#trump is a danger to world peace

[scottguy]

Every trump follower knows how all the people who attacked the US Capitol were hung out to dry by Trump and are going to prison.

When he loses again, which is inevitable if we all vote, I think you're going to see very few people willing to take up arms when they realize that 70% of the people around them are happy with the result of a Trump loss. They know they will end up in prison too.

It's one thing to talk about civil war it's another thing to realize that means murdering your neighbors that you're friendly with.

Maga people are all talk and mostly cowards, which is why so many feel the need to walk around with guns.

Trump just threatened a “bloodbath for the country” if he’s not elected

Let’s be VERY clear what this thug is doing — Inciting stochastic terrorism against the United States

He is issuing marching orders for his MAGA terrorists

This is “Proud Boys, stand back & stand by” redux

[ladyofthelake]

I don't even wanna know.

[deadpresidents]

"What emerged in two interviews with Trump, and conversations with more than a dozen of his closest advisers and confidants, were the outlines of an imperial presidency that would reshape America and its role in the world. To carry out a deportation operation designed to remove more than 11 millions people from the country, Trump told me, he would be willing to build migrant detention camps and deploy the U.S. military, both at the border and inland. He would let red states monitor women's pregnancies and prosecute those who violate abortion bans. He would, at his personal discretion, withhold funds appropriated by Congress, according to top advisers. He would be willing to fire a U.S. Attorney who doesn't carry out his order to prosecute someone, breaking with a tradition of independent law enforcement that dates from America's founding. He is weighing pardons for every one of his supporters accused of attacking the U.S. Capitol on Jan. 6, 2021, more than 800 of whom have pleaded guilty or been convicted by a jury. He might not come to the aid of an attacked ally in Europe or Asia if he felt that country wasn't paying enough for its own defense. He would gut the U.S. civil service, deploy the National Guard to American cities as he sees fit, close the White House pandemic-preparedness office, and staff his Administration with acolytes who back his false assertion that the 2020 election was stolen."

-- "How Far Would He Go", TIME Magazine's interviews with Donald Trump, April 30, 2024.

I know we're saturated in coverage of Trump and it's easy (and probably better for our mental health) to usually ignore most of the articles when we see them, especially since he's so full of shit and infuriating. But it's also important to recognize that he is going to be the Republican nominee for President and he could absolutely be elected in November, and if you thought his first term was scary and dangerous, you need to understand that in a second term he's going to have people around him that are better prepared and VERY willing to do the crazy shit that he wants to do to this country. They aren't even hiding the fact that they are seeking vengeance against political opponents whom they feel have wronged them, and are ready to fundamentally dismantle the democratic foundations that are barely holding this country together after nearly 250 years.

Just look at what Trump says about the people who he incited to attack the United States Capitol in an attempt to overturn the results of the 2020 election and halt the peaceful transfer of power that has happened every four years since 1789:

"Trump has sought to recast an insurrectionist riot as an act of patriotism. 'I call them the J-6 patriots,' he say. When I ask whether he would consider pardoning every one of them, he says, 'Yes, absolutely.' As Trump faces dozens of felony charges, including for election interference, conspiracy to defraud the United States, willful retention of national-security secrets, and falsifying business records to conceal hush-money payments, he has tried to turn legal peril into a badge of honor."

Oh, and please note that Trump -- a former President of the United States and possible future President of the United States -- said on the record in these interviews with TIME: "There is a definite antiwhite feeling in the country and that can't be allowed either." We are at a point where political leaders are outright saying that in this country again, and it's because of Donald Trump.

So, take the time to recognize that Trump is straight-up telling us the country we're going to be living in if he wins again in November. And understand that your vote matters -- and WHO you vote for matters -- because, as I've been saying for years now, ELECTIONS HAVE FUCKING CONSEQUENCES.

[wilwheaton]

In the wake of a near-tragic assassination attempt of a widely reviled figure, some people who loathe him may be wrestling with or suppressing emotions that feel contradictory. But the notions that Trump is dangerous, and that attempting to murder him is also dangerous, are not in tension with each other. The ethics and the practicality of liberal democracy both affirm a strong norm against political violence. [...]    Even though American history has seen a long litany of murders and attempted murders — Gerald Ford survived two attempts on his life within a few weeks of each other — this one feels scarier. That is because our social peace has grown more precarious. An assassination attempt on Donald Trump is a far more dangerous thing than an attempt to kill Mitt Romney would have been a dozen years ago, or Al Gore a dozen years before that.    And while the responsibility for maintaining social peace and the norm of non-violence is shared equally across the political spectrum, the blame for its decay is not.    Trump stokes and feeds upon a lust for violence. He possesses a demagogue’s skill for manipulating his supporters’ most elemental emotions. As a private citizen he exploited a white woman’s rape in Central Park to demand the execution of innocent young men of color. He continues to call for various critics to be executed for their disloyalty. When a maniac attempted to kill Nancy Pelosi and smashed the skull of her husband, he cheered it on. He continues to glorify and promise to free the criminals who assaulted police in the attack on the Capitol in an attempt to seize an unelected second term.    It is not Trump’s fault that someone tried to kill him. It is absolutely his fault that it has immediately set off a widespread fear of reprisals and chaos.

Trump Shooting: He Must Be Defeated by Ballots, Not Bullets

Look, I can’t wait for the guy to die and be gone forever. I just want him to die in prison.

And he’s still a Fascist. Don’t let that get obscured in all of this. He’s still the same wannabe dictator, the same hateful liar, the same corrupt traitor, the same 34 time convicted felon, the same rapist.

Nothing about him has changed. Nothing about Project 2025 has changed.

Obviously, the national conversation is going to be focused on this for the near future, and we can’t forget or minimize that he remains a serious and dire threat to America, and the world.

[merakiui]

LONELY ESTATE.

sunday x (female) reader cw: nsfw, marking (hickeys), slight possessiveness from sunday, alcohol/intoxication, toxic exes, adultery, background marriage of convenience, an au wherein most of the canon is ignored in favor of plotless smut, all you really need to know is that sunday is still hopelessly whipped for you note - you and sunday are over—have been for many years. all it takes is one drunken mistake to rekindle a dangerous flame that should have been extinguished long ago. or: sunday invites his ex to his wedding. that goes about as pleasantly as you can imagine. // listen to cailin russo's 'lonely estate' if you would like extra vibes!! :D

If there’s one thing that trumps Sunday’s detestation of you, it’s his unshakable sense of duty towards his station. He takes immense care to craft a respectable image for the public, meticulously weaving words and actions together to become a pristine and untouchable chrysalis. Almost like a marble statue, perfection sculpted in his likeness. When you were dating, he used to echo the same advice: “A pleasant impression impacts one’s reputation and, by extension, the organization, occupation, and company one chooses to keep. You would do well to remember that.”

And remember you have.

It’s been eight years since you broke it off with him, but even now you hear his voice ringing loud and clear whenever you aren’t up to par with the standards you set for yourself. What can be worse than the voice of your own harsh critic? A voice that sounds remarkably like your ex-boyfriend, much to the consternation of your peace, and he’s so very keen to scrutinize every detail of your life.

You were hoping to save yourself a run-in with him, but the world (and Sunday) hates you. By the good grace of an invitation, you find yourself attending his wedding as a mostly unwilling guest. And it’s only because you’re doing the same thing he does: save face, lift your reputation, network—a brutal cycle.

