#see them all the time. i asked my dad like where r all these pigeons coming from theres more than usual and my dads like oh yeah thats the

[hotchology]

an entire paragraph about birds, hello gideon how are you doing bud why did you do that to spencer

me and that bird man are psychically bonded.

[lady-divine-writes]

Kurtbastian one-shot “Surprise Guest Stars” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Chaos ensues when some uninvited performers show up to Thomas's Christmas pageant ... (2221 words)

Notes: Blaine friendly. Assume this happens in a world that hasn’t met Covid yet. A re-write for @kbweek2020 Day 4 prompt Parents.

Part 60 of Daddies.

Read on AO3.

“You tell him!” Sebastian whispers. 

“No, you tell him!” Blaine whispers back fervently - a huge fail if he was trying to keep Kurt from hearing him. For a man who’s been working in theater professionally since college, how could Blaine forget that Kurt would be able to hear him from every corner of the stage? Rule number one of working backstage - no shushing and no whispering.

“Why me?” Sebastian asks.

“Because you’re his husband! You have a child together! If I tell him, detectives will never find my body! He won’t hurt you!”

“Yeah, right. Wanna bet?”

“Sure. Can you break a hundred?”

“For God’s sake!” Kurt snaps, too overwhelmed this close to curtain to handle anything that might go hand-in-hand with those two and their whisper fighting. “Would one of you just tell me what the heck is going on? What are you arguing about?”

Sebastian looks at Blaine, waiting for him to give Kurt the explanation he’s demanding while Sebastian searches for a place to hide. He’s out of luck when Blaine catches him off guard with a huge shove towards center stage right in the path of the steely-eyed man walking aggressively toward them, the thick heels of Kurt's Jimmy Choo loafers pounding against the wood floorboards marking down the remaining seconds of their lives.

Blaine may have made his living on the stage, but Kurt takes theater much more seriously than he ever has.

“We might have a problem,” Sebastian says.

“What? What problem!? It’s fifteen minutes to showtime! Don’t talk to me about problems!”

“O … okay ...” Sebastian smiles sheepishly, splaying his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Let’s call it a hiccup then.”

“A hiccup is a safety-gated synonym for problem, and I refuse to accept that there are any problems.”

“And yet, we still have one.”

Kurt sighs, throwing a hand to his forehead to shield his already blooming headache from whatever stupidity this is, and ends up smacking himself with his clipboard. “Fine!” he groans, rubbing the sore spot. “What is it!?”

“Look up there.” Sebastian reaches out to take his husband’s shoulder and redirect his attention. But after considering the possibility of getting his hand bitten off - a hand that will become most important if Kurt decides to never sleep with him again after this - he motions with his chin instead.

“Up where?”

“Up … up there. In the Christmas tree.”

“What? Is Mrs. Popson complaining that the ornaments are unbalanced again? Are we going to have to re-Feng Shui the lights to better complement her third graders’ angel piglets?” Kurt allows himself a snicker as he follows Sebastian’s instructions and gazes up. Eight dozen ridiculous things have happened so far, and their little pageant has yet to even open. That’s probably all this is - something ridiculous. A minor inconvenience blown way out of proportion.

At least, that’s what it had better be.

But as he peers through the branches of their picturesque twelve-foot Fraser fir, he realizes no. This isn’t a little thing. It’s a rather large thing. So large, he wonders how come he didn’t notice it before now.

“Oh … shit,” he mutters.

“It's Blaine's fault. I didn't see it until he pointed it out,” Sebastian says, passing the blame off on an offended Blaine and leaping quickly aside in case this revelation has consequences. 

“This,” Kurt hisses, jabbing a finger upward, "is why I told you I wanted an artificial tree for the Christmas pageant! Where did we get this thing anyway?”

“It was donated by Father Bruno at St. Adalbert’s Parish to show support for the school's LGBTQ+ inclusive program. He went out to the woods and cut it down himself!”

“Right!” Kurt folds his arms over his chest. “He probably planned this! Did it on purpose to sabotage our pageant! You can’t trust the Catholics! Don’t I always say that!?”

Sebastian looks at Blaine, and a confused Blaine looks back, each wondering if this is some inside remark directed at the other.

“No!” Sebastian pulls a face. “I have never heard you say that!”

“Well, you can’t,” Kurt sniffs. “And whether I said it or not, it’s generally implied.”

“I don’t think the man did this on purpose,” Blaine says, but does so in that soothing tone he used so often on Kurt in high school. A bad decision, Blaine realizes, the moment Kurt's head pivots his way, and he sees everything from Kurt’s neck to his scalp turn a bright, crayon red.

“Really!? Then let me ask you this - during the time it took the good father to cut this tree down and drag it over here, he never once noticed there was not one, not two, but three nests inside!?”

“I guess not! But neither did y---we,” Sebastian corrects, his life flashing before his eyes when he comes close to implying his husband is at fault. “We got the tree last minute. I guess they slipped through the cracks.”

“Obviously.” Kurt closes his eyes and drops his head, searching for an answer in the dark behind his lids.

Five minutes.

By now, they only have five minutes. He hears the children lining up with their teachers backstage while he and his husband argue. But they need to stop arguing and come up with a solution.

Fast!

He takes a deep breath in and exhales out, the inklings of a plan forming in his head.

“It’s okay,” he says, reassuring himself more than anyone, the headache simmering behind his eyes threatening to become a full-blown migraine. “It’s going to be okay. They haven’t let the parents in yet. They’re still in line outside. We can fix this. We can still fix this. We can move them, right? Just … shimmy up there and get them down?”

Blaine and Sebastian shoot each other anxious looks. This time, Blaine starts, choosing to jump on the grenade for Sebastian. “Uh … no. We can’t.”

“Yes, we can,” Kurt counters, over-enunciating consonants through teeth clenched so hard they’re about to pop from his skull. “Figure out a way to skitter up there and pluck them out. It can’t be too difficult.”

“I’m sorry, Kurt …”

“Or come at them from above. You can reach down from the catwalk. That might work out better seeing as they’re so high up.”

“No, Kurt …”

“We’re not going to hurt them,” Kurt interjects as if that might be the big hold up. “We’re going to relocate them.”

“Kurt …”

“There’s a cat carrier in the fifth-grade room,” Kurt continues desperately, unsure why it is this can’t be done, why Blaine can't say, "Brilliant, Kurt! I'll get right on that!" He’s seen people do it before. The Crocodile Hunter (God rest his soul) rescued birds left and right. That nice Officer Kevin from the SPCA who rescued the deranged pigeon from his father's auto body shop. And wasn’t there a famous Vine where some guy got an owl out of his kitchen using a broom? It can’t be that difficult. “We’ll toss them in there for the time being and then …”

“Kurt!” Blaine cuts in, raising his voice a tad higher than advisable considering the situation. “We can’t move them!”

Kurt's glare nearly takes the top of Blaine's head clean off. “And why can’t we?”

“Because those aren’t just any birds.” The three men look up at the exact moment nine fluffy faces peek over the edges of their nests and look down, probably wondering what all the commotion below is about. “Those are loggerhead shrikes.”

Kurt and Sebastian both look at their friend with confusion on their faces.

“How do you know that?” Sebastian asks.

Kurt puts a hand on his husband’s shoulder and shakes his head. “That question is going to require a longer answer than we have time for. Plus, there are children in the building. Just accept that Blaine has a thing about birds.” 

"PG? Or R?" Sebastian asks, needing clarification regardless.

"Try X," Kurt says in a lowered voice.

Sebastian looks at a blushing Blaine with wide, disgusted, but somewhat amused eyes.

"Continue," Kurt says, "from the part where you tell us why these birds are about to ruin our pageant.”

“Loggerhead shrikes are threatened. That means they’re protected. We can’t move them ourselves. We might not be able to move them at all without taking the tree with them.”

Kurt’s eyes bug. “We can’t … we can’t … the tree!? Oh great! This keeps getting better and better!”

“Relax.” Sebastian takes the risk and puts a hand on Kurt’s shoulder. He tries to massage it, but it’s hard as a rock. “It’s okay. We can still sort this out.”

“And how do you suggest we do that!? Huh!? Our Christmas pageant, which your son is starring in by the way, and is supposed to start in …” Kurt spins around in search of a clock. When he can’t see the one on the far wall, ironically because of the tree, he fishes his cell phone out of his pocket and checks the screen. His eyes bug out farther “… two minutes! has been hijacked by birds!”

“Look, Kurt, they’ve been chill so far. Maybe we can have the pageant with them there and move them after. Problem solved.”

“Yeah,” Kurt agrees optimistically, trying to force his heart to slow down, seeing how, with no time to spare, this could be a feasible option. “You're right! We’ll let them stay! Problem solved! I mean, what’re a few birds? It doesn’t look like they can even fly yet. And they’re cute! They’ll add realism. They won’t be any trouble.”

“Not exactly,” Blaine says, and Kurt has never wanted to punch him in the face so hard in his life. Wait … come to think about it, there may have been one or two other times. “There may be a whole other bigger problem.”

“And that is?”

“Those are babies. Juveniles, specifically. I don’t see any moms. Or dads for that matter.”

“I know I’m going to regret asking this,” Kurt moans, resigned to whatever fate Blaine’s knowledge is about to bestow upon them, “but … that’s a problem why?”

“Because loggerhead shrikes are protective. Being separated from their chicks, the parents will get aggressive. Also, if the babies don’t know where their parents are and they get nervous …” A series of jarring screeches interrupt Blaine’s explanation. Kurt glares up at the birds, mouths open wide, cawing loudly into the air. Blaine points up. “They’ll do that.”

“Great!” Kurt yelps, at the end of his rope. “So we have potentially agro birds loose in the theater, baby birds that spontaneously scream bloody murder, and a play set to start in half-a-minute, which we may have to postpone indefinitely in case we need to call animal control - do I have that right?”

“Basically, yes.”

“Well, skippidy do! Is there anything else!? Anything at all you’ve forgotten to tell me!? Because what else could possibly go wrong!?”

The doors at the back of the auditorium fly open, and Kurt blanches, knowing that right then and there, his question is about to be answered.

“Kurt! Sebastian!” the assistant principal yells, looking a little too much like Tippi Hedren in The Birds for anything good to come from her sudden appearance. “Come quick! It’s an emergency!”

“What? What, what, what is it now!?” Kurt asks, sounding less than sympathetic.

“Insane birds are dive-bombing parents in line outside! Three people have already been pecked! Everyone is scattering!”

With the auditorium doors thrown open, Kurt can hear the panicked yells of parents banging on the steel doors outside, begging to be let in. Above that, the shrieking of the birds searching for their babies echo through the halls, their screams so high-pitched and piercing, they make their way through the thick stone walls and double-layered storm windows. Hearing their parents’ cries, the baby birds respond, frantically flapping their wings in an effort to take flight themselves and reach them.

Bitterly Kurt thinks all of his problems might be solved if they give it a go, plummet to the ground, and break their little birdie necks.

How un-festive of him.

Sebastian looks at his done-in husband. “Do you want me to go outside and handle this one alone?”

“No.” Kurt straightens his back, squares his shoulders, hands his clipboard over to Blaine, and makes for the stairs to the stage, head held high like a gladiator going off to fight an unwinnable war. “I’ll go. Blaine? Tell the teachers … there’s been a bit of a delay.”

“Will do,” Blaine says, leaving the stage with a solemn salute and a sigh of relief.

“And Sebastian?”

“Yes?” Sebastian says, falling in behind his husband, unwilling to let him walk off into the bird battle alone.

“Do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“The next time I ask what could possibly go wrong - gag me.”

“Absolutely.” Sebastian smirks, preparing to die on the hill of bringing a smile back to his husband’s face. “Just so I can plan appropriately … will you be asking that anytime tonight, perchance? Because I can get a babysitter and rent a room in about five seconds.”

“Great,” Kurt replies humorlessly. “Do that. Let’s pray I’ll have enough blood left in my body to enjoy it.”

[mifeng-xiaojie]

So my thoughts on the Alucard sex scene, having seen it with the full context. First of all

In all seriousness, how old are they supposed to be? Aside from that, I get a feeling that you’re supposed to sympathize with them. You’re supposed to see through them what humanity would face if Carmilla’s plans come to fruition. You get a sense of some of the many ways they must have been exploited in the fact that they show no hesitance as far as sex. They know exactly what to do. Compare this to Alucard, who seems to clearly be having his first sexual encounter. We’ll come back to that.

Based on what’s shown, I can understand if some people empathize with them, but my problem is that the show doesn’t give much indication of how much time they’ve actually spent with Alucard before they do what they do. Speaking of what they do, if I can just digress a bit. I’ve seen people call it the R word, but I’m hesitant. I always want to be careful with how I define that word, but this situation seems so grey? Alucard didn’t seem as if he objected to what was happening, which I guess takes us right to me saying I think this was his first sexual encounter. He touched them back a bit and kissed Taka pretty enthusiastically, but mostly, he was very submissive to what was happening. Like he was very much in shock tans confusion that it was even happening and had no idea of what he should do. He struck me very much as someone who knows about sex and sexuality in theory, but not in practice. If I’m right, God what a terrible first time!

In contrast, the twins are very much sexually experienced, as I’ve said, and you get a sense that this was due to exploitation. But where I lose empathy for them is that not only do they turn around and exploit Alucard’s vulnerable emotional state, which they were well aware of, but it seems to happen after being with him for a very short amount of time. They came to learn vampire hunting, but he was the one to offer to show them magic. It was his idea, but then they turn around and bitch at him that he didn’t show them magic or how to move the castle. They saw with their own eyes what state the mechanism to move the castle is in! It wasn’t even a few days before they were exchanging looks behind his back, even though he was already showing them things they didn’t even ask for, like the Belmont Hold. They are a classic case of abuse victims becoming abusers.

