir of the TRANSporner and the soft, incomprehensible chattering of the women. And after much prayer, my noble witness, I still cannot say which of us in that final instant had been more the queer Dorothy: Shag, his crystal-blue eyes darkened with looming cocks, cutting loose to spend his life spoon-feeding treacle to a preteen girl’s gay skeleton; or myself, at the realization that, more than my box of horse condoms, more than my brass knuckles, more than even my beard, I needed Paragon Shag with me. It brings me shame to confess this, but we live in such times as make masculine pride scarce, and I do not foresee Western civilization’s return to glistening worthiness until the metrosexuals have been pounded back into almond butter and adult coloring books.

I crossed myself, still in a state of disbelief, and turned toward the threshold of hell, where Sexchaynge stood waiting. She had pressed her cheek against her fist, and her gaze lifted to me sympathetically. “What are you going to do now, Master Butch?”

In a supreme display of muscular eminence, I diverted my erection away from the heart of the sun, boring it into the ground, quaking the earth with my righteousness. “I must pursue Shag, and I must put an end to his delirious transsexual rampage at any cost. Even at the cost of his life. Before he encounters God and offends Him with Sapphic literature.”

“Take solace,” Sexchaynge whispered. “I don’t believe it will come to that. Shag has become a gay slut, so you will always know where to find him...” She smiled sadly as I considered her words. “And lucky for you, sweet-meat sandwich, I know just the ‘man’ to get you in.”

To Be Continued

About the Authors

In preparation for the BAFTA ceremony, Admiral Willpower Butch is studying how to act prissy and entitled by sitting in on liberal arts film classes. His former beloved companion, Paragon Shag, hasn’t been seen in public since he scandalized a group of children with a flamboyant Broadway medley at their school vape bar; now, he prefers the privacy of the abandoned crime scene he shares with Timpani Gayparade and his twenty-two hot brothers. Their secretary, international murder victim and street gastroenterologist Dead Summer Days, will never get into heaven, but he will loiter around the gate smelling of weed.

#willpower butch #paragon shag #jesus this turned out long #my dumb sense of humor as always #manly men! magazine

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cowboyjen68 · 6 years ago

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Good morning. Got up early to write and answer asks on Tumblr. I Had to save them as drafts because I ran out of time. Enjoying a cup of coffee in one of my dads mugs. He was a loyal Quaker Employee for 40 years. They are in Cedar Rapids and are huge supporters of our LGBTQIA community. And they just hired @hartoooosnats to promote their Lay’s chip division. I’m soooo proud! Also…this butch needs a hair cut!

#butch problems #soft butch #quakeroats #layschips #hannah hart

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durward55u · 2 years ago

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Read PDF The Butchering Art: Joseph Lister's Quest to Transform the Grisly World of Victorian Medicine PDF BY Lindsey Fitzharris

The Butchering Art: Joseph Lister's Quest to Transform the Grisly World of Victorian Medicine - Lindsey Fitzharris

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DESCRIPTION BOOK : In The Butchering Art, the historian Lindsey Fitzharris reveals the shocking world of nineteenth-century surgery on the eve of profound transformation. She conjures up early operating theaters--no place for the squeamish--and surgeons, working before anesthesia, who were lauded for their speed and brute strength. These medical pioneers knew that the aftermath of surgery was often more dangerous than their patients' afflictions, and they were baffled by the persistent infections that kept mortality rates stubbornly high. At a time when surgery couldn't have been more hazardous, an unlikely figure stepped forward: a young, melancholy Quaker surgeon named Joseph Lister, who would solve the deadly riddle and change the course of history.Fitzharris dramatically recounts Lister's discoveries in gripping detail, culminating in his audacious claim that germs were the source of all infection--and could be countered by antiseptics. Focusing on the tumultuous period from 1850 to 1875, she

DETAIL BOOK :

Author : Lindsey Fitzharris

Pages : 286 pages

Publisher : Scientific American

Language : eng

ISBN-10 : 0374537968

ISBN-13 : 9780374537968

Supporting format: PDF, EPUB, Kindle, Audio, MOBI, HTML, RTF, TXT, etc.

Supporting : PC, Android, Apple, Ipad, Iphone, etc.

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mossy-rainfrog · 8 days ago

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[ID: Four traditional sketches of Mary and Nathaniel Starbuck from Butch AU. Starbuck is portrayed as a butch woman, and Mary as a trans woman.

In the first drawing, Starbuck and Mary walk arm in arm, looking pleased with each other. Starbuck is wearing a hat and suit, and Mary has her hair in a Quaker bonnet. The second drawing has two sketches of Mary, one with her hair in a bonnet, and one without. In one she is smiling at the camera, in the other she is grinning at something out of view.

In the third drawing, Starbuck hugs Mary by the shoulder and kisses her on the cheek as she blushes and grins. The fourth drawing is another sketch of Mary in her bonnet, smiling off to the side.