That birdbrain was your initial thought when you skimmed the words cordially invite you to the wedding of Sunday Oak, and you immediately felt scammed somehow. He went and got married before I could, and now I have to sit in the audience and congratulate him. Gross.

So now you’re here, having sat through the ceremony and an obnoxious amount of platitudes, artfully dodging questions of, “You look familiar. Where do I remember you from?” You’re wearing a skin that’s only semi-immune to self-importance and schemes: a strapless black dress that wraps around your body like a smothering embrace. A matching choker is fastened around your throat. You don’t have glittering gems and pretty pearls, so costume jewelry fills in for what’s deceptive enough to pass as opulent authenticity.

This is the type of wedding that makes the headlines. Massive news for a massive event! Powerful people strut about and mingle in the ballroom beneath a coruscating chandelier, preening like peacocks when their feathers are smoothed out with obsequious flattery. You don’t fit in with anyone here. It’s another world—a world you’re relieved to have left behind all those years ago.

That was always the crux of your dynamic with Sunday. The imbalance. Different worlds. Different values. Different, different, different. And not the kind in which you make it work, fitting together like imperfect puzzle pieces in spite of difficulty—that love conquers all nonsense. Rather, it was the type of difficulty that’s reminiscent of oil and water. An impossible mixture.

No matter what, nothing seemed to blend. You’d melt into each other, but the physical and emotional amalgamation wouldn’t stick.

The fact of the matter? Sunday was primed for success ever since his and Robin’s adoption into the illustrious Oak Family. On the other side of the coin, you were primed for struggle and survival. For a litany of temporary work, a galactic hole wrenched open in your heart since your first failure, and as a result you continue to climb an unsteady ladder in search of a way to slice that pesky prefix off. Steady. You want to know what that’s like. At one point, you thought you wanted to know that bliss with Sunday. Not anymore, though.

This world is suffocating and reeks of too-expensive colognes that cloy like rot, and it’s bright in here—a blinding sort of light that sears through your eyelids to chisel away at your irises. You can’t endure another minute here.

I’ve played my part, you think, performing a sly sweep of the room. I applauded with the audience, I left my gift with the rest, and I’m telepathically sending good vibes. Time to make my grand escape.

You weave around a marble pillar, confident in the curtain call, only to stop short at the sight of an old nuisance standing just beyond the cluster of people cluttered between you—literally and symbolically, forever worlds apart. And grand your escape would have surely been had he not had the conscience to look your way at that exact moment. You watch as he excuses himself from his previous conversation, and then he’s maneuvering seamlessly around the crowd like a shark fin cutting through deep blue. They part with ease, offering him smiles and congratulations in succession.

Before you can think of running, he’s standing right in front of you.

“Miss (Name), good evening.”

“If it isn’t the man of the hour!” You flash more teeth than lip when you smile, the worst fake you’ve ever tried to force. “Congrats.”

Amusement crinkles the corners of eyes. “Are you enjoying the party? I must say it’s an unexpected surprise to see you here.”

“Coming from the guy who put me on the list, I highly doubt that.” You pluck a champagne flute from a passing waiter and school your temper into rehearsed refinement. “But it’s a very nice event, yes. I’m enjoying myself.” And then because you can’t help it, “The most handsome man in Penacony—married. Wow! Big news. What a dream. So happy for you.”

Every word is spoken with great strain.

Lifting the glass to meet ruby-red lips, you hold his aureate stare and take a long sip from the fizzy beverage. It crackles at the back of your throat in an explosion of aromatic alcohol. Sunday studies this display with a strange intensity, his gaze flicking from your face to your mouth, and then he settles on the lipstick staining the rim of the glass. Despite his phlegmatic placidity, a mask measured to muddle the manipulation lying just beneath the surface, you’re trained in Sunday’s tactics. If there’s anyone who can navigate these sides of him—the control and coercion, every unsavory facet—it’s you.

He breathes out a gentle laugh. “You’ve never possessed a penchant for dishonesty, especially not the successful sort.”

And if there’s anyone who can see through to your very soul, perceptive to a point, it’s your ex. He knows all of your best and worst qualities just as you know all of his, and much like the symbolism in wearing all black to a wedding celebration you’re a stain on his past.

It was a first relationship that was swiftly swept under dozens of metaphorical rugs. And if you’re ever brought up in conversation it’s always the angelic, can-never-do-anything-wrong Family head with his undesirable ex-girlfriend. 

“Look, this has been cute—all of this.” You gesture with your glass. Liquid gold almost sloshes over the rim. If any speckles your outfit, you can’t tell. The droplets are devoured by the dark void of your dress. “But I have places to be. Congrats again on the wedding.”

With a casual wave of your hand, you swivel around on your heel and take one step forward. His next words freeze you in place.

“Sardonic as usual. How could your most lovable trait slip my mind?” There’s a catty edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. Childish, almost, as if your very existence brings out the immaturity from all those years ago. Perhaps it’s still there and, rather than maturing, he just learned how to hide it. “How keenly you flee.”

Your fingers tighten around the slim stem of your glass, and for a beautiful moment you picture Sunday’s neck in its place. And then the spell breaks and you’re left to pivot sharply, a monstrous sneer cutting into your cheeks.

“Funny. If I recall, someone once said it’s what I do best. I guess I’m living up to the legend, huh, Sunday?”

“Nothing if not predictable, even at your most troublesome. It is as endearing as it is frustrating.”

“Ugh. Don’t you have a new wife to cozy up to? Or people to let stroke your ego? Go bother one of them. I’m not in the mood.”

“I couldn’t possibly do that. As host, it would be poor manners on my part to neglect a guest.”

The way he pronounces guest makes you think he wants to swap the word for a more fitting title, one that rhymes, but he refrains from doing so. Still, the hidden description brands itself onto your brain. Pest. Pest. Pest.

That’s all you really are to one another nowadays. A pest from the past. Thankfully, the feeling is mutual.

“Aren’t you oh-so-considerate?”

His smile does not add any shine to his already lightless eyes. To stave off the awkward, near-nuclear tension, you down the rest of your champagne. Sunday’s focus drifts once more, lingering squarely on your tongue as it darts out to wet your lips. You take notice of this and level him with a stern frown.

“Don’t jeopardize your marriage by being so obvious, or you might find yourself in the early stages of divorce. Be careful, birdbrain.”

As you brush past him, you catch his mumblings.

“As if I would fall for such blatant temptation. It’s simply unbecoming. Reckless behavior befitting that of utter fools.”

With that, Sunday flattens nonexistent wrinkles on his perfect suit and steps back into the crowd. You beeline right for the refreshments. If it’s a party on the Oak Family’s Credits, you’re determined to depart with a stomach full of fancy food and bubbly beverages.

No harm in letting loose tonight, you think. No work, no worries, no obligations. It’s a Sunday. Make the most of it before Monday.

Hours later, clutching a plate piled high with tiny cakes and skewers of cheese and fruit, you sway out of the ballroom. Diffidence cast aside, your body warm and wired with a giggly sort of inebriation, you stagger-walk until the music and thunderous din of too many conversations flushes out into a distant muffle. It takes a few more turns and a silly moment of mistaking your left from your right before you realize you are not nearing the exit. Instead, you’re just putting more space between the outside and yourself.