Which brings me back to Alucard. I don’t think his sexuality is defined YET. As much as I would love to say he’s bisexual, I don’t think this experience should count at all. I say this because he clearly misses the only two people he knows as friends. He’s dealing with trauma, and I’m almost sure he had no sexual interest in anyone before what happened, and he probably won’t for a while if ever after this.

I don’t blame Trevor and Sypha for leaving him behind, especially because he was planning on just going back to sleep, but come on! Y’all couldn’t send him a post card? A pigeon? Use magic to invent text messages?

Alucard is left alone in a state where he very much needs a hug, but sex was thrown at him instead, and he took it because he needed to feel loved. That’s pretty damn awful.

Finally, I saw some threads saying that Alucard is going to go on a human eradication kick like his dad. No, I think it’s more like Alucard is going to start isolating himself. He didn’t go start killing people after the twins. The last we see of him, he’s back to foraging by himself, and then we see the impaled twins. He’s bothered to dress them before putting them on display, which shows he still cares enough to leave them with a little dignity, but the message is clear. Stay away from him. Sadly, this might extend to Trevor and Sypha as well.

[anotherstephencobert]

October 15, 2019 - Back from the reunion that almost wasn't

I can look back on it with happiness now. But thanks to the policies of United Airlines, I was very nearly a no-show at the fulfilling of my parents' final wishes.

All of us had been planning this for months. My sister Carol had gotten the permits and reviewed the Park regulations. We had all made travel arrangements and also arranged for our shifts to be covered at our jobs. Everything was set to go as planned. (Or so we thought.)

Friday morning I got to the airport early to get my boarding passes and get to my gate. My flight was delayed by about an hour because of severe weather in Houston (my stopover) but we headed out at 12:20 and arrived at George Bush International Airport around 2:15 that afternoon. As I expected, due to the weather the connecting flight, United Airlines 4211 to Knoxville was delayed, but at 4:15 we were told to proceed to Gate 29 for boarding.

After waiting for half an hour, the passengers (some 30-35 of us) were told to go back to the lobby; apparently the crew had worked more hours than airline regulations allowed them to. (I had to think, "How quaint of them to figure that out AFTER we'd been called to the gate for boarding!") We did so, and then a few minutes later an announcement came on that our flight had been cancelled!

We all went to the United Customer Service desk and were given Standby boarding passes for two later flights. Two lucky passengers from UA4211 got to go, but the rest of us were pretty much told "Tough luck". Our group went back to the UA Customer Service desk, and you can bet we were all damn mad. They told us they had no flights at all to Knoxville until Sunday morning. I got on the phone to United's 800 number and tried to book that way, but they confirmaed nothing was available. By now we were willing to try anything: One passenger got a flight to Knoxville on Delta airlines but no other flight on ANY airline was available. Connecting flights to hubs like Atlanta were available but even their flights to my old hometown were booked solid. Even flights to nearby cities where I could hopefully get a ride were booked. (The best United offered me was Louisville, KY. I passed.) So around 11:00 I called my family to tell them it looked like there was no way I could make it.

To their credit, United provided me with a hotel room and a boarding pass back to Wichita the next morning. (Plus some meal vouchers.) I made it to the Ramada Inn and spent my last few waking minutes wording the nasty letter in my head that I was going to send to United Airlines the next day.

The next morning I was up early and at the Houston airport at 6:30. When I got there I checked the Departure board and couldn't believe my eyes: There was a flight to Knoxville scheduled for 10:00 am! I went to the lobby of the boarding gate, and the agent there (who remembered me from the day before) told me I needed to go back to Customer Service. I got thre, and the service rep (who didn't remember me; maybe that was just as well) told me there were three seats avaialble on that flight! She arranged for me to get on that flight; I called my sister (who had been crying at the thought that we wouldn't all be there) and told her I'd be there after all. My flight left at 10:05, and at 1:15 pm I was met at McGee-Tyson Airport by my brother Bill and his wife Cheryl, who gave me a ride to our (former) home in Knoxville.

The group of us headed out to the Great Smoky Mountain National Park. What with heavy traffic in Pigeon Forge we didn't get to our destination - a scenic overlook on the North Carolina side of the park about a quarter mile from Newfound Gap - until about 5:00pm. Our parents had requested to be cremated, and Mom wanted her ashes mingled with Dad's and scattered at that location, which was very special to them. We gathered carefully on the steep hillside as my older brother David read the Kaddish in Hebrew and in English, and then with the help of his sons Dan and Tim mingled the ashes and scattered them.

After the ceremony we gathered for a group photo. Bill took a carefully angled selfie to get us all in the shot. From l-r: David's wife Rebecca, yours truly, Tim, Carol (who was camera shy that day; look closely and you can just see her!), David, Bill's wife Cheryl, Dan, and Bill.

We braved the Pigeon Forge traffic one more time and were back in Knoxville around 7:45. We all had dinner at Bravo Italian Restaurant and then retired for the night.

The next morning I had breakfast with my family at the LaQuinta Inn, and Bill gave me a ride back to the airport. I landed at Chicago's O'Hara Airport for a two-hour layover. As departure loomed, I heard the agent at the gate make an announcement I hadn't heard in some time: The flight to Wichita was overbooked and they were looking for one volunteer to take a flight the next morning. There were no takers, so he offered it again, this time offering $800 in United flight vouchers. When boarding started, I assumed they'd found ataker, but then the agent asked again, upping the value to $1200! I didn't have to be at the desk until 3:00 Monday afternoon, so I stepped forward and volunteered to take the flight Monday morning.

I actually wound up getting $1300 in value for future United flights, plus a night at the Chicago Hyatt Regency and $30 in meal vouchers. Interestingly, the flight the next day was on American Airlines. I got back to O'Hara in plenty of time (good thing, too: the lines at the security checkpoints were pretty long), headed out a little before 10:00 am and touched down in Wichita right around noon.

The trip will be a source of wonderful memories for years, but it's going to be awhile before I shake the memory of how United Airlines almost ruined it. Carol is convinced that Mom and Dad were watching out for us and made the reunion happen when all hope seemed gone. I am more inclined to believe that our Heavenly Father opened the door to make it work out. But even with that in mind, and even with the generous travel vouchers, they got a none-too-pleasant email from me letting them know that what happened in Houston was no way to run an airline.

[burlybanner]

Dust (ScienceBrosWeek, 2019)

Summary: Tony Stark is a rose, is a rose, is a rose. Or: I do not think that name means what you think it means (okay, really, I just thought that summary sounded cool. It means nothing...).

Disclaimer: This is different from my usual style and I’m not sure where this story is going. So I’m not sure when I’ll continue. But keep me honest; it’ll happen eventually.

Enjoy. Unbeta’d, as usual. **

Bruce simultaneously wiped his forehead and cupped his hand over his glasses, protecting his eyes from the glare of rusted junk scattered across the clearing. Besides machine parts there wasn’t much here other than brambles, scraggly brown weeds, and burnt patches of road gravel - and the occasional ugly ragged bird, scratching at burnt crumbs. The place hadn’t seen rain for weeks, or maybe even months, and the abandoned farm looked exactly like what he expected to see. Or worse. 

A sudden gust from the föhn-ish winds lazily shoved the air like a tired toddler and kicked up clouds of gravel dust, choking off the oxygen in Bruce’s throat. 

So, okay. Definitely worse.

He hazarded a glance at Tony who, despite the blistering heat, looked ready for a photo shoot. Bruce’s eyes narrowed. Was there ever a time Tony looked anything but perfectly put-together? Apart from the days he crawled beneath a clunker’s belly, to spin grime into polished chrome? 

“Remind me why we’re here again?” Sweat trickled from the hairs on Bruce’s neck. He could feel the droplets settling uncomfortably beneath his collar, merging with the grimy dust. The only positive? The weather was too hot and dry for mosquitoes - just gnats, pestering the hell out of them.

Bruce swatted back a gnat cloud before it got too close. “Scenic tour, is it?”

Tony’d gone strangely quiet, but then he’d also been uncharacteristically silent since their Cessna landed on the camouflaged airstrip a few hours ago. Their driver sped from the tarmac and over the twists and turns of winding county back roads. For ninety minutes Tony silently sipped from a flask off and on, until they unearthed this dead place. The most Bruce got from him in an hour was a few rough, “uh huhs,” some “maybes,” and a chuckle or two. And already unsettled from the plane ride (he was a terrible flier, everyone knew it), Bruce let the bumpy ride lull him to sleep. He’d been too tired and frustrated to question Tony’s silence. 

When the limo slowed Bruce opened his eyes, shaking the lingering sleep from his bones. He listened as the limo’s tires popped and rumbled over craggy rocks and pebbles and groaned and stretched as the limo lumbered to a stop. After they exited the car, he briefly watched as it receded into a canopy of knotty trees and wondered if Happy would ever find them again.  

Tony inhaled sharply and twisted his body in Bruce’s direction. “Not exactly.” The metal frames of his glasses caught the sun, causing Bruce to squint. Tony’s grin didn’t reassure him. “Let’s head inside. Away from the heat.”

Bruce tried, failed from halting a comical double-take. “Where?” He scrunched his face at the distant “barn,” a careening red structure and one strong wind away from becoming rubble. “Surely not--”

“Appearances, Brucie,” Tony said, taking off his jacket and slinging it over one shoulder. He strode towards the barn before Bruce angrily trudged after him. “You of all people should know what that means.”

“It’s a mile away, so you better be right,” Bruce grumbled. He wasn’t in the mood but admittedly he’d been spoiled. Years ago, dry, dust-choked places like this wouldn’t have phased him in the least. They were paradises, in some lands. But he’d hung around Tony’s sweet life for far too long now and  yearned for temperature controlled buildings and AIA-winning environments. 

He made a face and huffed after Tony’s rapid retreat, suddenly hating how mercilessly soft he’d become. He knew that meant more than one thing but it hurt to poke the truth. He’d rather be angry at himself, at how quickly his former physique had devolved to flab.

Tony flipped around and walked backwards so Bruce could catch up. “If you went for a run with me every so often,” he grinned, and Bruce wanted to punch his gleaming teeth, “you wouldn’t be so out of breath.”

“I’d rather be fat, than a drunk,” Bruce retorted hotly, but Tony’s grin didn’t falter as Bruce matched the billionaire’s steps. 

“Tsk. Temper, temper, Brucie. And touche.” Tony gave Bruce a cursory nod and slowed his pace. “You’re not huge, you’re chub light. High side of average for a red-blooded American male.”

“Are you going to keep jabbering on about my weight, or are you going to explain why we’re here?”

Tony’s smile thinned, catching Bruce off-guard. He preferred their banter, honestly. Much better than the sadness he caught from Tony’s eye. “Do you remember,” Tony sighed, “when my father died?”

“Yeah, of course I do.” Bruce’s tone softened and Tony further slowed as they trudged toward the barn. “We’d gone our separate ways. Rhodey to the armed forces, me to the Peace Corps. You were finishing up your doctoral thesis, as I recall.” 

“Mmhm.” The rest of his response died a little, muffled by their feet scraping the gravel pathway. “Howard Stark, entrepreneur extraordinaire. I took over the business, kicked out the old guard, fought my way back to the top before buying you back from the government a decade later—”

“Not true,” Bruce puffed. “I was an aid worker then.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Barely scraping by. Ross still had your patents. Once you ran out of money, you would’ve crawled back to him soon enough. He was counting on it.”

“Whatever,” Bruce rumbled. “Anyway. Yes. You bought back my patents from the government. And you turned SI from a monster into a clean tech leader, turned Rhodey into SI’s government liaison - with their blessing - and turned me into a fat desk jockey.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, giving Bruce the side-eye.

“Fine,” Bruce rumbled. “Sitting and eating behind a desk turned me into a fat desk jockey. And before you ask, no I’m not blaming you. It’s my own doing after becoming SI’s R&D lead.” He waved off his anger, pretending to swat another cloud of gnats. “So? What’s your point? That’s ancient history. We know that.” He gestured between them. “You, me. Rhodey. The three of us know that.” 

“However. I never told you the whole story.”

Bruce opened his mouth but couldn’t find anything to say. He’d known Tony for over twenty years, but never knew Tony to hide anything from him. Or Rhodey. “What story?” He finally asked. 

“That Pops was a...Secret Agent, man,” Tony sang, off-key. “Helped run covert ops with my Aunt Peg.”

Bruce stopped dead and only partly because his feet hurt. “You’re putting me on.” But after a few beats of silence he realized the man wasn’t joking. “Seriously, your Dad? The asshole?”

“Hey, now,” Tony admonished. “Only I’m allowed to call him that. And don’t stand there like a dead pigeon. There are spies around and they get trigger happy if people linger out here.”

“What?” Bruce ducked and wildly glanced around the plains.

“Sorry. I’m joking.” Tony snickered and waited until Bruce caught up. “At least I think I’m joking. Honestly, I don’t know how spies operate.”

“Jesus Christ. Don’t joke about that. I still get nightmares of the DRC.”

“Sorry,” Tony repeated, and Bruce could tell he was genuinely sorry. Then, after a pause: “I...didn’t know you still had ‘em.”

Bruce rubbed his brow ridge with a shaky thumb. He would’ve let him off, told him he was joking, but it would’ve been a lie and he never was any good at fibbing, either. “You never really forget.”

“True.” 

Bruce opened his mouth then quietly shut it; it wasn’t the time or the place. If they wanted to swap more horror stories and compare pasts it’d take a lot of time and beer. Copious amounts of both. 

He’d heard about Tony’s kidnapping while abroad and although it mirrored some of his experiences, Bruce’s own detention had been...longer. He’d broke from his initial captivity before spending years on the run, fighting his way from militia group to militia group and running illegally through foreign checkpoints. Sometimes he got caught. Sometimes good people died. He regretted much of what he did to survive, to get back. And Rhodey hadn’t been around to rescue him like he’d done for Tony. 

Still. They both realized how lucky they’d been. Despite how it changed them.

