#soda has given them SO many heart attacks its not even funny

[walmartbrandwhatever]

Soda's the type of kid that no matter what you did would somehow escape his crib and even the house or would somehow end up in cabinets without his parents knowing and scaring the shit outta them and in this essay I will-

[fallen-gravity]

Fightin’ Back Ch 2

That's why I'm so tough on Dipper. So when the world fights, he fights back

or,

five times Stan helped Dipper recover from a rough encounter with the supernatural, and one time Dipper returned the favor.

~

Here’s Chapter 2: Fight Fighters, this time around!

bit of a content warning for this one: this chapter takes place following Fight Fighters, and I like to think the injuries Dipper sustained are a bit worse than just "get up and walk around fine". Sometimes the need to comfort hurt overrules cartoon logic in my brain.

No hospital scene in this chapter, but lots of conversations regarding chest and rib injuries in this chapter. If you're squeamish to that sort of thing, proceed with caution.

AO3

Maybe the reason Stan recognizes the truck pulling up without even seeing it is because of all the time he’d spent memorizing car types by the sound of their engines back in Colombia. When you’re on the run from a mob boss, it does wonders to differentiate similar looking cars from each other when you’re trying to figure out if the coast is clear when your life depends on it.

He still remembers the pattern of Rico’s car, the way the engine would make quiet tut tut tut tut sounds when he was driving real slow along the path of a dirt road. 

Or maybe he just recognizes this car, since he’s heard it pull up to the Shack parking lot every day since its owner turned sixteen and could finally drive himself, even on the days when he wasn’t scheduled to work. Stan would always try brushing him off with fake annoyance, he’d try sending him home to no avail, but deep down Stan really appreciated that there was someone in town that chose to be in his company for something other than necessity. 

Either way, Stan can recognize Soos’s truck pull up without even getting up from his recliner, and boy does he have a story to tell. He can already picture the stars in Soos’s eyes as he embellishes his tale of how he rescued Mabel from the water tower as it came crashing down, and how the adrenaline from saving his grand-niece’s life cured his fear of heights. He straightens his posture up in his chair, takes a sip from his soda, and waits for the inevitable moment Soos is gonna walk in and sit down on the living room floor like he lives at the pace. 

...but that moment doesn’t come, because Soos never walks through the front door. Stan can hear the muffled sound of Soos talking to Dipper, though he can’t really make out what they’re saying. Soos asks Dipper a question, going by the change in the inflection of his voice, and there’s a long pause before Dipper replies. 

Another long minute passes before the door opens and Dipper walks in by himself. Stan’s about to question him on it, but his mouth closes when he sees that Dipper’s favorite vest is nearly torn to shreds, and his shorts have identical holes in each leg that reveal his scraped knees. Most of his face is blocked off by his pine tree cap, and even the color of that has faded from a pristine white to an unpleasant shade of light brown, caked with dirt and grass stains.

That’s right. The whole reason he’d been hiding out at the arcade all day is because that obnoxious teenage boy with the horrible singing voice had challenged him to a fight over....what, Wendy’s honor, or something? Stan doesn’t know, he usually avoids petty teenage drama like the plague. 

Stan settles for a shrug of his shoulders, and raises his soda can to Dipper as if it were a chalice. “How’d it go, Hercules? You win the girl over, or what?”

Dipper’s laugh is weak in response. He removes his hat to wipe some dirt and crushed leaves from his hair, and it’s when he finally meets his gaze that Stan notices that one of his eyes is swollen and bruised shut. 

“Hah,” Dipper tries for cocky, and it fails miserably when his voice cracks. “You should’ve seen the other-” 

He’s suddenly overcome with an intense coughing fit before he can finish his sentence, keeling over and gripping tightly to his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping his little chest from shattering to pieces. His coughs waver in-between wheezes as his breath hitches like he’s about to start crying from the pain of it all. 

Stan’s up to his feet as soon as he recognizes the motions.  He’d had his fair share of experiencing the same thing Dipper’s going through back in his boxing days. When you fight in an underground ring that once stood as an abandoned speakeasy, your competitors never really followed the standard guidelines of a clean fight. You can only get hit in the chest with a boxing glove underlined with sharp rocks or brass knuckles so many times before you’re bound to crack a rib or two. 

But...there’s no way, right? That Robbie kid that’s always coming into the gift shop to flirt with Wendy looks as though he couldn’t weigh more than a pound heavier than Dipper, and for all his tough guy talk and bleeding heart hoodies he still won’t look Stan directly in the eyes when he addresses him.