It’s quiet and cold in this hall, peaceful like the grave. Shadows settle in corners and beneath curtains. Maybe you’d find yourself unsettled if it weren’t for the snacks in hand. They distract you from any encroaching haunts.

The Oak Family Manor is more labyrinthine than you remember, but then it’s been years since you stepped foot in these walls. 

“Damn. Where the fuck is the exit?” you mutter, licking buttercream from your fingers. “This stupid house…”

Your surroundings tilt and blur in a dizzying splotch of color and shapes. You set your plate down on a half-moon table and grab at the wall for support. The motion of the world seems to settle momentarily like aquarium gravel sinking in a fishbowl.

And then a gentle voice slices through eerie tranquility: “Miss (Name), you’re lost.”

Forcing your eyes open, you cast your gaze over your shoulder. He looks like pure light in his white suit, a comparison that instantly sours in your stomach and darkens the drunken innocence scrawled on your face.

I must be in Hell if this is what they’re calling an angel.

“Oh, it’s just you.”

“I’m flattered by your heartwarming greeting. Even when you’re three sheets to the wind, you always captivate me with your…unique ways of interaction, to put it lightly.”

“Ha-ha. Very funny.” Straightening yourself out, you cover the distance to reach him, heels clicking in time with your heartbeat, and jab a manicured finger at his chest. “You…”

With the tattered remains of your pride on the line, you refuse to admit your tipsy brain led you to who-knows-where inside your ex’s house. So instead you stare until the beginnings of a wry smile play at the corners of his mouth. He seems thoroughly entertained with your ineffective attempt at feisty intimidation. Wobbly as your legs are, you stand your ground and poke at his chest. The right words will come to you eventually. You’re sure of it.

Sunday’s slender fingers wrap around your wrist, preventing you from barraging his pristine suit with your immature prodding.

“Well?” he encourages. “You were saying?”

You examine his features for a long time—longer than what would be considered normal if you had your wits about you—and throw your head back to groan.

“You’re so irritating and you never shut up.”

“And you are stubborn to the core, hopelessly so. Shall I continue listing more of your flaws just as you have demonstrated them, or would you like a chance to defend yourself? I’m certain eight years is more than enough time for adequate self-improvement, but judging by your current state it appears nothing’s changed.”

He cuts you down with such a soft, matter-of-fact tone. You understand better than anyone why the absurdity of marriage could never apply to you and him.

Now properly irked, you try to pull your wrist free. Mischief curls his smile into that of a self-satisfied smirk. He holds firm—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to keep you still. If you weren’t so drunk, you’d realize he’s not really trapping you at all. It’s the type of grasp that would loosen immediately if you put just a smidge of force into ripping yourself free, and even then that would make your non-struggle appear laughable and feeble.

“Shouldn’t you be nicer to your guests? As a guest, this sort of behavior is simply unbecoming from the host,” you complain, mimicking him to the best of your ability.

“Well, I find it’s similarly unbecoming for a guest to carelessly overindulge and wander aimlessly in areas she doesn’t belong. That is to say, Miss (Name), it’s not very nice to explore a house without the homeowner’s permission. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Not my fault your house is dumb and big!” Puffing your cheeks out in a petulant pout, you finally tear your arm away. There’s no resistance on his part. “Just show me the exit and I’ll be out of your life for good, and we’ll never have to put up with each other again.”

With a tut, Sunday shakes his head at you like you’re a particularly stupid child who’s missed the lesson in a lecture. It’d be worse if he waggled his finger in your face and left you with an equally pettish, “Nuh-uh.”

“Or I could resolve to leave you here, disoriented as you are, to wander my house like a little lost, liquor-addled mouse.”

“Oh, please. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Sadistic…” The rest of your grumbling dies on your tongue. “Whatever. I don’t need your help.”

You intend to storm off and search for the exit on your own, but vertigo catches up to you and drags you back to a more humble stage. Again, you cling to the wall to steady yourself. Only unlike before you can’t bear to stay on your feet and so you slide slowly down the wall to sit on the ground, your legs folding up into your chest. With a defeated moan, you rest your forehead on your knees and pray for the world to stop twirling.

“Go back to your hoity-toity party and your pretty wife and your fancy food. I’ll find my way out.” You shoo him away with a limp hand motion.

Sunday remains silent, but you know he’s still there. You can feel his presence like a splinter wedged under your skin.

“You can hardly walk, let alone lift yourself off the ground. You’re about as stable as a baby bird learning to fly. Where exactly do you think you’re going to go in this state?”

“Home,” is your flat reply. And then you lift your head to peer at him through your lashes. “What do you care whether I can walk or not?”

Sunday crouches to your height to closely observe your glazed eyes, the part of your lips, the rise and fall of your chest. A cautious calculation passes over his face, waltzing elegantly through gold hues to form a pinched frown beneath his nose. A stagnant beat stretches between you and him. You know that blank slate of a look, inscrutable to even the most experienced detective. He’s practicing his words in his head, deciding which is an appropriate response. As his former partner, you’ve got a leg up on anyone hoping to solve the enigmatic Sunday. It’s a blessing and a curse.

“I don’t care. Not particularly. But it would be irresponsible to leave a guest—my ex-girlfriend—dead on her feet in a dark hallway. It wouldn’t look very good for me or the Oak Family.”

“Riiight. How could I forget? Always reputation first for the oh-so-flawless Head of the Oak Family.” A smirk sits slanted on your face. You tilt your head at him, coy. “No one’s gonna care about me. I’m not famous or rich or part of some influential family. Don’t pretend like it matters.”

I don’t matter. Not here.

Having taken umbrage at your remark and all that is left unsaid, he draws back. There’s a noticeable shift in his demeanor. Gloomy, maybe. Brooding? You can’t place it, but somehow you’ve nudged a sensitive subject.

“Perhaps my initial assessment of your character was lacking. You’ve an infuriating proclivity for getting under my skin. You always have—even now when you’re at your most vulnerable, you remain a perpetual pain in my side.”

“You sure don’t mince your words.”

His wings rustle, feathers and feelings ruffled. “I should commend your talent.”

“Gee, how nice. Hollow words from a hollow man. I’m honored.” But then you turn serious—or about as serious as you can get when you’re stupid-drunk—and lower your voice conspiratorially. “You should get back to your party. Won’t look very good if someone catches prim and proper, married-man Sunday with his ex in a dark hallway, all alone. Think of the ruuumors.”

You giggle because it’s funny. Not really, but it kind of is. Just a little.

What is funny, though, is the way Sunday stiffens, his jaw clenched tightly in disapproval. There’s only so much pushing he can take before he falls, a perfect statue chipped away and crumbling.

He kneels directly in front of you. “Do you intend to start a needless disagreement, or is the alcohol doing that for you?”

“Dunno.” You lean in closer without thinking and challenge him with a grin. “Wanna find out?”

Inches apart now, this newfound proximity doesn’t immediately dawn on you. Sunday hesitates, very obviously working out the underlying meaning to your snark.

“You would be ill-advised to play inane games with me, Miss (Name). I’m inclined to be merciless on account of the trouble you’ve caused and will inevitably cause should you continue this charade.”

“That makes two of us,” you whisper, shrugging off the thorny threat twined through his words. “Because I play to win.”