Tony stopped and Bruce realized they’d made it to the barn; it was just as bad up close. “Not much to look at,” he grumbled at the gaping front. He assessed its dilapidated state while trying to catch his breath.

Tony grinned and pulled a rickety sliding door. Bruce briefly massaged his hamstring. “What did I tell you about appearances?”

Bruce shot Tony a rude gesture.

Tony laughed, hopping inside. 

When they passed from the blazing sun into the barn, Bruce shielded his eyes again. He blinked to let his eyes adjust to the sudden change from light to dark and briefly made out a few motes, dancing between streams of warped wood. When he could fully see he saw what he expected: A pitchfork, some old bales of hay. A broken tractor.

But the man surprised him.

“Hey, Clint,” Tony said, waving to a guy casually chilling in the corner. He had sandy blonde hair and was reading a magazine while chewing on a straw. He could’ve passed for a farmer, apart from the black tactical coveralls. And sidearm. 

“Mr. Stark.” Clint didn’t even look up. “You ready?”

“Yeah. Dr. Banner’s with me.”

Bruce unconsciously began backing away. “Tony...”

Tony squeezed his shoulder and Bruce found himself melting into Tony’s touch. He hated the pull Tony had over him, but he’d take whatever he could get these days. “Don’t bolt, Brucie,” he murmured. “Promise, it’s all good. No one’s gonna stuff you in a trunk.”

“That’s what they said at the Sudan border. Look how that turned out.”

“Bruce.” Tony waited until Bruce turned to him. Tony’s eyes had hypnotic qualities, Bruce swore they did. His heart slowed and his panic fled as Tony stared him down. For good measure, for Bruce’s peace of mind, he bumped foreheads with him. “Trust me.”

“All right. Okay.” Bruce licked his dry lips. “Okay.”

Clint had been shadowing them but Bruce hadn’t noticed. The man had slipped to the door and gestured to a wall switch, still flipping through his magazine and paying them no mind. Bruce’s paranoia spiked. Really, this guy was good at his job. Too good. 

“Goin’ down?”

“Yeah.”

Bruce staggered back when flaps rose out of the floor, revealing a platform lift growing from the ground like a flower.

“Like I said,” Tony said, when the lift stopped. “Appearances.” The platform was only big enough for four small people, but at least it had a safety cage with handrails so they couldn’t fall to their deaths. 

Tony pulled the metal gate and stepped inside. Clint followed behind him.  “Coming?”

Bruce swallowed, but Tony’s voice lingered in his mind: Trust me.

“Guess so.”

Bruce tentatively followed Tony onto the platform,  allowing whatever fate had in store.

[forgetmenotsandroses]

Your Eyes Burning at The Back on my Mind

A/N: SO. This is a late birthday present for the lovely!!!! @queen-of-pigeons , 

H A P P Y B I R T H D A Y !!

MY FRIEND AND AN ARTIST AMONG OTHER THINGS! CHECK HER OUT! SHE’S AMAZING HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAYYYYYYYYY!! UR OLD NOW....

(Side note: this is possibly the longest thing I’ve written yet. 2.8k O_O)

(Side side note: I’m not abandoning my other fandoms or anything. Dw, my few followers. Although I’m on a semi hiatus lol.)

(Side side side note: Special Thanks to @slightlystalesushirolls , the best beta anyone could ask for!)

TONY

They meet on the battlefield, and Tony can't look away. At all. 

Which is either very fortunate, or very unfortunate. Fortunate, because this is important, the type of deal that could make or break his business (not that it isn't already made). Tony can't afford to look away, to lose focus, even for a second. Hydraulics manufacturers are serious business. It's unfortunate though, because he can't rip his eyes off of the man across from him long enough to pay attention to what's actually going on. For the rest of the meeting, he runs on autopilot and relies on natural charm. He's not entirely sure what just went on, and whether or not he's been completely taken advantage of. But Tony knows what hydraulics company he wants for his next venture. The one with the blue-eyed negotiator. STEVE After the meeting, Steve stops to take a break. They had, of course, briefed him beforehand. They told him about Tony Stark, ruthless CEO, who got what he wanted far too often. Always informed, with an insatiable urge to be at the top. But they didn't tell him about the dry wit and sharp banter, or his ass in Armani slacks, or the scent of expensive cologne that permeated the air. Steve stares off into space and inhales deeply, partly to calm himself, partly to try and get another breath of that cologne.

TONY

It's a few months after they meet, and he's home late. Again.

As he enters, he nearly trips over Peter, the six-year-old lump in spider-themed pyjamas sprawled practically in the doorframe. Damnit.

Five seconds later, Jarvis materializes.

“Hey, Jarvis.”

"He insisted on waiting up, Sir. I tried to convince him you would be happier if he waited in bed, but he refused quite adamantly."

"It's alright. C'mon, let's get you to bed."

He carries the boy back to bed. As he gently sets him down, Peter stirs awake. Just what Tony needs.

"Daddy? You're home late again."

"I know. It was a long day."

“Did you talk to Mr. Rogers again?”

He's mentioned the blue-eyed negotiator, whom he's learned is named Steve Rogers, a few times (or more) to Peter, but he never realized it had gotten to the point where his son remembered the name.

“Not today.”

He flashes back to endless agonizing over whether he's going to buy an entire company. Not over Steve Rogers. Buying companies is, also, serious business. The type that involves countless headaches and mountains of paperwork and negotiations galore (the only good part).

He does need hydraulics manufacturing if he's going to work on heavy vehicles, but if he's losing time with his son, perhaps this is going a bit far.

“Tell you what, I'll make it up to you by having take your kid to work day tomorrow!”

“But I have school!”

“You're so smart that you don't need school!”

Peter laughs. “You just say that ‘cause you’re my dad!”

“Well I am your dad, and you know what I say, Bug? I say you have to go sleep.”

“Can't I stay up a bit?”

“Nope. You've already stayed up late enough.”

Tony smiles, Peter scowls, and that's that. “Fine.” STEVE

"Seriously! You two give 'heated negotiations' a new meaning! The rest of us are just waiting for the sexual tension to end!"

Steve groans. The new techie ended up staying for the whole meeting, chatting with the Stark Industries secretary after coming to check on a faulty projector. Her name is… Wanda? Or something. Pretty sure she has a brother in the engineering department.

And she hasn't stopped talking about him and… Tony? Mr. Stark? The CEO of Stark Industries.

According to her (and apparently, the rest of the tech department) they have good chemistry.

There certainly is some kind of spark when they're in an intense back and forth. Like holding a match to an oil slick, dangerous and ready to ignite.

He hopes it might lead to something more. But Tony (Mr. Stark?) is so above him, he might as well wish for the moon.

TONY

Even though he's made an impromptu take-your-kid-to-work day, it doesn't mean any less work, which is a problem. He can't take Jarvis with him (the butler/babysitter probably needs a break anyways), and Bruce (head of engineering) flat out refused, citing a short temper and lack of child-minding skills despite possibly being the most gentle person Tony knows.

This is how he ends up with Peter in his office, babbling nonsensically.

•••

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, Bug?”

“I'm bored.”

There's a pause, as Tony attempts to fill out yet more forms and the phone rings.

“Tony Stark speaking. Who is this and why the hell are you bothering me? … I see. When is it due? … Fuck. I'll be there in five minutes.”

Peter looks up.

“Bug, something important just came up. I need to go up.”

“Can I come?”

“Not this time. Here, why don't you go down to the vending machine and get some snacks? Then come back here to wait for me. I'll be right back.”

Peter takes the twenty dollar bill and nods wordlessly. Tony walks out of the office, but not before registering the disappointment on his son’s face.

STEVE

He's on break wandering through the building when he noticed the kid. Pretty cute, actually. (Steve’s been always susceptible to cute kids.) He knows Tony has a son, so this is probably him. What other child would be on the engineering floor sitting beside the entrance to Mr. CEO’s personal workshop with a bag of chips?

As he gets closer, he realizes that the boy is struggling to hold back tears.

“What's your name?”

“Daddy calls me Bug, but my real name is Peter.” he sniffles.

“So, Peter, what are you doing out here?”

He imagines the enigmatic Tony Stark losing his temper and throwing the child out, but can't really picture him doing it.

“I got locked out.”

This time, he's actually starting to cry, and the tears that pooled in his eyes are running down his cheeks. In no time, he's sobbing, almost wailing into the floor.

Steve does the reasonable thing to do when confronted with a crying child. Panicking internally and forcing his face into (hopefully) a happy expression.

“Well, until he comes back, I can stay here with you!”

Peter gulps, and his breathing slows, if only slightly.

“O-okay.”

There's an awkward pause in the conversation. Peter quickly fills it.

“Do you know my dad?”

“Is this his office we’re outside of?”

“Yup!”

“Then yes, I do know him. In fact, I work with him!”

Peter smiles, and it's as brilliantly blinding as only a happy child’s can be. Completely adorable.

“Wait, Mister, what’s your name?”

Steve realizes with some horror that he never introduced himself. He just walked up to a random kid in the hallway and starting talking. Not creepy at all.

“I'm Steve. But you can call me Mr. Rogers if you want.”

Peter's eyes light up in recognition.

“Oh! I know you! Daddy talks about you all the time!”

“Oh?”

Steve’s heart skips a beat. He's pretty sure there's a blush spreading across his face. What if it's something bad, though? Like how Bucky (his roommate and best friend) talks about his coworker T’Challa constantly. As in fuckin’ T’Challa finished the contract before me. Again. And he’s team leader for the Vibranium Project. Or fuckin’ T’Challa brought gluten-free scones to staff social night again. Why can't he just get regular scones like a normal-fuckin’-person? Of course, he's met T’Challa and the man seems kind, technologically minded, and clever. Gluten-free scones aside. Still, what might the great CEO, Tony Stark, say about him?

“Mhmm. He usually says a lot of bad words when he thinks I'm not listening! And he thinks your butt is nice. And you have pretty eyes. And he says you're suuuper haaandsoo--”

“Peter Benjamin Parker-Stark!”

“Uh-oh.” Peter’s eyes widen, a grimace appears. But not before Steve watches a self-satisfied grin flit across his face.

“That’s enough of that! Into my office!”

Steve looks up, at the flustered, exasperated, and very, very red CEO of Stark Industries.

“Uh.” Steve gulps, acutely aware of his precarious position.

Then Mr. Stark (Tony?) clears his throat. “Oh, you know. Kids like to babble and exaggerate. My apologies, Mr. Rogers.” He half mutters, half says (but still in that forceful way of his).

“Apology accepted. And please, call me Steve.”

“In that case, Mr. Ro--Steve, call me Tony.”

TONY

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This was not how Steve Rogers was supposed to find out. Tony was going to dazzle him and awe him and make him so love-struck that Steve would be falling at his feet. Not that anyone wouldn't fall at his feet, Tony assures himself. He is the irresistible Tony Stark. Now to explain some very crucial details to his son.

“Peter…”

“Yes Daddy?”

Peter gives him a wide-eyed, innocent look. Where’d he learn that? (Tony then realizes that it’s the same look he gives Pepper after he’s dismantled the photocopier for the millionth time.)

“If someone asks what someone else thinks of them, we don’t say if one likes the other.”

“But you do have a crush on himmm. Don’t you want me to tell the truth?”

Tony almost shrieks, before catching himself. “It’s not a crush.” he says firmly. (It is in fact a crush, now that Tony thinks about it. But he refuses anything ‘cutesy’. That’s just not in the Stark code of conduct.)

Peter groans. “But you liiiiiiike him.”

Tony sighs. This is going to take a while.

STEVE

So. Tony Stark. Gorgeous, witty, fucking CEO of Stark Industries, likes him. Maybe. Probably. What the fuck is he going to do now?

Besides panic. He's got that covered. What if it's just innocent child babble?

Or what if Peter overheard Tony (it's nice to know what to call him) talking about Pepper Potts, the almost freakishly competent secretary? Or Diana Prince, the charming, kickass personal relations manager?

What will he do then? And why does this information matter so much anyways?

Then he remembers; somewhere along the line, he's called head over heels, completely in love.

He needs help. Professional help. He needs to talk to someone.

•••

“Bucky. Stop laughing! Please.”

“I-I’m sorry, Steve, really.” Bucky manages to huff out, before collapsing into another fit of laughter.

“Mhmm.”

“It's just so funny…”

“Right. My personal relationship crisis is funny. You know, I listen to you rant about T’Challa and the scones.”

“O-o-okay slow down. Those issues are totally different! One is the tiny, little son of your boss or whatever telling you that Stark thinks you're hot--”

“--he's not my boss. Negotiations for the company are practically at a standstill.” Steve is bright, bright red. The red you'd find on ripe tomatoes and fire trucks.

“Sure, try to add the technical talk in there. The issue still stands; not-boss thinks you're hot. On the other hand, we have a job-stealer, and more importantly, gluten free scones. Do you understand how bad they are? Do you understand? They look like normal scones, but it's like eating fuckin’ glue!”

“Bucky…”

“Fine. I can be serious. Honestly? Tell him you've fallen madly in love with him and maybe he'll take you in.”

“Bucky!”

•••

Well. That conversation went nowhere. Maybe he needs a different angle.

•••

Natasha isn't laughing as hard as Bucky, but she's still cackling.

“Ha! Clint needs to pay up! I told him that Tony would come through first!”

“What?”

“The office has a pool. Diana, Pietro, Bruce, and Sam all think Tony’s too much of a chicken to make the first move. Me, Clint, Wanda, and Pepper, are all team Tony ‘cause we think he's got more nerve than you! There are different bets going, though, for the details.”

“I--”

Steve takes a moment to clear his head, and consider his next statement.

“That's not relevant to the question though. Natasha, please.”

“Alright. I know the face of a man in pain.”

He sighs in relief.

“Do you really want my honest opinion? I don't know if you'll like it...”