“Kid…” Stan takes a knee, and Dipper flinches when Stan gently touches his shoulder. “What happened to you?”

“Oh, you know…” Dipper rolls his eyes, subtly avoiding eye contact with Stan. “Robbie and I were gonna fight, but then we, uh, overheard these two other really tough guys duking it out with each other, and, uh, we didn’t wanna get them in trouble with the police!” He flashes a grin. “So we put our differences aside and...tried to tear them off of each other. But wouldn’t ya know it, these guys thought we were attacking them, see? So, uh, they started beating on us, but uh...we eventually got them to stop so we could explain everything, and we all had a good laugh about it” 

Stan raises a skeptical eyebrow. He’s not sure how the kid’s even related to him, if he’s that bad a liar. He honestly would’ve been more convincing if he’d said he’d given himself the black eye, or just said that Robbie just stuck his foot out and tripped Dipper before walking away. But before Stan can question him again, Dipper’s coughing fit returns, and he drops to his knees, gripping his chest like he was suffering a heart attack. 

Whatever Robbie did to him, he clearly doesn’t want to recount it. For the briefest of moments, Stan’s vision goes red, and the half-full soda can he’d been holding suddenly bursts from the sudden pressure of Stan squeezing it like a stress toy.

...What the fuck? What kind of sick freak thinks it’s funny to beat on some poor kid like he’s a punching bag? And for what? Because he has a silly crush on Wendy that he’s probably never going to act upon? Was he never twelve years old? Did he never go through that phase of crushing on every girl that gave him the time of day? It’s not like Dipper was threatening him, or anything, and even if he had, what kind of coward would Robbie have to be to respond this violently? 

Stan sighs, and the sound of it is gruff and lined with anger. He’ll deal with that kid later.

For now…

He reaches out to place a reassuring hand on Dipper’s shoulder, but catches himself and retracts it to his side. He stands to his feet with a grunt, and awkwardly scratches at the back of his head.

“Y’know, I can...help you out with that”

Dipper stops in his coughing for a moment, if only to ask, “Help me with what?”

“Your chest?” Stan puts his hands to his hips and rolls his shoulder. “You think your Great Uncle Stan got so good at fighting and punching things naturally? I’m flattered, kiddo, but I can recognize a damaged rib when I see one.”

“Damaged?” Dipper whispers in horror, grip on his shirt tightening. 

“Whoa, whoa, easy there” Stan’s back to his knee in an instant, resting a large hand on top of Dipper’s frail arm. “These kinds of things happen all the time, see? They ever tell you how easy it is to break someone’s rib when you’re doing CPR?”

Dipper, who’d started chewing anxiously at the collar of his shirt, spits it out, “Y-yeah, we talked about in health class” 

“See? They just snap easy, is all. All you gotta do is follow a few simple home remedies and you’ll be good as new before you know it.”

Dipper raises an eyebrow. “Grunkle Stan, I’m not sure I trust your definition of a home remedy” 

“Ha!” Stan laughs loudly. “I like you, kid. Nah, home remedy just means you don’t need any doctor to charge you hundreds when he’s just going to tell you things you could’ve figured out yourself.”

He stands again. “Find somewhere comfy to sit, kiddo, you’re gonna be there for a while. I’ll run into the kitchen and grab a few things for you that’ll also help with that black eye of yours, while we’re at it”.

“Okay,” Dipper mumbles, his voice sounding closer and closer to a whimper, and he sits down on Stan’s recliner. Just before Dipper can settle his back against the rest, though, Stan gently reaches behind Dipper’s back and hands him the extra cushion. 

“And, uh, if you start having another coughing fit, which you probably will, try holding this to your chest instead of clawing at your chest with your hands. It’ll hurt a lot less” 

Dipper doesn’t respond with words this time, just with a small smile as he reaches for the remote on the recliner's armrest, and that’s all the response Stan needs. He disappears into the kitchen and opens the fridge to look around for something that could suffice as an ice pack. Stan curses under his breath at himself for not picking up a box of gel packs the last time he was at the store, but chalks it up as a mental note to just buy double what he thinks he needs next time he’s there just in case. 

Stan eyes fall on a half-eaten bag of frozen corn forced closed with a hair tie, and places it on the counter beside him. That should suffice for his chest, since Dipper could just place it between the armrest and himself so he doesn’t even have to bother trying to hold it in place. Humming to himself, Stan continues to rummage through the fridge to find something...softer for Dipper to hold over his black eye. 