Acting purely on inebriated impulse, you grab hold of his suit and yank him towards you. Sunday stumbles and reaches out with his palms to catch himself against the wall. You close the gap and smash your mouth against his, leaving Sunday so stunned, in fact, that he can’t seem to function for a flickering moment. As if something in his brain was rewired when you touched him. There’s a sliver of hesitation, a brief separation, but then his hands peel away from the wall to seize your hips. The rest of your startled gasp is swallowed when he drags you closer, his reciprocation feverish and fervent, as if he’s waited ages to fulfill this fantasy.

Surprise slides into sensuality. You grab at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him, your lips meshing sloppily. Your lipstick smears in the process, but the messy state you must surely be in doesn’t cross your mind then. Nothing truly does when your teeth click together and he licks into your mouth like he’s trying to taste the syrupy secrets at the back of your throat. 

In an effort to have an iota of control over the situation, half-mad with barely suppressed desire, Sunday hitches one of your legs around his waist and presses inward, his body caging you against the wall. The sudden shift in position leaves you scrabbling for a new handhold, and your fingers dig into his previously smooth suit coat, now half-shucked, his shirt wrinkled and coming untucked. You jerk away to catch your breath.

Neither of you says anything, choosing to challenge the other with a scary amount of vehemence. Yours is notably dazed, drifting down to the way your clothed bodies connect. Sunday’s attention is pinned solely on your bedraggled appearance—your mouth, to be precise, and then your eyes. Your fascinating, fervor-glazed eyes.

Sunday snaps back to himself when you palm at the tent in his trousers. His wings fold in front of his face, as if to obscure his flushed expression. An impish grin blossoms on your lips.

“This is a first. You didn’t cum right away. With your weak dick, I would’ve thought you’d be a mess already.”

He looks at you, unimpressed by your vulgarity. “That was many years ago. I do believe I’m due for some level of leniency.”

“You’re the only guy I’ve ever known who cums from kissing. So easy,” you tease, hooking your arms around his neck to coax him closer. “It’s cute. The only part of you that’s honest.”

He does not deign to offer any sort of defense. Instead his hands wander over your thighs, hiking your dress further up to expose the plush, bare skin beneath. 

“Troublesome,” he chides and rocks against you, to which you respond in kind by grinding down against him. The friction leaves both of you shuddering. So close, yet still so cavernous. “Quite the corrupting influence.”

“Am I the best corrupting influence you’ve ever had?” you ask around a giggle.

Sunday exhales through his nose. “The worst. But also the most tempting.”

Somehow that sends a bolt of giddy energy through you, and you lean up to kiss the corner of his mouth. In your wake, a faint lipstick print is stamped onto pale skin. Sunday’s mouth falls open in silent protest. Something seems to register in his brain then because his awe slithers away into a stormy sort of disapproval. As if this mark is somehow worse than everything else the two of you have done.

“Messy. Always so messy,” he gripes.

“Oops. Sorryyy,” you whine, drawing the empty apology out. Gently, you take hold of his face and scrub it away with your thumb. Enticed by the smudges on your own lips, Sunday stares.

“Don’t apologize. I’m certain it looks quite striking on me.”

“Does it? I think it looks better on me. Red’s not really your color.”

He parts from you only momentarily to slide his gloves from his hands. Like the tide, he returns to meet your shore. The heat of your bodies is volcanic, and his hands sear your skin when he roams with ravenous fingertips. As if this is the only opportunity he’ll have to explore territory that was once charted. As if you might slip between his fingers like crystal-clear water in an oasis. Like you’re nothing more than a fleeting dream.

His mouth at your ear, he murmurs his taunt, “You’re right. The color of passion suits you well.”

“Less passion and more anger whenever I think of you.”

Laughter rattles in his chest. The snipe isn’t nearly as backhanded as you wanted it to sound. The syllables and semantics are slurred, scattered like raindrops fogging a windowpane.

“I ought to do something about that messy, misbehaving mouth of yours…”

“Yeah? And what’re you gonna do?”

“A few things come to mind. Care to guess?”

“Surprise me.”

His hands settle above your waist, almost folding over the expanse of your stomach. If he wasn’t so shackled to his restraint, you’d think he’d grab hold of your dress and yank it down to reveal your braless breasts for his starving eyes. Somehow he manages to reel himself in and chooses to greedily explore the slope of your neck and shoulder instead. One of his hands reaches up so that he can hook his fingers around your choker.

“There is beauty in simplicity. A pity it seems to decorate you so naturally. I could offer you a far more exquisite collar and then you would be unmistakably mine,” he murmurs, mouthing at sensitive skin like it’s an old habit he can’t shake. Maybe you’d tug his wings in admonishment for remembering all of your weak zones, for the mewl that’s ripped from your throat is so pornographic it has both of you taking pause.

“Stop… Stop talking.”

Sunday hums and consoles you with a playful nip to your neck. Warm, moist kisses trail along the length of it until he locates another spot—the same one he once lavished with love many years ago when you were both young and dumb and exorbitantly affectionate in private. You turn your head to offer more of your exposed neck. While he sucks at your bare shoulder, moving steadily over to your collarbone once he’s pleased with the bruise bitten into a previously unmarked canvas, you grab at his jacket. Sunday shrugs out of it with minimal difficulty, and the article is cast on the glossy floor in a forgotten heap.

Your breathing grows shallow, spotted with the occasional moan. They’re soft in Sunday’s ears, tickling like the very feathers protruding from behind his ears.

“More… Keep going,” you whine, hooking your other leg around his waist and yanking him closer. You grind against him, desperate to feel more of him. “Please, Sunday…”

His hands halt beneath your dress, and he lifts his head to study you, caught off-guard by your pleading. And then his features smooth out with surprising fondness.

“Of course,” he whispers around a gentle chuckle. “For you, my dear, I would do anything.”

Your legs are adjusted so that he can lean over you with ease, and when he captures your waiting lips in another hedonistic kiss you drag him down so that he can melt into you on the floor. Something sticks then. A sentiment unearthed. You’re not sure what it is.

You don’t get to find out, for the night and its pleasures finally catch up to you and the intoxication pulls you deeper into the shadows of unconsciousness.

The afternoon sun is high in the sky when you finally emerge from dreamless slumber, your body tacky and gross. Rubbing the crust from your eyes, you roll over onto your back and glance at the ceiling. Crapulence drapes itself over your heavy form like a shroud. In fact, you feel dead as you lie there on the bed, in an unfamiliar room that feels more like a morgue despite its homely furnishings.

And then the realization sinks into the marrow of your bones.

The ceiling. The bed. The silken sheets. The room. None of this is in your home and it wouldn’t be.

This isn’t your home.

Slowly, you sit up and feel the cushy mattress beneath your palm. Despite the fog clouding last night’s events, you manage to wade through most of it to reach a worrying conclusion.

Calm down. It could be worse.

You got drunk. That’s an easily proven fact, if the hangover currently kicking your ass is worth anything.

You tried to leave the party, but you took too many wrong turns and found yourself lost. You remember that because the journey filled you with so much irritation. So many memories etched onto the walls of that mansion—memories you were hoping to never revisit.

You ran into your ex-boyfriend, and he said something about mice or mazes… It’s so hazy, but whatever it was you’re sure it was nonsense.

And then…Sunday.

And then Sunday.

Sunday.

In a panicked rush, you pat yourself all over in search of any sign—an imprint or a mark or a scratch. Hell, even a scent! You sniff at your wrist and arm as if you’re going to find him there. Evidence of something very, very bad. You’re still wearing your panties and your dress isn’t in tatters on the floor. That’s a good sign.