“I'm desperate. I'll take it.”

It's her turn to sigh, then take a deep breath. “I think that you should tell him. You two would be good for each other! You’d balance him out, y’know?”

“I guess…”

•••

Damn. This wasn't what he was hoping for. He was hoping someone would tell him that he didn't have a chance. It would be a lot easier than actually telling Tony that he reciprocates these (possible) feelings. But what if he’s wrong?

TONY

Lately, it feels as though there's something between him and Steve. Not just the slightly heated tension from before. Just… Tension. Like how sometimes, Steve will start to say something, flush (attractively, everything he does is attractive, from the little gestures he makes when he's talking, to the way of his voice when he's talking about something he cares about) then start talking about finances. Or tie colours. Or anything remotely uninteresting.

Tony’s not an idiot. He knows what it is.

Peter may have meant well, but he’s put up an awkward sort of wall. Not that it’s really Peter’s fault. Tony should've made a move sooner. But what if Steve had said no? It's a foreign thing, this fear or rejection. Tony has been charming and disarming for as long as he can remember. He's always gotten what he wants. Until now. This is different. Maybe, just maybe, it's some form of love? Whatever that is.

STEVE

October turns to December, fall to winter, and he's still done nothing. Nothing. At. All. He hates this. But he's too much of a coward to do anything. That's going to change tonight, probably.

TONY

It's the office party for Tony’s near and dear (besides Peter, who is hopefully asleep and away from all the stupid, inebriated people here). This includes certain people from the hydraulics manufacturing company, with whom he's works so close with for the year. Even after deciding not to buy it at the end of November. It's a sort of last hurrah. He's completely drunk.

Steve shows up, cute in an ugly Christmas-themed sweater. Tony’s opted for a casual suit, which he hopes looks good. Well, he did. He's too far gone to care right now. Besides the top-notch assortment of alcohol, there is also a buffet. The canapés are amazing.

Steve walks up to him. Tony almost swoons. But not quite. He can hold his liquor.

They meander over to a doorway.

“Tony Stark? Drunk at this hour? Why am I not surprised?” Steve smirks, smile made of light and teasing and mischief.

Tony notes the change in his manner instantly. It's less formal, much more intimate than usual.

“I’m not. Just, less coherent. Have I mentioned you look fabulous tonight?”

“Are you hitting on me, Mr. Stark?”

“It's Tony, and so what if I am?”

What is coming out of his mouth? Apparently he has no filter now. Might as well come out and say it.

“Your ass looks fucking fantastic in those jeans, by-the-way.”

Aaand he’s said it. It's done. Steve is the colour of an adorable beetroot. Everyone is staring. All conversation has stopped. Must've been loud.

Chatter eventually resumes. But some things are different. First of all, conversation is stilted and charged. There’s a buzz in the air, and it's not just the alcohol. Second, the rest of the party seems to be holding its breath.

Someone from the crowd yells; “Just kiss already!”

He realizes that they're standing under mistletoe (what a fucking cliché) and decides to throw all caution into the wind. Except Steve’s already done that.

They're kissing, really kissing. Lips and tongue and teeth mesh together and time stands still.

STEVE

Someone in the crowd (Natasha?) shouts out. And he doesn't think anymore.

TONY

Before Steve, love was a string of one night stands and extravagant gifts, empty promises and bottles of vodka. He knows better now. Because this, right here in Steve’s arms, is where he belongs.

STEVE

He wakes up beside Tony. It's… warm. And soft. And better than anything he dared to hope it would be. Slowly, reluctantly, he gets out of bed. If only to open the blinds for the view from the penthouse apartment.

Tony grumbles. “Why are the blinds open? Jarvis? Turn on a heater. It's fucking cold--”

He looks up.

“Oh. Come back.”

Once they're snuggled back together, Tony pipes up again.

“I'm going to have a hell of a time explaining this to Peter.”

Steve smiles. “I think he's already figured it out.

“Tony?”

“Mhmm.”

“I think I might be in love with you.”

“I know.”

END

Closing A/N: This is just to say that I know that Diana is DC. (She’s Wonder Woman for goodness’ sake. Geez.) But I love her so much... 

Deleted Scene:

“Yup. I'm adopted.” He rolls each syllable of the word around in his mouth like a pebble.

“But Daddy says don't worry about stuff like that when I have school!”

“That does sound like your dad.”

“Well duh! He said it

[themelaninmamifiles]

Don’t Unpack Your Baggage at Your Kids’ Feet

It’s been a bit since I’ve written my own “think pieces” on MMF, but last night into today I read something so ridiculous that I was left saying “what in the Smokey Robinson is this?!” First, let me begin by saying, I’m a huge fan of Very Smart Brothas. It’s a site that got absorbed into The Root family of websites. But I always like them because they’re equal parts intriguing and shady—and I’m always here for a bit of shade. While I’m not a super fan who goes to their site daily to check out new content, if one of their article posts manages to fight the FB algorithm and win, I usually click through and read it. And if you’re not familiar with VSB or The Root, they’re both black-centric sites/platforms that looks at everything through the lens of blackness. And in the case of VSB, it’s usually taken from an angle of an enlightened black man.

Late last night I was scrolling through FB before bed (a bad habit which I don’t have any plans on changing) and saw a post from VSB written by a guy in an interracial relationship with biracial children. The title was How Raising Multiethnic Kids Reshaped My Blackness. I was intrigued because I’m also a black parent raising a multiethnic child. I wanted to see what he had to say and clicked the link. But the very first sentence was a hot ass mess, and it went downhill from there. The article basically rolls through the psyche of a man who married out to a SE Asian Indian woman and now has to grapple with the idea of raising biracial and multicultural children and how best to expose them to their culture. On its face, this would be a good article, but it wasn’t. 

So I made a hot takes post on my personal FB feed, but I woke up still thinking about that ridiculous article, and decided to rebuttal...a tad savagely. As background if you aren’t familiar with MMF or its previous iteration, TM2B, I am a black woman raising a multicultural child who is half black and half Puerto Rican. So, I feel I can effectively talk about this article and everything I think it got wrong.

1. The first sentences makes being black sound like a life sentence.

My wife is not black.

Our daughters, by no choice of their own, are.

Quite frankly the entire tone of the article continued on in this fashion. But coupled with the picture he posted at the start of his two adorable daughters, it felt more like he was let down that his children didn’t come out super light and ambiguous. I’m not going to go so far as saying he fetishized light skinned children like a lot of people in general do, but he emphasized a bit too frequently how his daughters would be instantly identified as black rather than having people ask them “what are you” their whole life. So, as a result, the whole article reeked of “sigh...I guess they’ll be black then”.

There’s nothing wrong with being dark, or identifiably black or whatever culture you are. And this is the flip side of interracial/interethnic relationships that lead to children. The man’s wife is Indian, so even if she is light skinned, there’s a lot of genetic variation in India. I’ve been to the country (had a fab time!) and can tell you, I saw more people my shade and darker than super light. If you take Bollywood movies at face value for what Indians look like, you’re going to be disappointed. So, anytime two people from two largely varied gene pools hook up, you have no idea what skin color your child is going to have. The same thing happened with Tay Tay. Is she significantly lighter than me? Yes, however, she was born paler than my husband and now she’s his shade and there’s always the possibility she could still get darker.

2. This man mentions his wife’s ethnicity in a cringe worthy manner

Let me backtrack for a sec. While my wife isn’t black, she’s also very much not white. She’s Indian (see: Tandoori, not Thanksgiving), and she’s Canadian.

Sir...just no. Tandoori is not a way to describe people. It’s an oven and a way to cook food. Thanksgiving is hardly a positive thing to mention to Native Americans because, well, see history. I’m not sure if he was trying to be sarcastic or pithy here, but it fell flat and I wasn’t alone. People in the comments on the article page and on VSB’s FB post also called him out for it.

Also, let’s not pretend Canada doesn’t have an issue with minorities or even their own First Nations...that’s being intellectually dishonest. Are they more evolved on the whole than the U.S.? For sure...but I’ve heard plenty of stories from Black Canadians.

3. Black people are not a monolith

This was probably the most irritating part of this awkward article. I hate when people of other cultures try to pigeon hole us but it’s 10x worse when it’s coming from within. We’re not a monolith, we’re not the Borg. We don’t all have the same interests, thoughts, feelings and responses to things. If Joe in California stubs his toe, we don’t all suddenly feel a tingle telling us that Joe is injured. There’s no one defining way to be black. The narrator (a black man) had such a narrow and depressing view of what “blackness” was that if I wasn’t a black person and read that, I’d think being black was probably the worst thing that could happen to someone. According to him black people don’t:

Wear flip-flops

Listen to anything except hip-hop, R&B or soul/neo-soul music

Don’t play acoustic guitar (but like really? How would you come to this conclusion with all the black musicians who—wait for it—play the ACOUSTIC guitar?!)

Don’t go camping (I don’t go camping, however I’ve been hiking and in general do like outdoorsy things)

And apparently if we do the above, we might get our black card revoked. Meanwhile according to the author, all we do is play spades, watch Soul Train, fry up balogne on the weekends and speak solely in AAVE.

I haven’t seriously watched Soul Train since I was in high school. I don’t eat balogne because it’s literally scraps from meat processing plants pressed together into a mystery meat. I play a passable hand of spades but it’s not the first thing I run to at the cookout. And I DO NOT speak in “traditional” AAVE except for the occasional “guuurlll” or “chillllee”. However, I wear flip-flops religiously in the summer, and I live for K-Pop (BTS Army!).

4. I’m confused by what this man expected from “marrying out” but not marrying white.

In the article, he mentions how he married out, but his wife isn’t white she’s Indian. Okay. But his awkward explanation makes it seem like he thought that because he didn’t marry a white person, there wouldn’t be growing pains, disconnects or times where you won’t see eye to eye. What?!

Look, I’m 36 years old, and I’ve spent over a third of my life in an intercultural relationship with the same Puerto Rican man. Yes there are a lot of similarities between us and how we grew up, but there’s a lot that wasn’t the same. And culturally, we’re very different, even if we have shared pop cultural things like Hip-Hop, the Commodore 64 and Disney World. Heck, the hubs is probably closer to Hip-Hop than me because his dad was and is part of the rise of Hip-Hop and DJs as we know it in the Bronx in the ‘70s and ‘80s whereas I just consumed it in passing.

Even two black people from opposite parts of the country like the North and the South would have cultural differences. You could marry the boy down the street and still have cultural disconnects because...#3 WE’RE NOT A MONOLITH.

5. Why are you trying to force your kids to choose “your side” at the expense of your wife’s “side”?

I’m the first to admit that raising multicultural children can be challenging. But making the choice for them and treating them as only black or only Indian is a major disservice. They’re not just one thing. I get it, visually his children are black, but that doesn’t mean that you can legitimately deny their Indian side or downplay it—especially if mom is in the picture.

Right now, my daughter looks more identifiably Latina than anything else, right down to her hair. Although everyone says she has the hubs’ hair and skin and my face so... But the point is, she is Afro-latina. So, she’s going to learn about everything. And the choice of whether she more identifies with being Puerto Rican or black is one that she needs to make. My husband and I can’t force that on her. It’s her identity, not ours.

6. It’s clear you’re still grappling with blackness, don’t lay that at your kids’ feet

This was honestly the biggest takeaway I got from this article. He wasn’t sure how to define blackness for himself, and as a result, he’s trying to shape it in an odd way for his children. And maybe he really does feel like being black is the shit. But the way he caricatured blackness through the scope of this article was piss poor. Whether he’s feeling some type of way because he married out or because he feels his children are (unfairly?) labeled as black are things he needs to work out on his own time and not put those stigmas on his daughters.

Photo by Sai De Silva on Unsplash

[alexandrite-dragoness]