He freezes when he comes across the large steak packed away with the other meat cuts. Does he dare live up to the stereotype? He’s not even sure if it was ever proven whether or not using a steak for a black eye even did anything, and he was never able to afford one when he was younger when he needed something to take care of his own black eyes.

As a matter of fact, it’s a miracle he can even afford the steak now. He remembers purchasing it after a particularly good sales week, and how he told himself that it’s for special occasions, and that he’d only buy it just this once, because he knew if they became a regular purchase he’d bankrupt himself before the end of the tourist season. He holds the slowly defrosting package in his hand, weighing his options, when the sound of Dipper laughing weakly at something on the TV rings into the kitchen from the other room.

...Screw it. 

He closes the fridge door, and rips open the plastic packaging surrounding the steak cut. He takes the roll of paper towels off of its stand, and uses it to wrap the bag of frozen corn, and carries the two makeshift ice packs back out to where Dipper’s still sitting in front of the television.

“Uh, bon appetit” He says, offering the two makeshift ice packs to Dipper. He laughs, squishing the cushion against his chest as he takes them.

“I know you’re just trying to help, but I think it’s low even for you to expect me to cook my own dinner after this”, he smirks. “You could’ve at least asked if I even wanted steak and…” he shakes the bundle of paper towel in his hand “...whatever this is.”

“Hardy har har” Stan replies sarcastically, and takes a knee beside the recliner. “Look, I know a lot of these are gonna sound contrasting, but you have to follow my advice very carefully.” He holds up the bundle of paper towels. “This one’s for your chest. All that coughing you’re doing is gonna hurt your rib even more, and in a little while you’re gonna see some bruising. Try to keep this ice pack on the places where the bruising looks the worst. You’re gonna wanna keep it there as long as you can handle it the next couple of days. If it gets too cold, you gotta adjust the paper towels, and if it stops feeling cold at all you have to replace your pack” He scratches at the back of his neck. “Right now that’s corn, because it’s the first thing in the fridge I could find, but I’m sure there are a lot better things in there you could use in case it defrosts”

He holds up the steak. “This one should be pretty obvious. I made sure that frozen bundle for your chest was small so you could use it without holding it, but this one’s another story entirely. This one you’ve got to hold up to your eye, but don’t push on it. Just sort of...squish it up to your face.” He shrugs. “You gotta keep at it until you’re sure the swelling goes down, and then you’re gonna need to switch to a hot compress instead”

Stan just knows that one day, once Dipper's better, he’s going to corner him and ask how he knows all of this medical information. He just knows he is. Better not dwell on that now, and as soon as the kid doesn’t need his immediate attention he can always sneak off so he can think of a good excuse that’ll convince the kid to get off his back about it. 

Oh, and while he’s on the subject of sneaking off…

“Now listen to this last part, and listen good. This is the most important rule, and if I catch you breaking it I’m driving you to the hospital and leaving you there”.

That came out a lot harsher than he intended, but Dipper’s frantic nod is enough to tell him he got the picture. 

“For the next couple of days, I don’t want to hear a peep about you running around in the woods trying to solve some spooky mystery. I don’t wanna hear you jumping into the passenger side of Soos’s truck, and I don’t want to hear you running into Wendy’s arms even if she suddenly decides she wants to marry you, or something”

Dipper’s face goes beet red. “Uh, actually, that last one-” 

“Doesn’t matter” he cuts him off. “You go running off into those woods and you’re going to make it all worse. Got it?”

Dipper looks hurt, but Stan can tell it’s not him he’s upset at. 

“Yes, Grunkle Stan” he murmurs, and Stan grins as he stands to his feet, ruffling Dipper’s hair.

“Ah, cheer up kid, it’s not gonna be as terrible as you think it is. You get to sleep down here in the recliner instead of walking all the way up those creaky stairs, and I bet if I even mention the idea of a slumber party to your sister she’s gonna bring your whole bedroom down here to keep you company” 

Dipper huffs in quiet laughter. “Yeah, yeah, I guess that doesn’t sound too awful” 

“See?” Stan snaps his fingers. “You’re sounding better already.” There’s a pause, as an idea comes to him, and then, “You think you’d be okay if I stepped out for an hour or so? Your sister should be around here somewhere if you need anything”

Dipper blinks. “You’re leaving so soon after you told me I couldn’t?” 

Stan laughs. “Just gotta run some old man errands, kiddo, I don’t think they’d be up your alley even if you could come with” 

“...Fair enough” Dipper shrugs, and slumps back into his chair. 