“Fuuuck!” you hiss, grabbing at your face.

I hooked up with my ex. With my married-man ex! 

It could be worse? Correction: It is worse.

Before you can wallow in your internal self-flagellation any longer, a knock at the door breaks your concentration. Your heart drops down to your stomach. Scrambling like a headless chicken, you gather bunches of the duvet and hold them protectively in front of you. Fluffy defense.

Should I pretend to be asleep? Dead? Should I jump out this window and make a run for it?

“Come—” you cringe at the rustiness of your voice and clear your throat— “C-Come in!”

Please don’t be Sunday. Please don’t be Sunday. It’s a Monday, so it can’t be Sunday. Please, please, please.

The knob twists and the door opens, revealing the last man you want to see right now.

He stands in the doorway, simply watching you, after which he steps inside and shuts it behind him. His unsmiling features are much too impassive for you to discern anything other than perfect neutrality. Silence thickens in the room, and if it could take on the characteristics of smog you’re sure it would choke you. Awkwardly, you curl your fingers into the blankets and meet his cloudy stare.

You wonder if he can hear your heartbeat, or maybe that’s his heartbeat. Maybe both of your hearts are going at speeds so wild their resonance is an echo of a war drum. You’ve no idea what to say. Should you feign ignorance, pretend none of this happened even though it so clearly did?

This is bad. This is so bad.

Seconds stretch into minutes. You think you might have to break this ridiculous staring contest, but Sunday beats you to it.

“You’re finally awake. I was beginning to wonder how long you’d stay bundled up in bed.”

There’s a trace of exasperation. You understand what he’s really trying to say: You’ve overstayed your welcome. Make yourself scarce.

And he doesn’t need to be cordial anymore. Not when you’re both accustomed to the other. You’re not a guest anymore. The party has ended. Now you’re more like a trespasser or a particularly stubborn stain.

“You demon,” you snap, scowling at him.

His eyes narrow. If looks could kill, you’d be dead, revived, double-dead, and then reincarnated all so he could do it again.

“You seemed to think otherwise last night.”

Your flinch betrays your oblivious nature. Steeling yourself, you attempt to plead your case. “That… About that. It was a mistake. Obviously. It shouldn’t have happened. I won’t tell if you won’t, okay? I was drunk and…” You decide right then that you can’t do this, so you throw the covers off, hastily pull your dress down to its appropriate length, and reach for your purse and heels—both sitting patiently near the vanity desk. “I should go.”

Sunday’s eyes follow you like an immovable, haunted portrait. Just before you can stuff your feet into your heels, he reaches out. His hand falls upon your shoulder, and for a single second you think you should just log out of life.

“One moment. We have something to discuss.”

Not a suggestion. A command, spoken in that deceptively patient intonation.

“Right… No, yeah. You’re right. Okay.”

You peel his hand off of you and return to the bed, lowering to sit on the very edge. He steps in front of you and blocks your view of the door.

He gives you a stoic once-over before asking, “How much do you remember from last night? You must speak honestly. I’ll know if you lie.”

Like I’m in any position to lie right now, you birdbrain.

Shame bubbles in your heart like molten magma. You cringe all the way through the confession. “I drank too much and wandered off in search of an exit, but I got lost and then you were there. I think we talked. I don’t know. All I know is that one thing led to another and we kissed. And you…” You catch your reflection in the mirror then and notice the kaleidoscope of marks on your neck. Immediately, courage flaring up, you round on him. “You!”

Springing up from the bed, you point an accusatory finger at his chest. “What the fuck were you thinking?! You’re a married man! Freshly married. Not even twenty-four hours married!”

The clouds in his eyes shift into impenetrable murkiness. “If I recall, you were the one to kiss me. I’m hardly deserving of all the blame.”

“That’s great, but one tiny detail. I was drunk. And furthermore you didn’t have to reciprocate!” The horror from before returns. You feel along your body. “We didn’t. We… We didn’t, right? Go all the way, I mean. Tell me we didn’t.”

It takes him a second too long to utter a single word. You don’t like that.

“No,” he replies, but you’re not convinced. “We didn’t go all the way.”

“You’re sure?”

“Verily.”

You regard him dubiously for another moment, but eventually the doubt ebbs away and you heave a relieved sigh. “All right. Good to know. Let’s take our part of the blame, apologize, and put this mess behind us.”

“You make a valid point. Seeing as we’re both equally at fault, shall we resolve to forgive and forget?”

“Yes. Exactly that.” You stand from the bed, but this time it’s the stabbing pain in your head that stops you. “Fuck, this hangover sucks!”

“Don’t push yourself. You should take it one step at a time. You’re likely dehydrated, hungry, and still clinging to the vestiges of whatever remains from last night. Be careful not to trip over yourself.”

“Gee, thanks for your insincerity.”

Sunday rolls his eyes. “My sincerest apologies if I’m not falling to my knees with sympathy.” He folds his arms over his chest and frowns at you. “It seems you never do learn. Once more I’m left to put up with your antics.”

“I’m not asking you to. I can take care of myself,” you mutter, forcing your feet into your heels. “Just show me the way out of your labyrinth home and you’ll never have to ‘put up with my antics’ ever again.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Well, I’m not staying. You’ve lost your mind if you think that’s what I’m gonna do. No way am I gonna be a homewrecker. Fuck that!”

“You’re not staying, but I refuse to let you stumble out of here looking a right mess in your current state. Until you can comport yourself properly, you’re not leaving.”

“Oh my—geez, you’re insufferable! How does anyone put up with you? How did I put up with you?” You smack your hand to your forehead and groan. “I can’t believe out of everyone—of all the ex-boyfriends it had to be you.”

“Ah, I understand. This is quite the inconvenience for you, is it? The fault lies with me for being such an insufferable wretch.” Sarcasm drips from every syllable like venom. “Perhaps you should choose a less insufferable ex-boyfriend to sink your teeth into.”

You send him a foul look. “So glad we’re on the same page.”

“Gracious…” He sighs. “To think it was possible to forget just how much work you are.”

“And I forgot how much of an ass you were. Oh, sorry. Still are.” You rake your hands through your hair. “I can’t believe I actually kissed you. What was I thinking? I wasn’t! Ugh… This is the worst.”

“You should learn not to overindulge at formal events. Conduct yourself accordingly next time.”

“And you should learn not to kiss your ex-girlfriend back! Who was it who said I was the ‘most tempting’ influence?”

“You…” He scoffs and tries again. “You initiated it. I merely did my duty as a good host and reciprocated.”

“You were the one who put my legs around your waist! What was that about?”

Sunday bristles at that. His cheeks flare with heat and his wings shudder. “That—” He stops himself to string together a coherent excuse. “That was a natural reaction to your… Ahem. It was nothing more than a rash move on my part.”

“I’m not gonna argue and play the blame game with you. Whatever it was, it happened and there’s not going to be a repeat.”

Upon hearing that, a half-smirk settles on his face. “There won’t be a repeat. I’m a married man now.”

You gaze at him, unamused. “My condolences.”

His smirk widens. “I assure you my delightful wife is happy and content. She will want for nothing.”

“Good for you. Both of you, in fact. Congrats,” you grind out. “And when Wifey makes a little mistake and cheats, it’ll all cancel out. That two-negatives-make-a-positive shit. She kisses someone and you tongued it with me. You’ll be even and free of guilt.”