YGO 5D’s: Birds of A Feather - Chapter 4

He couldn’t forget about that night. No, no matter how hard he tries he just can’t forget about the incident that night. It really pisses him off. A knock was heard from his front door, and he walks over to open it, seeing it was Jack and Yusei. “Hey guys. What are you doing here?” “Well, we thought we could cheer you up.” Yusei brought his son over as well, holding a gift in his hands and hold it up to him. “For you Crow.” “Awww you shouldn’t have. Thank you Odin.” He smiled and kindly accepted the gift, opening it up as it looks like it’s a bird nest coo-coo clock. “R-Really, you shouldn’t have.” “Odin put a lot of thought into it. He actually made it himself.” “Wait, really!?” Yusei chuckles, seeing that Crow was taking it seriously. “Well with some help of course.” “I hope you wike it!” Odin smiled up at him, hoping he does like the gift. “Like it?...” Crow took a closer look at the clock, then looks back at the boy. “I love it!” “What am I here for?” Jack just had to interrupt the moment. “Because he’s your friend, and when a friend is down you should come to comfort him.” “Hmph,” He snorts. “He only got beaten by a little girl he should be shamed more than being comfort.” “Not just anyone Jack. She was known to outrun Sector Security. That’s no ‘little girl��.” “Guys! I know you’re trying to help me and all, but you don’t need to come and check on me. I’m fine. Really.” “Good! I’m off!” Jack just heads out the door, not even bothering to think twice. Crow’s phone starts ringing, and so he picks it up. “Crow speaking.” “Hey Crow,” It was one of the Sector Security officers. “You know that lady you caught a couple of nights ago?” Crow listens carefully. “Yeah?” “Well, we locate her. However if we try to catch her she’ll slip through our wall again.” “What does this have to do with me?” Crow just cocked an eyebrow, showing a puzzled look. “I’m sure you’re at home, right? She’s literally nearby your place. So if possible you can come in with a sneak attack.” “Oh… okay--?” Crow ponders on the idea. “So, can you do it?” “Well, sure but--” “Great! I’m sure you’ll get her this time Crow! See ya real soon!” And just like that the officer hung up. Crow just put his phone and thinks it over. “Something wrong Crow?” Yusei snaps Crow out of his thoughts. Crow just goes to get his helmet, and walks to the front door. “They found the girl, and want me to go get her since I’m the closest at the moment.” “Well why don’t they just go get her instead of depending on you. Something tells me that they’re too lazy to do anything.” Jack assumes. “Well I’m going to get her anyway,” The ginger-haired man puts his helmet on as he got to his Blackbird. “Besides, I would like a retry anyway.” Yonah is sitting against a mossy wall of an old building, taking a smoke break while looking over her shoulders. It became a habit since she was first seen by the public after a long time hiding in the shadows. She tends to freak out on any little movement she sees, and gets up to put up a fight. Most of the time it was nothing to be afraid of. She gets a little too paranoid when on the run, but she shouldn’t be blamed for it. She looks up at the sky, groups of pigeons standing on a wire, looking at all directions. “Daddy daddy, the birds are attacking me!” A flashback came showing little Yonah with a horde of pigeons all on top of her, taking pieces of her bread bit by bit. A middle-aged man sitting next to her just laughed and walked over to shoo the pigeons away. “There’s nothing to fear Yonah. They just wanted your bread. That’s why they’re standing all around you. Look.” He points at one area where the pigeons are cautiously taking steps towards her, hoping to get some food from the girl. “Oh…. should I?” She asked, moving away from the pigeon to her foster father. “You can if you want.” She pulled a piece off from the bread and threw it far away, the horde of pigeons goes towards the piece all together, fighting over the bit. “Haha, they’re funny.” “Sure they may be quite odd.” Yonah looks up at the man as he spoke. “But unlike a lot of people I find them very astonishing. So beautiful… like you!” He elbowed her gently. “Eww, dad! They’re gross! They just eat food off the ground.” Yonah whined. “Well that’s what they do. Without them the world would be a real mess. Besides being harsh to the poor things, you should thank them for their help.” Yonah takes it into thought, and looks over at the birds. “Found ya!” Yonah snapped into reality as she heard a voice from the end of the building, a man on his D-Wheel looking at her. He gets off his D-Wheel and walks over to her. She gets up in a cautious manner. Crow stops walking and takes off his helmet. “Now,” Crow places his helmet down, showing no trouble. “We can do this the nice, easy way. I’ll just escort you to the station. No harm--” Just in moment’s time she breaks into a run, leaving Crow incomplete with his sentence. He just sighs and facepalm. “...Or the hard way. That works too.” He starts running after her. As Yonah goes to make zigzag directions on paths between buildings, Crow goes to make shortcuts to get around and in front of her path. By the time that happens the girl cuts to a sharp corner, hoping to shake him off. As it felt like she was running forever, she stopped and turned around. No sign of the man, she sighed in victory. “Who’s the slowpoke now?” She grinned to herself, but just as she turned to the other direction, Crow was standing right in front of her, face to face. “I guess that makes you ‘the slowpoke’.” The other officers were able to come on time and arrest her, taking her to the the police car. “I have to say that was pretty quick.” The officer who called him earlier walked up him, patting him on the shoulder. “Even for someone who was on break.” “It’s fine, just here to do the right thing.” He looks at a far distance as the woman gets her head pushed under the car hood through the door. He had suddenly a different feeling just then. “Welp, thanks Crow. No wonder why you’re called the Bullet.” The officer then heads back to the others, calling it off for the day and getting ready to leave their location. Crow however hasn’t moved yet. He tries thinking back at the time he first encountered the criminal, and then to now when he just caught her. “What is with this woman? Trying to run away and yet not even defending herself…” He goes back home where Yusei and Jack still are, parking his D-Wheel in the garage. The two walked down the stairs, hearing him coming back. “So… did you find her?” Jack asks. Crow nods. “Yeah…” Jack continues asking. “And you caught her?” “Uh-huh,” Crow nods again, and this time not really saying a word. “Ha! I knew you could do it!” Jack finishes walking down the stairs and goes up to Crow with a grin on his face. “I bet she wasn’t even much of a challenge this time.” “That may be true…” Crow answered. “But… something doesn’t seem right with her…” “What do you mean?” Jack became puzzled. “So was she too easy? Maybe she wanted to get caught this time.” He shrugged. “I mean, she was probably drained from her previous flights. You know, weak and all.” Crow still ponders on the incident. “But still, she didn’t fight back like she did the last time I caught her. She looked more troubled than before.” “You’re thinking too hard on this!” Jack felt annoyed by his thoughts. “Look, she’s a criminal. You caught the criminal. Done. She’s now going to be in jail where she should be.” “Sure… sure.” Crow is mentally distracted, showing Yusei something’s wrong. “I’m sure it’s alright Crow.” Yusei looks over to his friend. “For now you should be more concerned on that donut thief that’s still on the loose.” The three just laughed. “Yeah, you’re right.” Crow smiled, and stretches. “Well, are you guys staying for dinner or something? It’s getting late and all.” Yusei puts his jacket on. “I don’t know about Jack but I’m going back home for sure. I told Aki that I’ll be back before dinner.” “Well I don’t mind staying--” Jack acknowledges to stay with Crow, just then he looks at the text from his phone he received from Carly. Seeing the expression in his face, Jack seems disappointed. “...Nevermind. I gotta get home.” “Alright. See ya!” Crow walks up to his garage door as Yusei and Jack gets on their D-Wheel to go home. They may be right. He’s probably thinking too hard. And so he forgets about his troubles and gets ready for his dinner for the day, and making sure he gets ready to go to work tomorrow.

Want to find the other chapters? Go find my tag #Yugioh 5D’s Fanfiction and you’ll be able to find the rest!

[ethelbertpaul444-blog]