~~

Once Stan pulls his car into downtown, it doesn’t take long to find where Robbie had disappeared to. The old car he definitely borrowed from his parents based on the bumper stickers is parked right out in the open in the lot of the arcade, almost as if he was acting like nothing had happened between him and Dipper at all. 

Stan parked his own car beside his, and with a quick glance in one direction he could see that Robbie’s car was empty, which meant he must be inside, and a quick glance to the other direction told him that there weren’t any cops around. 

Perfect. 

Opening his car door as quietly as he can, Stan slips out of the door of his car and crouches as low as he can towards Robbie’s car, lest anyone in the arcade catch onto what he’s doing.  From his suit he pulls a pocket knife, and in one, two, three quick motions he slashes the wheels of the car, leaving only one perfectly intact.  With a grin on his face he slinks back into car and speeds away from the arcade as fast as he can, screaming out the open window that nobody messes with the Pines family and gets off scot-free. 

[sharnngan]

5 Ways to Flirt in 1921 that Are Still Sexy in 2021

Can we please bring back petting parties?

La Villa d’Este: France XXe siècle (1923) | Public Domain

No other decade has more monikers to describe its exuberance — The Roaring 20s, The Jazz Age, the Harlem Renaissance, and the Age of Wonderful Nonsense.

In the wake of the 1918 pandemic, a much younger America threw off sexual mores, swigged bathtub gin, and danced the Charleston in speakeasies. Women could finally vote, and their hemlines raised with hopes for an emancipated future. E. E. Cummings coined the word “partied” as a verb in 1922, and Dorothy Parker penned enough sexy double entendres to last a century.

Oh, and we also got the term “dating” from the young singles who were finally allowed to meet unchaperoned. Thanks, 1920's.

Now, sociologists are predicting an equally hedonistic dating trend to follow the COVID pandemic. But oddly, the name they have given this one is not as cute — “The Whoring 20s.”

Yep. That’s right. Everyone will be getting laid in the next few months. Or so the predictions go.

Similar to the 1920s, America had its share of growing pains in the last year. And we faced some of those growth spurts with all the aplomb of a zitty teenager with raging hormones. Will history repeat in one glittering bacchanalia?

Only time (and STD rates) will tell. Until then, here are a few old-timey pastimes from the 1920s that I wish we could bring back.

“Tell him I was too f*cking busy — or vice versa.”

— Dorothy Parker

Petting parties

The 1922 headline said it all — “Mothers Complain That Modern Girls ‘Vamp’ Their Sons at Petting Parties.” The article warned parents, “The boys of today must be protected from the girl vamp.” These jezebels were doing the unthinkable — touching boys at parties.

“Petting” included kissing, hugging, and well…petting. It did not include sex. In the very unliberated 1920s, premarital sex could still destroy any woman’s reputation. So petting parties became a safe (and only) way for young women to explore their sexuality without risking their future marriage prospects.

Well, thank god that slut-shaming is over.

But the petting part…let’s bring that back. Today, intimate kissing and long caresses have been replaced with dating app hookups — the fast food of romance.

But true intimacy does not move at the speed of a thumb swipe. And this is why I grow nostalgic for petting parties — delayed gratification. It’s the marshmallow test with a sexual twist. And if you pet your lover like a kitten…I promise you will drive that bearcat crazy with lust.

(Actually, I make no such promises. I never get to use 1920s gangster slang and couldn’t resist.)

“If I had to live my life again, I’d make the same mistakes, only sooner.”--Tallulah Bankhead

Baker in her banana costume in 1927 | Public DomainDancing

In 1926, audiences packed into the hottest Paris nightclub, Folies Bergère. The curtain raised to reveal a painted backdrop of a tropical paradise, hanging with vines over clear, blue water. The drums thumped out a slow, steady beat as Josephine Baker crept behind a fallen tree prop like a graceful tiger about to pounce. Suddenly, she sprang forward, gyrating her hips in whip-cracking speed…with a girdle of bananas around her waist.

Now that is hot and funny. Every woman in that audience wanted to move like Josephine Baker.

Young people learned Josephine’s sultry moves and crowded into smoke-filled speakeasies and cabarets to dance the Charleston, Black Bottom, waltz, and tango. The horns blared, and the bootlegged whiskey flowed as couples rocked their pelvises against each other. Dancing was freedom.