Sunday scoffs. “Your irreverent reasoning is not appreciated. Do not trivialize a serious situation.”

“What? You want me to make it harder than it already is? Is that it?”

“It’s not nearly as simple as ‘canceling out,’ as you’ve put it. A kiss holds a certain level of significance. You shouldn’t dismiss it so flippantly.”

“You should if you’re drunk and there weren’t any feelings and—right, how could I forget?—when it’s with your ex!”

“It’s not that easy,” he asserts, his voice straining.

“Why? What makes it so difficult? Enlighten me.”

“There are feelings involved… Emotions.”

“Lust is the only valid emotion in this situation. What else could there be? What other emotions?”

“It’s…complicated. You were drunk and I was swept up in the moment. That’s all.”

“Doesn’t sound all that complicated when you phrase it like that.”

“We were both slightly under the influence.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why do you care so much?” he asks, turning the verbal knife on you.

“I don’t care.”

“You clearly do. A fraction of you does, at least, considering you’re so hellbent on pushing this matter.”

“It was a stupid mistake and it’s never happening again. You’re married, and I’m going to go back to my life and pretend all of this—” you gesture between him and yourself— “never happened. End of story. I’m done pushing.”

“You intend to move on?” he questions, a scintilla of skepticism hiding within those words. “Just like that?”

“Precisely like that.” You scowl at your face in the mirror and wipe at the lipstick smudged on your jaw. Dragging your purse onto the desk, you fish through it for the tube to reapply a fresh coat.

Sunday affords you a few precious seconds of silence and then he opens his mouth.

“You’re an appalling liar.”

“Brilliant deduction, detective.”

You twist the tube shut and retrieve a bottle of concealer to dress the marks from last night. Leaning towards the mirror, you work hastily to apply layer after layer. Enough to put them out of your mind for the commute home.

“It won’t take a detective to understand that your attempt at feigning nonchalance is not working in your favor.”

“Obviously! It pisses me off that it had to be you.” You tilt your head to examine the stretch of your neck. “You just had to mark me all over… Damn devil.”

In the mirror Sunday watches you carefully, enchanted by the way you stroke the little brush along your skin and blot out every bad lust bite. Because you can’t call them love bites when they weren’t put there with love and care. Or maybe they were. You’ll never know and you don’t want to.

The gloom dissipates in his gaze once you’ve covered all of them. But then the breath sticks in his throat when you, without warning, lift your dress to check for more. His eyes are drawn to your inner thighs like a hawk is to a mouse, and then he turns away with a rather loud cough. One of his wings folds over his face to shield you from his view.

“Don’t you think you’re being a touch too…thorough?”

“Oh, grow up. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” Finding no marks, bruises, or fingerprints, you drop your dress and exhale noisily.

“You’re acting as if you’re inspecting a crime scene.” Peeking out at you through a veil of feathers, Sunday allows his shoulders to droop. “Are the dramatic theatrics really necessary?”

“Sorry. Did you wanna inspect it for yourself since you’re the criminal who left me like this?!” you exclaim through grit teeth, turning on him with a frigid scowl. 

Sunday meets you halfway with a glare of his own. Gold hues rake over the area where his marks lie in wait beneath a thick coat of makeup. Classified in the most thrilling, disturbing way.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Look, I don’t care what you do to get off. If you wanna fuck your wife and pretend it’s me, you do that. Oh, but then that wouldn’t be very perfect-and-loyal-married-man of you, would it?”

He stays on your crimson lips for a drawn-out breath. “I was right,” he mumbles. “You are the worst.”

“Thanks for the reminder.” Shouldering your purse, you stride past him. “I should get going.”

He hesitates, fingers twitching at his side, but he quickly folds them under his arms. Back to prim and proper, sharp as a needle, full of abhorrence for you.

“Yes, you should. Run along and put this encounter out of your mind, if you would be so kind.”

“I intend to.” You flash him a nasty sneer.

On your way out, though, you stop. Maybe you want to play at being the bigger, better person. Or maybe you genuinely are grateful. Either way, you soften the animosity in your voice enough to get the admission out.

“And…thank you. For looking after me.”

You flee from the room before he can say anything. With daylight brightening the mansion’s maze-like halls and your sobriety, you’re able to recall the path to the front door.

All of this, you think, stepping out into the sunny afternoon, your arms wrapped around yourself in a self-soothing hug, was not worth the hangover.

From the window, Sunday watches you depart until you’re officially gone. Sighing, he allows the curtain to fall into place and glances at the unkempt bed.

“Of course,” he murmurs, smoothing his hand over the wrinkled sheets. “You’re welcome.”

[probablyasocialecologist]

Many of Harris’s mistakes were similar to those Hillary Clinton made in 2016. Like Clinton, Harris cozied up to billionaire donors. Mark Cuban, for instance, said he was delighted that Harris was abandoning Democrats’ commitments to progressive principles and letting the business community propose the policies it wanted. Like Clinton, Harris and Tim Walz made hubristic campaign stops in solidly red states like Texas and Kentucky rather than spending the final days laser-focused on crucial battlegrounds. Like Clinton, Harris emphasized celebrity endorsements while failing to successfully court unions. (Most notably, the Teamsters declined to endorse her after she refused to pledge that she wouldn’t break a national railway strike.) Like Clinton, Harris focused too much on the danger of Donald Trump (which is very real) and not enough on the reasons why she would be good at being president herself. Most importantly, like Clinton, Harris ultimately decided upon a strategy of trying to woo moderate Republican voters away from Trump, reasoning that it didn’t matter if doing so alienated progressive voters and the Democratic base. Chuck Schumer, speaking of Hillary’s 2016 strategy, infamously promised: "For every blue-collar Democrat we lose in western Pennsylvania, we will pick up two moderate Republicans in the suburbs in Philadelphia. And you can repeat that in Ohio and Illinois and Wisconsin." In fact, they just lost the blue-collar Democrats and didn’t pick up the Republicans! In 2024, Harris, too, aggressively touted endorsements from Republicans, promised to put a Republican in her cabinet (she even cited that as the answer to what she would have done differently from Biden!), and went so far as to praise and embrace Dick and Liz Cheney! The strategy was an abject failure. Because she wanted to appease both Republicans and progressive voters, Harris had to further indulge her weakness for speaking in meaningless word salads, since taking stances that were meaningful could have alienated one of these constituencies. Trump, who is canny about portraying himself as more anti-war than Democrats, correctly pointed out that an endorsement from the hawkish Cheneys should be a badge of shame, not honor. (Specifically he said Cheney is “"the King of Endless, Nonsensical Wars, wasting Lives and Trillions of Dollars, just like Comrade Kamala Harris. I am the Peace President, and only I will stop World War III!")

[...]

The lesson to Democratic leaders in 2016 should have been that Bernie Sanders had been right, that the party had betrayed working-class voters and would be doomed if it could not effectively counter Trump’s pseudo-populist appeal with a visionary alternative. (See the excellent analysis in Thomas Frank’s Listen, Liberal.) Unfortunately, the lessons weren’t learned then, and it doesn’t seem like they’re going to be learned now, either! MSNBC anchor Joy Reid is already insisting that Kamala Harris’s campaign was “flawless” (because she got “every prominent celebrity voice”), and pundits like Jill Filipovic are saying things like, “this election was not an indictment of Kamala Harris. It was an indictment of America.” (Good luck ever winning with the slogan “You’re the problem, America!”) USAToday’s Michael Stern says that instead of talking about “where the Harris campaign went wrong” we should talk about “where the American people went wrong.” The Harris campaign itself is blaming unspecified “obstacles that were largely out of our control.” 