5 Stupid Things We Need To Stop Clicking On

We “re living” the final choke of the Information Age. Experts estimate that 62 percent of all the points we now receive is purposely mistaken, and that includes the percentage and professionals I made up at the start of this sentence. The sad fact is, the majority of members of you are able to never have the critical envisage or research abilities to know what’s real, and that will simply manufacture you more absolutely convinced the erroneous situations your stupid ass belief. The good story is that this article isn’t about that shit. The imitation information fighting is over, and stupid won. No, this article is about the dumb things we all keep falling for — even you, the genius who chose the right political area and religion. 5 Pointlessly Insane Product Are Not That At All Last year, Tiffany& Co. started selling the Sterling Silver Tin Can, an empty can that costs $1,000. You’ll notice that this is far more than you’d naturally pay for soupless garbage. To be clear, this wasn’t some tin can that once impounded Prince’s final dark-green nuts. It’s simply a can. As an imaginative word, it was 50 years stale, and as a money-making strategy, it was somewhere between a portable diarrhea carton and that same product without a eyelid. It’s the kind of sentiment that they are able to offset the other Saved By The Bell novelists tell, “Look, if you’re not ready to come back to effort, make more time off to deal with the death of your son.” The item I’m building is that it’s hard-boiled not to comment on Tiffany’s silly can, and that’s more appealing to Tiffany& Co. than where reference is comment on how the ones who quarried their concoctions all lived of slavery. “Darling, I was part of many someones transcending penetration to convert a utilitarian men’s room into an installment of signature Tiffany oeuvre.” — this Tiffany copywriter justifying to his wife why “theres” seven colourings of pubic hair in his underpants Read Next 8 Baffling Poop-Themed Toys Kids Are Lining Up To Buy And it’s is not simply tin cans and Wu-Tang recordings that are marketed in intentionally strange modes. Food advertisers have figured out that they can get more attention by being ridiculous than by being delicious. Retain when KFC employed fried chicken as sandwich food in the Double Down? Or when Chick-Fil-A announced that their fried chicken detested lesbian people with the Cajun Titty Jiggler? We all made amusing of them, but they perfectly did not care. These are people souring pigeon meat and “deported” foreign nationals into nugget figures. They’ll take any press they can get. We need to stop doing this. It’s very possible the only conversation any of us had or will ever have about Dr. Pepper started when they liberated a special copy of their soda for men exclusively . We all went on Twitter to add stuffs like, “Forbidding females from savor Dr. Pepper Ten will only retard the disclosure that it’s made from semen , not stop it completely.” We asked questions like, “Why would you make a soda for men exclusively? Are you trying to find the perfect drink to pair with losing custody of your adolescents? ” Or maybe you are only pondered, “Dr. Pepper Ten sounds like the refreshing discus you contact for when defending an alleged rapist you haven’t met.” SORRY LADIES, OUR CREATIVE DIRECTOR IS STILL DEALING WITH SOME CHILDHOOD TRAUMA INVOLVING PENISES . b> Products should conclude the customer happy , not be so intentionally foolish that the customer hears about them during a Jimmy Kimmel monologue. You shouldn’t spawn every tenth new Oreo out of cat suppository in the hopeles said he hoped that cookie influencers tweet about it. And pizza, you peculiarly need to get your shit together. In 2012, a Pizza Hut employee happened upon the relevant recommendations of a hot-dog-stuffed crust, relatively by coincidence, when his administrator caught him fucking a pizza and asked written explanations. This distinguished the last experience there would ever has become a non-insane pizza ability. Today, pizza marketing is a series of deranged inventions, like a serial killer’s pilgrimage toward becoming the Minotaur. For speciman, Pizza Hut created “smart” shoes that situate an degree for you. Aside from get the elderly to wonder what they’re going to come up with next, what the fuck good do pizza shoes do anyone? If you have a use for dictating Pizza Hut via shoe, your foot is going to fall off from diabetes long before you get to make love a second time. essay > And did you know that Domino’s devoted millions of dollars promoting something called “carryout insurance? ” It’s what it sounds like — a monetary guarantee that when your haphazard ass puts a pizza, they give you another one. Aside from getting us to mention how foolish that is, what’s the pitch? Was there a community of overweight idiots devouring pizza off the foot and involving their representatives do something? Let’s say it’s only to place your subconsciou at ease. Let’s profess you’re “ve been thinking about” prescribing Domino’s, but decide against it because you’re always stopping pizza. Will this convince you? Of track not. You’re not even here. You were taken in the night by mad scientists, and now you’re a bulge of brain material named “HISTORY’S SADDEST FUCK.” “CARRYOUT INSURANCE !? Hey, boss? Yeah, I just perceived a loophole that gives me boundless flooring pizza. So what I’m saying is you can kiss my ass . i> “ div > 4 All Things “Of The Year” Are Arbitrary Decisions Made By Small Teams Of Random Assholes We are living in the darkest of goes. Our current sexiest guy alive looks like a rectangle who acquires its living hustling milk-drinking contests. “I’m digesting four gallons of Half& Half. Hi, I’m Blake Shelton, your sexiest mortal alive.” When People store announced hoedown music standout Blake Shelton as the sexiest humankind alive while Casper Van Dien was still not dead, it stumbled like a bomb. Every Gab report and Safeway express lane had a hot take on it. It wasn’t simply controversial; it was a direct challenge to what vaginal lubrication even wanted. What will it do to society if passably handsome NASCAR dads are the brand-new standard of seductive? Do we need to stop doing sit-ups? Will there be enough denim? What will Casper Van Dien do with this boner? div > You know what we should have been doing that whole season? Not establishing a shit about how handsome Blake Shelton is. Don’t get me wrong, Blake Shelton is alright. His condoms maybe don’t expire, and if he was arrested for sodomizing a dairy moo-cow, you’d anticipate “Him? ” But let’s not play games. He’s not the sexiest male alive. At best, he’s “Oklahoma’s Hottest Mostly Ham DNA.” But we should remember that this isn’t some enormous honor decided by appraising the gonad stimulation of test subjects. “Sexiest Man Alive” is picked by four or five journalists desperately trying to hang onto print media chores, and every now and then one of them is smart enough to say, “What if we trolled everyone? ” With all respect to Blake Shelton’s fuckability, if you died trying to learn a prosthetic forearm how to give a handjob, the People organization would write your figure up on the “Sexiest Man Alive MAYBES” board. It’s important is maintaining mind how insignificant these entitlements are before we get outraged. Before Donald Trump, Time opened its 2006 “Person of the Year” title to You, as in the second-person pronoun. And in 1938 they gave it to Hitler, the Donald Trump of 1938. These are meaningless choices meant to engender awful conversations between uninteresting people. Did you think LaTonya from Fayetteville was chosen as Jet ‘s “Beauty of the Week” because of her prevailing tits and smile? Wake up. It’s because her front tattoo announces “Abortion is Bae.” Please, all of us, we have to stop get outsmarted by the Jet magazines of the world. 3 It’s Not An Contest When Fictional Characters Die In 1992, DC Comics killed Superman — an indestructible ventriloquist with laser noses, frost wheeze, and chronosphere-bending flight speed — with a rock ogre who was pretty good at punching. Despite it being the third occasion he had died, the country is entered into mourning and the tale was picked up by the actual bulletin. Which was weird, because if the media wanted to cover upsetting Superman fibs, where were they when his girlfriend get turned into a pony and fucked his mare? I think about this every day. Every day. div > Why are we so preoccupied with fictional deaths? Most of the time, they’re not even real in the make-believe macrocosm in which they happen. Captain America and Batman vanish around 20 epoches a year, each in different combinations of fake-outs, resurgences, and universe reboots. If a dead guy’s best friends own a meter machine and the Eye of Agamotto, you can probably hold back on making funeral proposals. And if your favorite person dies on The Walking Dead , perhaps don’t debris an hour watching Chris Hardwick cry until you accompany the body. It should help you relax knowing that most fictional fatalities are exclusively abusive escapades, but the “real” ones are about as meaningless. I mean, you knew there wasn’t going to be any more Firefly . This death cost us maybe two wisecracks. div > Remember when Han Solo expired? He was a 73 -year-old laser gun fighter scheduled to get his own movie in three years. His death was both long overdue and altogether inconsequential to the amount of Han Solo you will continue to see on your TV. His father-in-law, Darth Vader, was on screen for about 36 minutes before he died in 1983, and since his death, there have been more Anakin Skywalker narratives than anyone could ever require. Anakin Skywalker is the Nicolas Cage of outer space. He stopped making good movies three decades ago, more he’s still everywhere and radiating inexplicable planetary energy. If George R. R. Martin gone on TV to announce that a comet smacked Westeros between works and everyone in A Song Of Ice And Fire is lead, how is that different from “the worlds” you’re living in now? The chap have undoubtedly wanted to focus more on snacks for about four works. You know what’s sadder than identifying Ned Stark get his head chopped off? Watching some fragile-hearted slobs go across the various stages of sorrow in a YouTube video afterwards. Mothers, if your child is filming themselves weep over a make-believe death, that’s a bigger default than if your child is filming themselves pee into a tube sock for Patreon advocates. I symbolize, you can do whatever you demand, but when you cry over forgery people whom you can still hear every day for as long as you miss, you’re exclusively sending a message to the people around you that you’re a drastic piece of shit. But I know something that will ovation you up! 2 Being Special Is Free That’s right, I said it. You’re welcome. It’s pretty easy to sell someone nothing more than the notion that they’re special or important for actual money. For illustration, somewhere right now, a Todd is looking through a rack of keychains to see if they have one with his reputation on it. “I hope they have a Todd, ” he might announce as he thumbs through dusty debris. “They do! And it’s spelled right ! b> ” So Todd will buy it, a cute remember of the worst collected in the least interesting part of a town he formerly called, and it will never occur to him that an Indonesian plant gambled and won that a completely shitty Todd would one day pay money to prompt himself of his own name. This next part is way off-topic, but not even the Indonesians could have foreseen that this keychain would one day be used to frame Todd … … for Toddslaughter. div > Back to the point I was trying to utters: We are all prone to this idiocy. Coke had its first marketings increase in more than a decade when it introduced the idea of adding the customers’ stupid fucking lists to their cans and bottles. And the internet has been recurred by ego-stroking personality quizs and IQ tests since before we used it to pay girlfriends peeing into tube socks. We are so desperate to be told we’re special that we will expel all disbelief and critical consider to hear it. You should know that answering a few simple-minded personality interrogations does not determine you the coolest ninja turtle, and you shouldn’t trust the scores of an Iq test that you watched yourself cheat on which likewise advertises free Slavic women and four new pounds of dick girth. One of my favorite a few examples of this, and favorite things in general, is an online community announced Intertel — “An International Society of the Intellectually Gifted.” It’s very difficult to get in. You can only affiliate if you tally in the top one percent of any self-administered intelligence test and mail in a $10 lotion reward. You may have considered that this in fact checks to see whether you’re stupid enough to forward in a test with a 98 percent composition or less and nothing else. If you get accepted, you then compensate a $39 annual reward to be a part of a genius squad for people who are very specifically not. What do you get? I’m so glad you asked. For the annual reward, you get inexhaustible pity and the human rights of berth a photo and bio about your singularly unsophisticated soul. It has created an avalanche of unearned narcissism that looks like a late ‘9 0s Casper Van Dien supporter page whose webmaster travelled mysteriously missing. Image courtesy of the property of the Casper Van Dien Fan Page& Genius Community webmaster. div > OK , no, but seriously, this next epitome is a real screenshot from the Inertel( An International Society of the Intellectually Gifted) website. This is a real person who really thinks he’s in the 1 percent of intellectual nobilities, and this is his real profile. I didn’t doctor this. This is what an actual genius named BigJim3 69 remunerations $39 a year to expose. Fucking! This macrocosm is spell and you get to live in it! div > Another business that employs your adoration of yourself on a big, sprawling magnitude is the pop-up museum manufacture. The reputation implies that there are things to do or learn inside them, but they’re more like oversized photo booths than artistry halls. For speciman, if you take a junket to the zany, world-famous Museum of Ice Cream, you will memorize zero to one things about ice cream and feed ice cream worth $45 less than the entering ticket. What you will do is wait in line to make photos of yourself next to what you’d describe in any other situation as “nothing of interest.” So to be clear, we are so self-obsessed that it’s now an efficient business model to charge us money to make pictures of ourselves so we can promote you online. You didn’t fool ME, Museum of Ice Cream. But my family loved it. Five stars. div > 1 Stop Attaining It Seem Like There Are Nazis OK, so the world has just fairly stupid prejudiceds to elect Donald Trump chairman, but not all of those voters were full white supremacists. Some of them were simply extremely theological to know when someone is lying or too old to change their memory about politics. And yes, a troubling number of them were Nazis. But in a lot of ways, most things are fine and the world isn’t as unpleasant as you think. You’re welcome again. div > Impossibly shitty parties, like the Trump supporters who made that Garfield mug privately, looks a lot like they’re everywhere. A pile of that is our omission — the good beings making fun of them. They use us to amplify their articulates, like Han Solo( R.I.P .) reassuring a hallway of Stormtroopers that he’s acces more people than he actually is. Every few minutes, a website publishes a variant on the article “These Miserable Fucks Said Something Racist About A Thing And Got Annihilated By Twitter.” They’re fun and vaguely heroic, but if you read more than one, you’ll start to see that they all share the same content. It’s the same three or four prejudiced tweets quoted in each article, tweeted by the same three or four prejudiceds who “attacked” the Star Wars with the Asian girl and “staged boycotts” of the all-lady Ghostbusters . We need to stop treating these three or four beings like they’re a threat to anything other than skewing PornHub’s algorithm to favor mother-son incest. BREAKING NEWS: Regional high school’s least-likable puncture still manufacturing quite a sight out his irrelevant awfulness. div > Here’s a comforting information: A analyse of Reddit found that 1 percent of communities were responsible for 74 percent of all conflict. We are taking the intentionally insensitive notes of a Kia’s worth of debate club hobbyists and feigning they’re a tidal wave of detest “were supposed to” stand together against. The “alt-right” movement is 30 sons more cranky to year and too slow to hear Dungeons& Dragons . Their adherents are a lethal group of gamers who will disappear once they sour 17, and their media channel is a cable network whose entire audience will be dead in two more flu seasons. All these people want is for the other side to get upset, so if we stop writing thinkpieces about the rise of dapper grey patriotism and focus more on how liberals hate suicide religions, we can be rid of them almost immediately. BREAKING NEWS: C-word who are tweets C-wordy antisemitic concepts DOES! div > Ann Coulter is a good example. She’s the skeletal are still in relic antipathy, and she has about as much cultural affect as Corey Feldman’s band, Oral Thrush and the Yeast 2000 s. Has she ever done anything other than hiss bad acts at impatient Tv identities or suppose that clinical antisemitism is antisemitic slapstick? She only seems like she is a thing because 10,000 of us dunk on the bitch each time she condemns her oral thrush on the Jews. Without all of us excusing to one another how mistaken she is, Coulter would just be straying through Home Depot to see if there are any lily-white works she can ask about the lavatory refuge rails. And soon she would be spawning spider eggs in her lip while her parakeet watched their own bodies rot. “Rawk! The Jews are at it again! ” it would recite to her undiscovered body. “The Jews are at it again! “ We all seem to get how foolish it is when the story answers “teens” are doing a comically apeshit circumstance like human centipede gatherings or detergent eating. Why can’t we use those same beings psyches to figure out how one Nazi nerd looking for attention isn’t “the Right”? I know it’s tough to stand trolls, but Kim Kardashian owning all the world’s money should have taught you that there is virtue in shutting the fuck up about some things. We need to stay strong not in the battle against the “alt-right, ” but in the battle to ignore them. The next time you verify another tower about how maids won’t time republican people, leave it alone. Let those dickless Nazis prevent writing versions of that section into the empty vacancy until they discover evil campaigns brides to dry up. And the next time someone on your Facebook thread attacks their Second Amendment liberties after local schools shooting, don’t confirm their child assassination fandom with tending. Move your cursor to the left and click on their mother’s chart. Pose as Blake Shelton, acquire her moist rely, and calmly destroy that child-murderer’s family. Every one of us can shut up and make a difference. Seanbaby devised being funny on the Internet. You can follow him on Twitter, or frisk his hit mobile competition Calculords . b> Did you realise Casper van Dien was in a Tarzan movie in the 90 s ? i > b> Support Cracked’s journalism with a tour to our Contribution Page. Please and thank you . i > b> For more, check out 5 Deeply Embarrassing Thing The News Keeps Doing and 6 Time The News Went Totally Overboard Chasing A Story . i > b> You should click on this join and follow us on Facebook . i > b> Read more: http :// www.cracked.com/ blog/ 5-stupid-things-we-need-to-stop-clicking-on / http://dailybuzznetwork.com/index.php/2018/06/30/5-stupid-things-we-need-to-stop-clicking-on/

[trendingnewsb]

5 Stupid Things We Need To Stop Clicking On

We are living through the final gasps of the Information Age. Experts estimate that 62 percent of all information we now receive is deliberately false, and that includes the percentage and experts I made up at the start of this sentence. The sad truth is, most of you will never have the critical thinking or research skills to know what’s real, and that will only make you more sure about the wrong things your stupid ass believes. The good news is that this article isn’t about that shit. The fake news fight is over, and stupid won. No, this article is about the dumb things we all keep falling for — even you, the genius who chose the right political side and religion.

5

Pointlessly Insane Products Are Not That At All

Last year, Tiffany & Co. started selling the Sterling Silver Tin Can, an empty can that costs $1,000. You’ll notice that this is far more than you’d normally pay for soupless garbage. To be clear, this wasn’t some tin can that once held Prince’s final green beans. It’s only a can. As an artistic statement, it was 50 years stale, and as a money-making scheme, it was somewhere between a portable diarrhea box and that same product without a lid. It’s the kind of idea that would make the other Saved By The Bell writers say, “Look, if you’re not ready to come back to work, take more time off to deal with the death of your son.” The point I’m making is that it’s hard not to comment on Tiffany’s silly can, and that’s more appealing to Tiffany & Co. than when we comment on how the people who mined their products all died of slavery.

“Darling, I was part of many souls transcending penetration to transform a utilitarian men’s room into an installment of signature Tiffany oeuvre.” — this Tiffany copywriter explaining to his wife why there are seven colors of pubic hair in his underpants

Read Next

8 Baffling Poop-Themed Toys Kids Are Lining Up To Buy

And it’s not only tin cans and Wu-Tang albums that are marketed in intentionally strange ways. Food advertisers have figured out that they can get more attention by being ridiculous than by being delicious. Remember when KFC used fried chicken as sandwich bread in the Double Down? Or when Chick-Fil-A announced that their fried chicken hated gay people with the Cajun Titty Jiggler? We all made fun of them, but they absolutely did not care. These are people turning pigeon meat and “deported” foreign nationals into nugget shapes. They’ll take any press they can get.

We need to stop doing this. It’s very possible the only conversation any of us had or will ever have about Dr. Pepper came when they released a special version of their soda for men only. We all went on Twitter to say things like, “Forbidding women from tasting Dr. Pepper Ten will only delay the discovery that it’s made from semen, not stop it completely.” We asked questions like, “Why would you make a soda for men only? Are you trying to find the perfect drink to pair with losing custody of your kids?” Or maybe you simply speculated, “Dr. Pepper Ten sounds like the refreshing treat you reach for when defending an accused rapist you haven’t met.”

SORRY LADIES, OUR CREATIVE DIRECTOR IS STILL DEALING WITH SOME CHILDHOOD TRAUMA INVOLVING PENISES.

Products should make the customer happy, not be so deliberately dumb that the customer hears about them during a Jimmy Kimmel monologue. You shouldn’t make every tenth new Oreo out of cat suppository in the desperate hope that cookie influencers tweet about it. And pizza, you especially need to get your shit together.

In 2012, a Pizza Hut employee happened upon the idea of a hot-dog-stuffed crust, quite by accident, when his manager caught him fucking a pizza and demanded an explanation. This marked the last time there would ever be a non-insane pizza invention. Today, pizza marketing is a series of deranged innovations, like a serial killer’s journey toward becoming the Minotaur. For instance, Pizza Hut created “smart” shoes that place an order for you. Aside from getting the elderly to wonder what they’re going to come up with next, what the fuck good do pizza shoes do anyone? If you have a use for ordering Pizza Hut via shoe, your foot is going to fall off from diabetes long before you get to do it a second time.

And did you know that Domino’s spent millions of dollars promoting something called “carryout insurance?” It’s what it sounds like — a financial guarantee that when your sloppy ass drops a pizza, they give you another one. Aside from getting us to mention how dumb that is, what’s the point? Was there a community of fat idiots eating pizza off the ground and demanding their representatives do something? Let’s say it’s just to set your mind at ease. Let’s pretend you’re thinking about ordering Domino’s, but decide against it because you’re always dropping pizza. Will this convince you? Of course not. You’re not even here. You were taken in the night by mad scientists, and now you’re a lump of brain tissue labelled “HISTORY’S SADDEST FUCK.”

“CARRYOUT INSURANCE!? Hey, boss? Yeah, I just found a loophole that gives me unlimited floor pizza. So what I’m saying is you can kiss my ass.“

4

All Things “Of The Year” Are Arbitrary Decisions Made By Small Teams Of Random Assholes

We are living in the darkest of times. Our current sexiest man alive looks like a rectangle who makes its living hustling milk-drinking contests.

“I’m digesting four gallons of Half & Half. Hi, I’m Blake Shelton, your sexiest man alive.”

When People magazine announced hoedown music standout Blake Shelton as the sexiest man alive while Casper Van Dien was still not dead, it hit like a bomb. Every Twitter account and Safeway express lane had a hot take on it. It wasn’t merely controversial; it was a direct challenge to what vaginal lubrication even meant. What will it do to society if passably handsome NASCAR dads are the new standard of sexy? Do we need to stop doing sit-ups? Will there be enough denim?

What will Casper Van Dien do with this boner?