Aren’t we tired of not touching each other? Dancing is one of the best forms of exercise and has been shown to reduce Alzheimer's. And if you are going to grow old with someone, you might as well keep their memory sharp.

Ice Cream Socials

When Anheuser-Busch could no longer sell alcohol during Prohibition, they turned to a different pastime — ice cream. Other companies followed suit. The result was the invention of the Good Humor Bar, Dixie Ice Cream Cup, and the popsicle.

While alcohol might be the quintessential social lubricant, research shows sugar makes for sweet romance too. In one study, couples reported they like each other more after eating something sweet. And an ice cream headache beats a wood alcohol hangover any day.

William Ruppert breaking the pole-sitting record of 23 days, in 1929 | Public DomainFlagpole sitting

Before TikTok stars and influencers found fame by doing pretty much nothing, wannabe celebrities had flagpole sitting. Flagpole sitting is just like it sounds — people sat on top of a flagpole for as many hours as boredom and your spine could endure.

It’s a dating activity that probably wouldn’t take off today. Modern couples are so distracted with dinging cellphones and dopamine firing social media that we have lost the art of silence. But any man who can sit on a flagpole with me for twelve hours without distractions is a keeper.

“Ah, good conversation — there’s nothing like it, is there? The air of ideas is the only air worth breathing.”

― Edith Wharton

The telephone

In the 1920s, a hesitant man could ask a woman out by ringing her at her parent’s home. This prevented him from experiencing in-your-face rejection.

Today, most people ask for a date in a text message. It’s a low level of risk.

But while we have reduced the risk, texting has also created a world of two-dimensional relationships that never lead anywhere. And why would they? Since 90% of communication between most humans is nonverbal, it’s no wonder why we struggle with intimacy. Sorry, but your emoji laugh doesn’t get my heart thumping like your real laugh.

This is why your phone is one of your sharpest screening devices. The reason is simple — people who text for weeks and weeks without asking for a date are either bored, dating someone else, not that into you, or lack confidence.

There I said it. Set the trolls loose on me. But before you attack me for expecting the man to do all the work, I have asked out plenty of men who won’t make a move (or hinted ridiculously). If you think that is sexy, you don’t understand women.

Usually, I ghost my pen pals after about a week. By then, my inkpot has run dry, and I get as mercenary with my delete button as a husband-hungry Jane Austen character. And many women will agree with me. It’s one of the most common complaints I see on dating apps —“not looking for a pen pal.”

When someone writes that, you should believe them. Or better yet, pick up that newfangled device known as a telephone, and quit the lollygagging, cake eater. (That’s my last 20s slang…maybe)

You will get one of two answers — a yes or a no. But if you hide behind your screen, you will get gray hair and a first date story that only happened in your head.

“A woman should be able to kiss a man beautifully and romantically without any desire to be either his wife or his mistress.”― F. Scott Fitzgerald

Dating without expectations

Daters today seem to fall into one of two camps — seeking serious courtship or casual sex. I saw one female writer advise single ladies to swipe left on any guy who fills out the “not sure” box for whether he is looking for a relationship.

Please stop swiping left on Mr. Unsure. There’s nothing wrong with approaching dating without expectations. Not everyone has a binary goal of either saying no or yes to a relationship. There’s a lot of adventures to be found in that unpredictable space of “it depends.”

It depends if you have chemistry and compatibility. It depends on the delicate timing that makes you prioritize relationships. And it depends on a host of socioeconomic factors — geography, desire to have children, sense of humor, and matched ambitions.

But with one in three couples meeting online now, the mystery is uncloaked. Want to know if a guy is looking for a serious commitment? It is listed in his profile. Want to know if a girl is open to a hookup. Also listed in her profile. Her favorite music. It’s on her Spotify list. His passions? That dead fish is speaking to you.

Dating was not as transactional in the 1920s. Both men and women went on dates to potentially meet a husband or wife but, more importantly, to socialize.

Socialize. Remember that little verb? It meant if you wanted a meaningful connection with someone, you had to peel back the layers. (And by layers, I don’t mean clothing, kids.)

But flirting today has become a stultifying game of putting people in neat boxes. Hot or not. Rich or poor. How about giving people a chance without any expectations of how we can retrofit them into our lives?

Desires blooms in odd places. It might even happen over soda pop and some necking in your flivver. (Now that was my last 1920s slang.)

More dating tips from Carlyn Beccia:

Old-Fashioned Flirting Tips that Still Work

5 Ways to Flirt in 1921 that Are Still Sexy in 2021 was originally published in P.S. I Love You on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

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