Character designs: Starbuck is a thin white woman with short hair, a thin mustache, freckles, and men's clothing. Mary is a lean white woman with long curly dark hair and a full length dress. End ID.]

if you didn't know, my Moby-Dick butch AU has begun posting on AO3!!! tonight's chapter is all trans love and trans joy. I feel like we can all use that today.

#moby dick #mobydick #starbuck moby dick #starbuck #mary starbuck #butch au #trans characters #trans art #described #accessible art #mossy art #fan art

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boozyweb · 5 years ago

Photo

Jerry May Be Tom's Enemy, But He Sure Is Everyone Else's Friend :- Tom & Jerry Funniest Episode

Get up to speed with Tom and Jerry as they pursue one another, stay away from Spike, and play with companions like Minimal Quaker and Butch the feline.

#Tom&Jerry #Tom'sEnemy #FunniestEpisode #BoozyWeb #FunnyCartoon #CartoonCompilation

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abolishcis-blog · 8 years ago

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ABOLISH CIS

“Please include a 150 word description of yourself as the author of your article;”

Sioni fenyw. Welsh prole. femme. White. Abled. Aggy/angsty. Tumblrless. [Well..]

_________

olwyn o dân___

*This is a call for the not-cis against the cis.

*Cis is cis-normative or else it is nothing at all.

___It is normative in both senses.

______As norm, the cis pre-dominates, making us the minority [qualitatively as much as quantitatively]. As the normative, it is the coercive cis-morality imposed upon us, making us other, lesser, abject, false.

*To be against the cis-normative is to be against that which [re]produces the cis.

___Cis isn't simply [dis]embodied in individuals – it's a dynamic, a relationship of domination.

______Against its system of birth designations. Against its violent socialisation and policing of these cis-binary gender roles. Against the legal and extra-legal apparatus of state and capital which identifies and records. Against the transphobia, transmisogyny and queer bashing: against cis-domination.

[non]terms of attack___

*Cis [and so not-cis] is a western term used here by a white westerner to locate a western domination. Western cis-normativity is colonially imposed on to non-western, non-white and Indigenous peoples, as others have attacked. Cis-normativity cannot be attacked through imposing western non-cis identities, such as "trans", on to non-westerners. [1]

*In naming the cis [and ourselves as non-cis] we do not [re]produce it: rather, we mark it as a target to be destroyed. Cis-normativity is a social relation, and will be destroyed in [anti]social struggle.

*That isn't to say that its name is totalising [even in a “western context”] or that its articulation is necessary for its destruction. Whilst cis-normativity is a subsuming social relationship, naming it as such is limited to a few "conscious" radicals. Many struggle against the cis, struggle as non-cis, without ever using these terms. The use of these terms here is not a denigration of their struggle.

___Likewise, this [appropriated?] academic language is used begrudgingly.

______Abolishing the cis doesn't need specialised theorists, but for each/all to live [un]spoken poetry.

_________Ac er mai enwau'r Sais sy fa nyn, ma'r gorthrwm a'r brwydr yn annwyl Walia 'fyd.

*As such, not-cis is used here: for all of us beyond the pale of cis. It is not the equivalent of "trans". Trans is both less and more than not-cis. Less in that not everyone who is not-cis identifies/is identified as trans, and more in that trans as an identity amounts to more than just being not-cis.

___If cis is to identify with the gender assigned at your birth, not-cis as an "identity" is a non- identification.

cis abolition is not those gender abolitionists___

*To be sure, there's lots of gender abolitionists. Not-cis erasing communizations [2], anti-feminist cis-manarchists [3], misgenderers using the "they" pronoun for everyone, transphobic TERFs and even TERFy/“truscum” transwomen [4]. In short, shitbags.

*But then the gender abolitionists [or gender nihilists] from a non-cis position, whose rants resonate with anti-assimilation. It's these that are worth talking about here.

assimilation and gender___

*The nihilists put it well. Outside, there's “the” trans flag in front of a cop-shop, hate crime initiatives, homonationalisms' Trans British army captains. Inside, essentialist policing of authenticity, by ourselves [or] of each other, finishing what the law started.

*But assimilation has no clearly bounded subject or agent, and no outside/in. It's a moebius strip drawing tighter. A relationship between the cis and the not-cis. An asymmetric, dominating one, but where the cis pulls us in closer and puts itself inside of us, only making us more distant from ourselves and each other.

___Like madness in the 19th century, the cis in “Britain” at least is more and more like those Quaker reformists, wanting [some of] us to take a seat at its familial table, to sit politely as if we were one of them, carefully watched [and still beaten elsewhere].

______We are talking about more than co-option. It feeds off of us [and spits us out elsewhere]. Not just through simple capitalist accumulation [exploiting our waged and unwaged labour, cis-tourism, commercialising our desires, careerism, spectacle...] but also immediately in moments of struggle [cis-ally saviours, transphobic anti-transphobes...].