You know what we should have been doing that whole time? Not giving a shit about how handsome Blake Shelton is. Don’t get me wrong, Blake Shelton is alright. His condoms probably don’t expire, and if he was arrested for sodomizing a dairy cow, you’d think “Him?” But let’s not play games. He’s not the sexiest man alive. At best, he’s “Oklahoma’s Hottest Mostly Ham DNA.” But we should remember that this isn’t some great honor decided by measuring the gonad stimulation of test subjects. “Sexiest Man Alive” is picked by four or five editors desperately trying to hang onto print media jobs, and every now and then one of them is smart enough to say, “What if we trolled everyone?” With all respect to Blake Shelton’s fuckability, if you died trying to teach a prosthetic arm how to give a handjob, the People staff would write your name up on the “Sexiest Man Alive MAYBES” board.

It’s important to keep in mind how meaningless these titles are before we get outraged. Before Donald Trump, Time gave its 2006 “Person of the Year” title to You, as in the second-person pronoun. And in 1938 they gave it to Hitler, the Donald Trump of 1938. These are meaningless choices meant to inspire terrible conversations between uninteresting people. Did you think LaTonya from Fayetteville was chosen as Jet ‘s “Beauty of the Week” because of her winning tits and smile? Wake up. It’s because her face tattoo says “Abortion is Bae.” Please, all of us, we have to stop getting outsmarted by the Jet magazines of the world.

3

It’s Not An Event When Fictional Characters Die

In 1992, DC Comics killed Superman — an invincible ventriloquist with laser eyes, frost breath, and chronosphere-bending flight speed — with a rock monster who was pretty good at punching. Despite it being the third time he had died, the country went into mourning and the story was picked up by the actual news. Which was weird, because if the media wanted to cover upsetting Superman stories, where were they when his girlfriend got turned into a pony and fucked his horse?

I think about this every day. Every day.

Why are we so obsessed with fictional deaths? Most of the time, they’re not even real in the make-believe universe in which they happen. Captain America and Batman die around 20 times a year, each in different combinations of fake-outs, resurrections, and universe reboots. If a dead guy’s best friends own a time machine and the Eye of Agamotto, you can probably hold off on making funeral plans. And if your favorite character dies on The Walking Dead, maybe don’t waste an hour watching Chris Hardwick cry until you see the body.

It should help you relax knowing that most fictional deaths are only abusive pranks, but the “real” ones are about as meaningless.

I mean, you knew there wasn’t going to be any more Firefly. This death cost us maybe two wisecracks.

Remember when Han Solo died? He was a 73-year-old laser gun fighter scheduled to get his own movie in three years. His death was both long overdue and completely inconsequential to the amount of Han Solo you will continue to see on your TV. His father-in-law, Darth Vader, was on screen for about 36 minutes before he died in 1983, and since his death, there have been more Anakin Skywalker stories than anyone could ever want. Anakin Skywalker is the Nicolas Cage of outer space. He stopped making good movies three decades ago, yet he’s still everywhere and radiating inexplicable cosmic energy.

If George R. R. Martin went on TV to announce that a meteor hit Westeros between books and everyone in A Song Of Ice And Fire is gone, how is that different from the world you’re living in now? The guy has clearly wanted to focus more on snacks for about four books. You know what’s sadder than seeing Ned Stark get his head chopped off? Watching some fragile-hearted slob go through the stages of grief in a YouTube video afterwards. Parents, if your child is filming themselves weep over a make-believe death, that’s a bigger failure than if your child is filming themselves pee into a tube sock for Patreon supporters. I mean, you can do whatever you want, but when you cry over fake people whom you can still see every day for as long as you want, you’re only sending a message to the people around you that you’re a dramatic piece of shit. But I know something that will cheer you up!

2

Being Special Is Free

That’s right, I said it.

You’re welcome.

It’s pretty easy to sell someone nothing more than the idea that they’re special or important for actual money. For example, somewhere right now, a Todd is looking through a rack of keychains to see if they have one with his name on it. “I hope they have a Todd,” he might announce as he thumbs through dusty garbage. “They do! And it’s spelled right!” So Todd will buy it, a cute reminder of the worst store in the least interesting part of a city he once visited, and it will never occur to him that an Indonesian factory gambled and won that a completely shitty Todd would one day pay money to remind himself of his own name. This next part is way off-topic, but not even the Indonesians could have foreseen that this keychain would one day be used to frame Todd …

… for Toddslaughter.

Back to the point I was trying to make: We are all susceptible to this crap. Coke had its first sales increase in more than a decade when it introduced the idea of adding the customers’ stupid fucking names to their cans and bottles. And the internet has been haunted by ego-stroking personality quizzes and IQ tests since before we used it to pay girls peeing into tube socks. We are so desperate to be told we’re special that we will suspend all disbelief and critical thinking to hear it. You should know that answering a few simple personality questions does not make you the coolest ninja turtle, and you shouldn’t trust the scores of an IQ test that you watched yourself cheat on which also advertises free Slavic women and four new pounds of dick girth.

One of my favorite examples of this, and favorite things in general, is an online community called Intertel — “An International Society of the Intellectually Gifted.” It’s very difficult to get in. You can only join if you score in the top 1 percent of any self-administered intelligence test and mail in a $10 application fee. You may have considered that this in fact checks to see whether you’re stupid enough to mail in a test with a 98 percent score or less and nothing else. If you get accepted, you then pay a $39 annual fee to be a part of a genius club for people who are very specifically not. What do you get? I’m so glad you asked. For the annual fee, you get unlimited pity and the right to post a photo and bio about your unusually gullible self. It has created an avalanche of unearned ego that looks like a late ’90s Casper Van Dien fan page whose webmaster went mysteriously missing.

Image courtesy of the estate of the Casper Van Dien Fan Page & Genius Community webmaster.

OK, no, but seriously, this next image is a real screenshot from the Inertel (An International Society of the Intellectually Gifted) website. This is a real person who really thinks he’s in the 1 percent of intellectual elites, and this is his real profile.

I didn’t doctor this. This is what an actual genius named BigJim369 pays $39 a year to display. Fuck! This world is magic and you get to live in it!

Another business that exploits your love of yourself on a massive, sprawling scale is the pop-up museum industry. The name implies that there are things to do or learn inside them, but they’re more like oversized photo booths than art galleries. For instance, if you take a trip to the zany, world-famous Museum of Ice Cream, you will learn zero to one things about ice cream and eat ice cream worth $45 less than the entry ticket. What you will do is wait in line to take photos of yourself next to what you’d describe in any other context as “nothing of interest.” So to be clear, we are so self-obsessed that it’s now an effective business model to charge us money to take pictures of ourselves so we can promote you online.

You didn’t fool ME, Museum of Ice Cream. But my family loved it. Five stars.

1

Stop Making It Seem Like There Are Nazis

OK, so the world has enough idiot racists to elect Donald Trump president, but not all of those voters were full white supremacists. Some of them were simply too religious to know when someone is lying or too old to change their mind about politics. And yes, a troubling number of them were Nazis. But in a lot of ways, most things are fine and the world isn’t as awful as you think.

You’re welcome again.

Impossibly shitty people, like the Trump supporters who took that Garfield mug personally, seem like they’re everywhere. A lot of that is our fault — the decent people making fun of them. They use us to amplify their voices, like Han Solo (R.I.P.) convincing a hallway of Stormtroopers that he’s way more people than he actually is. Every few minutes, a website publishes a variation on the article “These Miserable Fucks Said Something Racist About A Thing And Got Annihilated By Twitter.” They’re fun and vaguely heroic, but if you read more than one, you’ll start to see that they all share the same content. It’s the same three or four racist tweets quoted in every article, tweeted by the same three or four racists who “attacked” the Star Wars with the Asian girl and “staged boycotts” of the all-lady Ghostbusters. We need to stop treating these three or four people like they’re a threat to anything other than skewing PornHub’s algorithm to favor mother-son incest.

BREAKING NEWS: Local high school’s least-likable prick still making quite a spectacle out his irrelevant awfulness.

Here’s a reassuring fact: A study of Reddit found that 1 percent of communities were responsible for 74 percent of all conflict. We are taking the intentionally ignorant comments of a Kia’s worth of debate club hobbyists and pretending they’re a tidal wave of hate we must stand together against. The “alt-right” movement is 30 boys too cranky to date and too slow to learn Dungeons & Dragons. Their supporters are a toxic group of gamers who will disappear once they turn 17, and their media outlet is a cable network whose entire audience will be dead in two more flu seasons. All these people want is for the other side to get upset, so if we stop writing thinkpieces about the rise of dapper white nationalism and focus more on how liberals hate suicide cults, we can be rid of them almost immediately.

BREAKING NEWS: C-word who only tweets C-wordy antisemitic things DOES!

Ann Coulter is a good example. She’s the skeletal remains of antique intolerance, and she has about as much cultural influence as Corey Feldman’s band, Oral Thrush and the Yeast 2000s. Has she ever done anything other than hiss wrong things at impatient TV personalities or pretend that clinical antisemitism is antisemitic comedy? She only seems like she is a thing because 10,000 of us dunk on the bitch every time she blames her oral thrush on the Jews. Without all of us explaining to each other how wrong she is, Coulter would just be wandering through Home Depot to see if there are any white employees she can ask about the toilet safety rails. And soon she would be hatching spider eggs in her mouth while her parakeet watched her body rot. “Rawk! The Jews are at it again!” it would repeat to her undiscovered corpse. “The Jews are at it again!”

We all seem to get how dumb it is when the news says “teens” are doing a comically apeshit thing like human centipede parties or detergent eating. Why can’t we use those same giant brains to figure out how one Nazi nerd looking for attention isn’t “the Right”? I know it’s tough to resist trolls, but Kim Kardashian owning all the world’s money should have taught you that there is virtue in shutting the fuck up about some things. We need to stay strong not in the battle against the “alt-right,” but in the battle to ignore them. The next time you see another column about how women won’t date conservative men, leave it alone. Let those dickless Nazis keep writing versions of that article into the empty void until they learn evil causes women to dry up. And the next time someone on your Facebook thread defends their Second Amendment rights after a school shooting, don’t validate their child murder fandom with attention. Move your cursor to the left and click on their mother’s profile. Pose as Blake Shelton, win her moist trust, and quietly destroy that child-murderer’s family. Every one of us can shut up and make a difference.

Seanbaby invented being funny on the Internet. You can follow him on Twitter, or play his hit mobile game Calculords.

Did you realize Casper van Dien was in a Tarzan movie in the 90s?

Support Cracked’s journalism with a visit to our Contribution Page. Please and thank you.

For more, check out 5 Deeply Embarrassing Things The News Keeps Doing and 6 Times The News Went Totally Overboard Chasing A Story.

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[ethelbertpaul444-blog]

5 Stupid Things We Need To Stop Clicking On

We “re living” the final choke of the Information Age. Experts estimate that 62 percent of all the points we now receive is purposely mistaken, and that includes the percentage and professionals I made up at the start of this sentence. The sad fact is, the majority of members of you are able to never have the critical envisage or research abilities to know what’s real, and that will simply manufacture you more absolutely convinced the erroneous situations your stupid ass belief. The good story is that this article isn’t about that shit. The imitation information fighting is over, and stupid won. No, this article is about the dumb things we all keep falling for — even you, the genius who chose the right political area and religion.

5

Pointlessly Insane Product Are Not That At All

Last year, Tiffany& Co. started selling the Sterling Silver Tin Can, an empty can that costs $1,000. You’ll notice that this is far more than you’d naturally pay for soupless garbage. To be clear, this wasn’t some tin can that once impounded Prince’s final dark-green nuts. It’s simply a can. As an imaginative word, it was 50 years stale, and as a money-making strategy, it was somewhere between a portable diarrhea carton and that same product without a eyelid. It’s the kind of sentiment that they are able to offset the other Saved By The Bell novelists tell, “Look, if you’re not ready to come back to effort, make more time off to deal with the death of your son.” The item I’m building is that it’s hard-boiled not to comment on Tiffany’s silly can, and that’s more appealing to Tiffany& Co. than where reference is comment on how the ones who quarried their concoctions all lived of slavery.

“Darling, I was part of many someones transcending penetration to convert a utilitarian men’s room into an installment of signature Tiffany oeuvre.” — this Tiffany copywriter justifying to his wife why “theres” seven colourings of pubic hair in his underpants

Read Next

8 Baffling Poop-Themed Toys Kids Are Lining Up To Buy

And it’s is not simply tin cans and Wu-Tang recordings that are marketed in intentionally strange modes. Food advertisers have figured out that they can get more attention by being ridiculous than by being delicious. Retain when KFC employed fried chicken as sandwich food in the Double Down? Or when Chick-Fil-A announced that their fried chicken detested lesbian people with the Cajun Titty Jiggler? We all made amusing of them, but they perfectly did not care. These are people souring pigeon meat and “deported” foreign nationals into nugget figures. They’ll take any press they can get.

We need to stop doing this. It’s very possible the only conversation any of us had or will ever have about Dr. Pepper started when they liberated a special copy of their soda for men exclusively . We all went on Twitter to add stuffs like, “Forbidding females from savor Dr. Pepper Ten will only retard the disclosure that it’s made from semen , not stop it completely.” We asked questions like, “Why would you make a soda for men exclusively? Are you trying to find the perfect drink to pair with losing custody of your adolescents? ” Or maybe you are only pondered, “Dr. Pepper Ten sounds like the refreshing discus you contact for when defending an alleged rapist you haven’t met.”

SORRY LADIES, OUR CREATIVE DIRECTOR IS STILL DEALING WITH SOME CHILDHOOD TRAUMA INVOLVING PENISES . b>

Products should conclude the customer happy , not be so intentionally foolish that the customer hears about them during a Jimmy Kimmel monologue. You shouldn’t spawn every tenth new Oreo out of cat suppository in the hopeles said he hoped that cookie influencers tweet about it. And pizza, you peculiarly need to get your shit together.