6 November 2024

[contemplatingoutlander]

That the Editorial Board of the premier U.S. newspaper of record is finally warning about Donald Trump is significant. As such, this is a gift 🎁 link so that those who want to read the entire editorial can do so, even if they don't subscribe to The New York Times. Below are some excerpts:

As president, [Trump] wielded power carelessly and often cruelly and put his ego and his personal needs above the interests of his country. Now, as he campaigns again, his worst impulses remain as strong as ever — encouraging violence and lawlessness, exploiting fear and hate for political gain, undermining the rule of law and the Constitution, applauding dictators — and are escalating as he tries to regain power. He plots retribution, intent on eluding the institutional, legal and bureaucratic restraints that put limits on him in his first term. Our purpose at the start of the new year, therefore, is to sound a warning. Mr. Trump does not offer voters anything resembling a normal option of Republican or Democrat, conservative or liberal, big government or small. He confronts America with a far more fateful choice: between the continuance of the United States as a nation dedicated to “the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity” and a man who has proudly shown open disdain for the law and the protections and ideals of the Constitution. [...] It is instructive in the aftermath of that administration to listen to the judgments of some of these officials on the president they served. John Kelly, a chief of staff to Mr. Trump, called him the “most flawed person I’ve ever met,” someone who could not understand why Americans admired those who sacrificed their lives in combat. Bill Barr, who served as attorney general, and Mark Esper, a former defense secretary, both said Mr. Trump repeatedly put his own interests over those of the country. Even the most loyal and conservative of them all, Vice President Mike Pence, who made the stand that helped provoke Mr. Trump and his followers to insurrection on Jan. 6, 2021, saw through the man: “On that day, President Trump also demanded that I choose between him and the Constitution,” he said.

[See more under the cut.]

There will not be people like these in the White House should Mr. Trump be re-elected. The former president has no interest in being restrained, and he has surrounded himself with people who want to institutionalize the MAGA doctrine. According to reporting by the Times reporters Maggie Haberman, Charlie Savage and Jonathan Swan, Mr. Trump and his ideological allies have been planning for a second Trump term for many months already. Under the name Project 2025, one coalition of right-wing organizations has produced a thick handbook and recruited thousands of potential appointees in preparation for an all-out assault on the structures of American government and the democratic institutions that acted as checks on Mr. Trump’s power. [...] Mr. Trump has made clear his conviction that only “losers” accept legal, institutional or even constitutional constraints. He has promised vengeance against his political opponents, whom he has called “vermin” and threatened with execution. This is particularly disturbing at a time of heightened concern about political violence, with threats increasing against elected officials of both parties. He has repeatedly demonstrated a deep disdain for the First Amendment and the basic principles of democracy, chief among them the right to freely express peaceful dissent from those in power without fear of retaliation, and he has made no secret of his readiness to expand the powers of the presidency, including the deployment of the military and the Justice Department, to have his way. [...] Re-electing Mr. Trump would present serious dangers to our Republic and to the world. This is a time not to sit out but instead to re-engage. We appeal to Americans to set aside their political differences, grievances and party affiliations and to contemplate — as families, as parishes, as councils and clubs and as individuals — the real magnitude of the choice they will make in November.

I encourage people to use the above gift link and read the entire article.

[edited]

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Matt Davies

* * * *

President Carter, may you have fair winds and following seas

Steve Schmidt

President Carter was one of the six presidents who was born in the first 25 years of the 20th century.

Those six presidents led America between 1960 and 1992, before the first baby boomer was elected.

During this speech President Carter talked about the trauma faced by that generation specifically, and the country in general. He talked about the loss of faith, trust and belief in the future that was taking hold and was being driven by many factors. He painted a picture of the road that would lead to Donald Trump 37 years later.

Jimmy Carter reached out to the American people, and spoke a truth that hurt him politically, but this speech was among the most profound an American president has ever given about the American spirit.

He diagnosed a growing lassitude that was driven by consumerism and emptiness. His entire life was a living devotional towards resisting the temptations of a meaningless life for a principled one. He never cashed in, and never changed anything in which he believed. His convictions were backed by deeds. His wisdom should be better known.

There has never been an American president that lived as long as Jimmy Carter, and no American citizen lived longer as a former president than Jimmy Carter. His life has ended, and all of the politics and recriminations, judgements, actions and decisions of a life that has endured for almost 100 years are gone now.

What is left is the full record of an American icon, global statesman, Navy submariner, Sunday school teacher and recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize. He was married to his wife Rosalynn for 77 years.

Every person who knows him says the same thing. They all say that the Jimmy Carter who became the most powerful man in the world came home as the same Jimmy Carter who left. He led a life of service and integrity.

He was a peacemaker who loved his country, and served it long and well. He was the last surviving member of the generation that fought and won the Second World War, and kept the peace in the dangerous hours of the Cold War.

Wherever there was suffering and injustice in the world the oppressed peoples knew of Jimmy Carter and what he stood for because he stood for them. He stood for the American idea and ideal all through his noble life.

The American people should take a moment and say a prayer of gratitude for Jimmy Carter. Whatever ails America, it still produces people like Jimmy Carter.

Godspeed, Mr. President, on your last journey.

May you have fair winds and following seas.

Thank you for all of your service to America and to all of humanity.

[Steve Schmidt]

+

Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!

William Shakespeare‬

[pixiecaps]

Heres a portion of Maxo’s ending monologue and some meta commentary.

q!Maxo: And what if I stay? At least they won’t have that planned out. How can I be so stupid? Of course, they know about the bomb. They literally know everything, see everything, its an all seeing eye, of course. They already knew about my plan.. But there’s a plan they don’t know. And it’s that I’m going to stay here. It’s over. Besides, I’m a danger to everybody, I’m turning into a code. I know now that I’m not the only one but at least it’ll be one less, right? It’s the desperation of not being able to do anything against the Federation. They always get away with it, man. They always get what they want. I don’t- I don’t know why I’m even still walking. … They’ve taken my bomb and stolen my idea and now they’re exploding it. They don’t care. At least, we found a way to escape. (Timer runs out)

cc!Maxo: (Closes game) And like that is how he dies. “Are you coming back as a ghost?” As of right now I am not thinking about returning as a ghost. (Plays sad music) Rest in peace qMaxo. Rest in fucking peace. I did all I could chat. I did all I could. … If I had reached the boat I would not have gotten on. I think what I would’ve wanted is to reach the boat, say goodbye to everybody, and die. But I suppose due to the timer the bomb blew up before that could happen. … So I’ve died. That is how it goes. This was the only thing I could do that the Federation could really not control. Killing myself.