*Gender's [/non-gender's] relationship to this doesn't simply fit, even with regard to cis-patriarchy as a whole. Gender in both its narrowest, and widest senses, non-binary/fluid/woman/ man/indeterminate, masculine/femme/butch/camp. Gwisgo lasys sidan ac ymbincio. How these slot [or don't] into cis-normatvity, let alone cis-patriarchy isn't simple, despite the desires of TERFs.

*Maybe our gender nihilists still have more to show, or we have more to show them. [5]

___For sure, we can't say where smashing the cis will take us or our genders [if it will take them]. Masculinity without cis-men or patriarchy, femininity without TERFs or transmisogyny, non- binary without an assigned cis-binary, fluidity without prescribed subjects. "All that's solid melts into air".

______But despite this, and despite all the assimilationist desires, there's still some aggy bite in raging: "if I can't be [trans!]femme, it's not my revolution!".

tactics___

*Maybe a difference in tactics. Tactics because there is still resonance - because whether it's a question of this abolishing gender or abolishing the cis, we're on the same side of the barricades.

___But also because there are some tactics that aren't that lost. Sure [conscious] identities are never totalising or essential or final. But where we have them/where they have us, let's escalate, use them till they brake [or brake them], make them again, re-appropriate, take, sabotage, visible then hidden, against the record or silent or all across their walls. Are our non-cis genders themselves a reproductive labour - can they be a revolutionary care? Weaponise them before we throw them away, before the assimilationist amnesty or hard-repression rears its head.

*Our nihilists leave so much unsaid, the what and the how - for and against whom. So does this text. But it's adamant all the same: through and/or from and/or towards gender, it's tactics which us non-cis accomplices need.

cis-abolition as a tactic____

*So why talk about cis abolition? Because, targeting the cis [especially its concrete content] rather than targeting gender [as an abstract form] seems to resonate with much more rage. It is explosive, against that we hate, rather than seeming to attack those struggling with us. For sure, gender abolition has proved amongst ourselves a tense provocation and opened divides. But the divides it gives rise to aren't between those who are against assimilation from those who are not, between the desires to abolish cis-patriarchy and the desires to live it again and again.

*But attacking the cis, and that which reproduces the cis, might do differently. And they might articulate much more nicely, for what it might be worth. Less ambiguity, for ourselves or for TERFs.

some problematics___

*Targeting cis-domination without reifying its power and without authenticity policing the non-cis?

___Arising from a targeting thats separated from attacking?

*Cisness as [dis]embodied in individuals, but also as a relationship of power?

___Accomplice cis bodies against the cis? Transphobia from trans people? Non-cisness as a process?

______Separate organising? Non-cising spaces?

*Perthynas y Gymraeg i gyffredinoliad negyddol yn Saesneg megis "non-cis"?

*The above with regards to the boundaries or [in]between of the cis and non-cis?

*Escalating anti-assimilation beyond being not-assimilated [we want it all [gone]!]?

tactical clarity___

*Abolish the cis.

*Tân yn “ein” rhywedd...

notes___

[1] Other than this the relations of cis/not-cis to colonialism and race are left empty here, because attempting to articulate from my position might only of left it emptier. For similar reasons, these relations to intersex struggles are also left unsaid, as is so, so much else. As an attack on the cis, and not a positive affirmation or program, I hope that emptiness isn't erasing.

Likewise, the focus here on cis-domination isn't done because transphobia can be abstracted from other dominations. Rather, where [increasingly everywhere] the cis dominates other dominations can't be abstracted from it. We need to talk strategically about attacking cis-normativity.

[2] “Endnotes: The Logic of Gender” https://endnotes.org.uk/en/endnotes-the-logic-of-gender. Not TERFy, but the total silence concerning cis/not-cis is a hardworked accomplishment.

“Communization and the abolition of gender” https://libcom.org/library/communization-abolition-gender#footnote6_tpqs0u5 give the slightest nod in a footnote.

[Sure, if these articles were talking from a cis position and didn't want to speak “for us”, but if so at least articulate that, don't erase the non-cis when talking about something that is directly about the non-cis.]

For an articulation of communization and gender that doesn't erase non-cis struggle, see “LIES Volume I: Identity, Abolition, Communization” http://www.liesjournal.net/.

[3] See for example, “AGAINST THE LOGIC OF SUBMISSION: Beyond Feminism, Beyond Gender” http://www.reocities.com/kk_abacus/vb/wd8fem.html.

[4] See for example, “New Narratives 2014” https://newnarratives2014.wordpress.com/2014/05/16/how-is-gender-harmful-and-what-does-the-idea-of-gender-abolition-mean-to-trans-women/.

[5] Cis abolition is not essentially gender abolitionist, or essentially not. It doesn't see gender as essentially oppressive, or as essential otherwise. See, even if essentialisms don't tie us down in one place, we always dance with or against them [at least in this way of talking]. Nihilists just dance with them in the negative ["the real movement to abolish the present state of things", "against the existent" etc.]. Here it is cis which must be cleared aside.

#gender nihilism #trans #cymraeg #abolish cis

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