In 2012, a Pizza Hut employee happened upon the relevant recommendations of a hot-dog-stuffed crust, relatively by coincidence, when his administrator caught him fucking a pizza and asked written explanations. This distinguished the last experience there would ever has become a non-insane pizza ability. Today, pizza marketing is a series of deranged inventions, like a serial killer’s pilgrimage toward becoming the Minotaur. For speciman, Pizza Hut created “smart” shoes that situate an degree for you. Aside from get the elderly to wonder what they’re going to come up with next, what the fuck good do pizza shoes do anyone? If you have a use for dictating Pizza Hut via shoe, your foot is going to fall off from diabetes long before you get to make love a second time.

essay >

And did you know that Domino’s devoted millions of dollars promoting something called “carryout insurance? ” It’s what it sounds like — a monetary guarantee that when your haphazard ass puts a pizza, they give you another one. Aside from getting us to mention how foolish that is, what’s the pitch? Was there a community of overweight idiots devouring pizza off the foot and involving their representatives do something? Let’s say it’s only to place your subconsciou at ease. Let’s profess you’re “ve been thinking about” prescribing Domino’s, but decide against it because you’re always stopping pizza. Will this convince you? Of track not. You’re not even here. You were taken in the night by mad scientists, and now you’re a bulge of brain material named “HISTORY’S SADDEST FUCK.”

“CARRYOUT INSURANCE !? Hey, boss? Yeah, I just perceived a loophole that gives me boundless flooring pizza. So what I’m saying is you can kiss my ass . i> “

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4

All Things “Of The Year” Are Arbitrary Decisions Made By Small Teams Of Random Assholes

We are living in the darkest of goes. Our current sexiest guy alive looks like a rectangle who acquires its living hustling milk-drinking contests.

“I’m digesting four gallons of Half& Half. Hi, I’m Blake Shelton, your sexiest mortal alive.”

When People store announced hoedown music standout Blake Shelton as the sexiest humankind alive while Casper Van Dien was still not dead, it stumbled like a bomb. Every Gab report and Safeway express lane had a hot take on it. It wasn’t simply controversial; it was a direct challenge to what vaginal lubrication even wanted. What will it do to society if passably handsome NASCAR dads are the brand-new standard of seductive? Do we need to stop doing sit-ups? Will there be enough denim?

What will Casper Van Dien do with this boner?

div >

You know what we should have been doing that whole season? Not establishing a shit about how handsome Blake Shelton is. Don’t get me wrong, Blake Shelton is alright. His condoms maybe don’t expire, and if he was arrested for sodomizing a dairy moo-cow, you’d anticipate “Him? ” But let’s not play games. He’s not the sexiest male alive. At best, he’s “Oklahoma’s Hottest Mostly Ham DNA.” But we should remember that this isn’t some enormous honor decided by appraising the gonad stimulation of test subjects. “Sexiest Man Alive” is picked by four or five journalists desperately trying to hang onto print media chores, and every now and then one of them is smart enough to say, “What if we trolled everyone? ” With all respect to Blake Shelton’s fuckability, if you died trying to learn a prosthetic forearm how to give a handjob, the People organization would write your figure up on the “Sexiest Man Alive MAYBES” board.

It’s important is maintaining mind how insignificant these entitlements are before we get outraged. Before Donald Trump, Time opened its 2006 “Person of the Year” title to You, as in the second-person pronoun. And in 1938 they gave it to Hitler, the Donald Trump of 1938. These are meaningless choices meant to engender awful conversations between uninteresting people. Did you think LaTonya from Fayetteville was chosen as Jet ‘s “Beauty of the Week” because of her prevailing tits and smile? Wake up. It’s because her front tattoo announces “Abortion is Bae.” Please, all of us, we have to stop get outsmarted by the Jet magazines of the world.

3

It’s Not An Contest When Fictional Characters Die

In 1992, DC Comics killed Superman — an indestructible ventriloquist with laser noses, frost wheeze, and chronosphere-bending flight speed — with a rock ogre who was pretty good at punching. Despite it being the third occasion he had died, the country is entered into mourning and the tale was picked up by the actual bulletin. Which was weird, because if the media wanted to cover upsetting Superman fibs, where were they when his girlfriend get turned into a pony and fucked his mare?

I think about this every day. Every day.

div >

Why are we so preoccupied with fictional deaths? Most of the time, they’re not even real in the make-believe macrocosm in which they happen. Captain America and Batman vanish around 20 epoches a year, each in different combinations of fake-outs, resurgences, and universe reboots. If a dead guy’s best friends own a meter machine and the Eye of Agamotto, you can probably hold back on making funeral proposals. And if your favorite person dies on The Walking Dead , perhaps don’t debris an hour watching Chris Hardwick cry until you accompany the body.

It should help you relax knowing that most fictional fatalities are exclusively abusive escapades, but the “real” ones are about as meaningless.

I mean, you knew there wasn’t going to be any more Firefly . This death cost us maybe two wisecracks.

div >

Remember when Han Solo expired? He was a 73 -year-old laser gun fighter scheduled to get his own movie in three years. His death was both long overdue and altogether inconsequential to the amount of Han Solo you will continue to see on your TV. His father-in-law, Darth Vader, was on screen for about 36 minutes before he died in 1983, and since his death, there have been more Anakin Skywalker narratives than anyone could ever require. Anakin Skywalker is the Nicolas Cage of outer space. He stopped making good movies three decades ago, more he’s still everywhere and radiating inexplicable planetary energy.

If George R. R. Martin gone on TV to announce that a comet smacked Westeros between works and everyone in A Song Of Ice And Fire is lead, how is that different from “the worlds” you’re living in now? The chap have undoubtedly wanted to focus more on snacks for about four works. You know what’s sadder than identifying Ned Stark get his head chopped off? Watching some fragile-hearted slobs go across the various stages of sorrow in a YouTube video afterwards. Mothers, if your child is filming themselves weep over a make-believe death, that’s a bigger default than if your child is filming themselves pee into a tube sock for Patreon advocates. I symbolize, you can do whatever you demand, but when you cry over forgery people whom you can still hear every day for as long as you miss, you’re exclusively sending a message to the people around you that you’re a drastic piece of shit. But I know something that will ovation you up!

2

Being Special Is Free

That’s right, I said it.

You’re welcome.

It’s pretty easy to sell someone nothing more than the notion that they’re special or important for actual money. For illustration, somewhere right now, a Todd is looking through a rack of keychains to see if they have one with his reputation on it. “I hope they have a Todd, ” he might announce as he thumbs through dusty debris. “They do! And it’s spelled right ! b> ” So Todd will buy it, a cute remember of the worst collected in the least interesting part of a town he formerly called, and it will never occur to him that an Indonesian plant gambled and won that a completely shitty Todd would one day pay money to prompt himself of his own name. This next part is way off-topic, but not even the Indonesians could have foreseen that this keychain would one day be used to frame Todd …

… for Toddslaughter.

div >

Back to the point I was trying to utters: We are all prone to this idiocy. Coke had its first marketings increase in more than a decade when it introduced the idea of adding the customers’ stupid fucking lists to their cans and bottles. And the internet has been recurred by ego-stroking personality quizs and IQ tests since before we used it to pay girlfriends peeing into tube socks. We are so desperate to be told we’re special that we will expel all disbelief and critical consider to hear it. You should know that answering a few simple-minded personality interrogations does not determine you the coolest ninja turtle, and you shouldn’t trust the scores of an Iq test that you watched yourself cheat on which likewise advertises free Slavic women and four new pounds of dick girth.

One of my favorite a few examples of this, and favorite things in general, is an online community announced Intertel — “An International Society of the Intellectually Gifted.” It’s very difficult to get in. You can only affiliate if you tally in the top one percent of any self-administered intelligence test and mail in a $10 lotion reward. You may have considered that this in fact checks to see whether you’re stupid enough to forward in a test with a 98 percent composition or less and nothing else. If you get accepted, you then compensate a $39 annual reward to be a part of a genius squad for people who are very specifically not. What do you get? I’m so glad you asked. For the annual reward, you get inexhaustible pity and the human rights of berth a photo and bio about your singularly unsophisticated soul. It has created an avalanche of unearned narcissism that looks like a late ‘9 0s Casper Van Dien supporter page whose webmaster travelled mysteriously missing.

Image courtesy of the property of the Casper Van Dien Fan Page& Genius Community webmaster.

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OK , no, but seriously, this next epitome is a real screenshot from the Inertel( An International Society of the Intellectually Gifted) website. This is a real person who really thinks he’s in the 1 percent of intellectual nobilities, and this is his real profile.

I didn’t doctor this. This is what an actual genius named BigJim3 69 remunerations $39 a year to expose. Fucking! This macrocosm is spell and you get to live in it!

div >

Another business that employs your adoration of yourself on a big, sprawling magnitude is the pop-up museum manufacture. The reputation implies that there are things to do or learn inside them, but they’re more like oversized photo booths than artistry halls. For speciman, if you take a junket to the zany, world-famous Museum of Ice Cream, you will memorize zero to one things about ice cream and feed ice cream worth $45 less than the entering ticket. What you will do is wait in line to make photos of yourself next to what you’d describe in any other situation as “nothing of interest.” So to be clear, we are so self-obsessed that it’s now an efficient business model to charge us money to make pictures of ourselves so we can promote you online.

You didn’t fool ME, Museum of Ice Cream. But my family loved it. Five stars.

div >

1

Stop Attaining It Seem Like There Are Nazis

OK, so the world has just fairly stupid prejudiceds to elect Donald Trump chairman, but not all of those voters were full white supremacists. Some of them were simply extremely theological to know when someone is lying or too old to change their memory about politics. And yes, a troubling number of them were Nazis. But in a lot of ways, most things are fine and the world isn’t as unpleasant as you think.

You’re welcome again.

div >

Impossibly shitty parties, like the Trump supporters who made that Garfield mug privately, looks a lot like they’re everywhere. A pile of that is our omission — the good beings making fun of them. They use us to amplify their articulates, like Han Solo( R.I.P .) reassuring a hallway of Stormtroopers that he’s acces more people than he actually is. Every few minutes, a website publishes a variant on the article “These Miserable Fucks Said Something Racist About A Thing And Got Annihilated By Twitter.” They’re fun and vaguely heroic, but if you read more than one, you’ll start to see that they all share the same content. It’s the same three or four prejudiced tweets quoted in each article, tweeted by the same three or four prejudiceds who “attacked” the Star Wars with the Asian girl and “staged boycotts” of the all-lady Ghostbusters . We need to stop treating these three or four beings like they’re a threat to anything other than skewing PornHub’s algorithm to favor mother-son incest.

BREAKING NEWS: Regional high school’s least-likable puncture still manufacturing quite a sight out his irrelevant awfulness.

div >

Here’s a comforting information: A analyse of Reddit found that 1 percent of communities were responsible for 74 percent of all conflict. We are taking the intentionally insensitive notes of a Kia’s worth of debate club hobbyists and feigning they’re a tidal wave of detest “were supposed to” stand together against. The “alt-right” movement is 30 sons more cranky to year and too slow to hear Dungeons& Dragons . Their adherents are a lethal group of gamers who will disappear once they sour 17, and their media channel is a cable network whose entire audience will be dead in two more flu seasons. All these people want is for the other side to get upset, so if we stop writing thinkpieces about the rise of dapper grey patriotism and focus more on how liberals hate suicide religions, we can be rid of them almost immediately.

BREAKING NEWS: C-word who are tweets C-wordy antisemitic concepts DOES!

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Ann Coulter is a good example. She’s the skeletal are still in relic antipathy, and she has about as much cultural affect as Corey Feldman’s band, Oral Thrush and the Yeast 2000 s. Has she ever done anything other than hiss bad acts at impatient Tv identities or suppose that clinical antisemitism is antisemitic slapstick? She only seems like she is a thing because 10,000 of us dunk on the bitch each time she condemns her oral thrush on the Jews. Without all of us excusing to one another how mistaken she is, Coulter would just be straying through Home Depot to see if there are any lily-white works she can ask about the lavatory refuge rails. And soon she would be spawning spider eggs in her lip while her parakeet watched their own bodies rot. “Rawk! The Jews are at it again! ” it would recite to her undiscovered body. “The Jews are at it again! “

We all seem to get how foolish it is when the story answers “teens” are doing a comically apeshit circumstance like human centipede gatherings or detergent eating. Why can’t we use those same beings psyches to figure out how one Nazi nerd looking for attention isn’t “the Right”? I know it’s tough to stand trolls, but Kim Kardashian owning all the world’s money should have taught you that there is virtue in shutting the fuck up about some things. We need to stay strong not in the battle against the “alt-right, ” but in the battle to ignore them. The next time you verify another tower about how maids won’t time republican people, leave it alone. Let those dickless Nazis prevent writing versions of that section into the empty vacancy until they discover evil campaigns brides to dry up. And the next time someone on your Facebook thread attacks their Second Amendment liberties after local schools shooting, don’t confirm their child assassination fandom with tending. Move your cursor to the left and click on their mother’s chart. Pose as Blake Shelton, acquire her moist rely, and calmly destroy that child-murderer’s family. Every one of us can shut up and make a difference.

Seanbaby devised being funny on the Internet. You can follow him on Twitter, or frisk his hit mobile competition Calculords . b>

Did you realise Casper van Dien was in a Tarzan movie in the 90 s ? i > b>

Support Cracked’s journalism with a tour to our Contribution Page. Please and thank you . i > b>

For more, check out 5 Deeply Embarrassing Thing The News Keeps Doing and 6 Time The News Went Totally Overboard Chasing A Story . i > b>

You should click on this join and follow us on Facebook . i > b>

Read more: http :// www.cracked.com/ blog/ 5-stupid-things-we-need-to-stop-clicking-on /