cc!Maxo: (When a chatter mentioned the people who didn’t reach the boat) Chat I only know that I’ve died, it’s what I wanted for my lore. That I would’ve stayed there with the atomic bomb. In a fantasy world like the QSMP, of course I could revive, finally turn into a code, or whatever but for the moment all I know is that I’m dead. And I don’t have anything else scripted, from this moment on I’m dead and thats final. Thats the reality, and thats why I’m not… happy because I will for sure miss the QSMP. But since I personally take roleplay very seriously, for me there is no going back. I am dead. I cannot return as cubito Maxo. I can return as a spirit that haunts Roier once in a while, periodically, I could, I could but qMaxo is dead. It’s sad, I’m not super happy because obviously I spent a really great time on QSMP but by my own lore, man, I couldn’t do it any longer. I couldn’t handle returning to Quesadilla Island knowing I couldn’t do anything against the Federation. If I made a fucking atomic bomb and the boss of Purgatory goes and says, “Oh you have an atomic bomb? Okay. In fact, that’s a good idea. Let’s explode it, run to the boat, returning again to the island that you were in, because thats likely what will happen, and you’ll continue suffering.” I can’t do it anymore. I’ve lost Trump, my son, I’ve lost- I no longer trust people who can kill each other amongst themselves, by the lore.

cc!Maxo: The players themselves are super fun people and I’ve had a good time. What makes me feel shame is that, that I can’t roleplay with them anymore. To say it one way or another. Well, there could be things in the future the admins offer but as a player it makes me feel shame. Also, while it is true that recently I hadn’t been logging in a lot, the times I did I had a good time. I did a lot of cool things with these people.

cc!Maxo: I lost SOFIA, I lost.. everything. Everything that I’ve done, every idea that I had thought of for myself and others has been taken by the Federation. … I think that the Federation has so much control that is impossible to do anything against them. And everything you do against them they’ll use to further confuse the people. … For me I will no longer play [as qMaxo] because I am dead, that’s serious to me, I’ve decided my character has died in an explosion. Another thing is that I could occasionally log on as a spirit or something. If they allow me that then great! But if dying means not being able to play on the QSMP anymore then so be it. … This was necessary for the roleplay. … I didn’t die thinking, “Wow I found the answer.” I didn’t want to die because I found any type of answer. I died because of desperation. To say, look man I couldn’t find any answers.

Maxo mentioned it did leave him with a sour taste in his mouth that he didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to everybody since he ran out of time. So a chatter suggested he does canonical pre recording goodbye video to everybody. He said he’d likely consider it and do it so that his character gets the chance to tell the other characters goodbye and that he’s gone.

Rest in peace qMaxo, the original founder of the Theory Bros, and someone who gave his all to escaping the island no matter the cost.

[soon-palestine]

That these are the candidates the American political establishment has thrown up is excruciating but clear evidence of the ongoing crumbling of the US political order.

If you are an American reading this, that exceptionalist logic got you here. Just as with every empire

For the rest of the world, these are dangerous times. The Empire is always most bloodthirsty, vicious and violent as it collapses.

The global south will primarily bear the brunt of even greater American violence and brutality.

Having said that, I think USA will not collapse quietly. But has it done anything ever quietly?

I fear that USA’s collapse may well be brutal, violent and bloody for its own people.

The political and legal structures built to ensure perpetual minority rule are increasingly brittle.

All the steps for the ‘peace’ cobbled together by and for white supremacy after 1865 never addressed the conflict at the heart of the American project. Now tbh it’s too late

Why do I mention 1865? Because the Civil War never really ended. US just has managed to grant itself a very long period of the war with consistent, ‘low’ intensity violence against its dissenting population.

There is a kind of historical symmetry (the kind historians abhor and novelists love) to a settler colony built on enslavement, loot and genocide being brought to a close by a contest between a rapist and felon and an apartheid supporting genocidaire

My guess is that Trump will win in November. Mostly because many of the ‘rainbow coalition’ will stay home.

White Dems can blame minoritised folk all they want. But this loss will be entirely theirs.

When he does, many parts of the world may well be grateful for the kompromat Putin and Russia hold on Trump and his crew.

Many others will be grateful for his insatiable greed, inexhaustible corruption and poor business sense.

Because those mean he is susceptible to pressures of fear and greed.

If the choice is a between a lying, corrupt, thuggish mob boss and an ideologically driven, cognitively hampered psychopath…well at least one can negotiate with the former

[carrotcakecrumble]

Talking to anyone in the UK that is dismissive of the things Trump said in his inauguration speech because ‘it’s Trump, what do you expect?’:

If an American president had acted the way Trump has/is acting say, 15 years ago or something, it would be being made a much bigger deal of over here in the Uk than it is being made of today. It would be unthinkable that a Labour government would cosy up with a world leader who incited a coup and disrupted the peaceful transition of power, yet we have Kier Starmer intent of having a relationship with the Trump administration. And hardly anyone bats an eyelid. No one expects anyone to bat an eyelid.

I hear people talking about the ‘Gulf of America’ thing and, for the most part, calling it crazy. But partnered with crazy I keep hear again and again & hand in hand, ‘it’s hilarious’

is it?

Overtons window is the idea that (as I understand it) a political leader will act within a certain window of what the majority public deems as acceptable. Over the last decade, a lot of us have been watching hopelessly as misinformation and propaganda push this window further and further right. Widening and widening it until it’s just a gaping void full of Elon Musk’s sieg heiling on national television and American presidents disregarding repeatedly the rule of a law they evidently have very little understanding of. A lot of the events that spurred this migration right was met with laughter and disbelief in this country.

After Roe V Wade, do you still disbelieve ?

When we laugh at how insane Trump / Musk / Vance is, we dilute how serious the situation actually is, which in return allows this soft-core fascism to enter our mainstream. Someone with that much power opening their mouth and consistently, unintentionally making us laugh should shock us so much more than it is??? A president openingly stating he is willing to disregard current science and research and cut funding to thousands (millions?) of Transgender American citizens should see other progressive western countries angry, intervening, doing something. A billionaire thrusting out a Nazi salute towards the American flag at a presidential inauguration should incite something close to riots. An American president openingly declaring the country an Oligarchy should be on front pages everywhere!!! For weeks!!! For months!!! Yet it’s been days and the buzz around it is already starting to die out. Trump said something 🤪🩷crazy and 🫣😅laughable again so now that’s all we can talk about, of course.

We need to remember that as shockingly unbelievable the things Trumps says are, that it is still reality. It’s not a joke. It has real world consequences. He means it. A lot of American people want him to mean it. A lot of people in this country want him to mean it. We must remember to challenge these things when we hear them, remember to make it clear how dangerous it is. Make a fuss. Make a noise. Make it unacceptable once again.

Most importantly, we must remember: It is not funny.

They (fascists in all their forms) want you find it funny, because then you’ll hardly be able to believe it’s actually happening until it’s already far too late. We should never laugh so loud that we fail to hear the real threat being whispered beneath.

Take everything he and his henchmen say with sincerity and, for god’s sake, act like it’s the most powerful men in the Western world saying it.

[traegorn]

Do you seriously think all insulin will be cut off from diabetics in a revolution? You are the dumbest cunt to ever put on a flat cap, which is stiff competition. Even if the revolutionaries are waging total war, they still have to manage logistics for civilians, and so a priority would be supplying their diabetic population with medicine to survive, or otherwise evacuating disabled civilians to places where medication would be available. Communists believe in universal healthcare. If "all supply chains collapsed" the war would be lost instantly. And while you're right that Americans would die, the us military would have to pull out from their bases across the world to put down a rebellion in their own country, meaning that it would kill fewer people abroad, and therefore fewer people overall in a hypothetical civil war versus their global wars on the third world. But those would be American lives so that's what makes it unconscionable for you. Diabetic Gazans are dying after a decades long blockade, diabetic Americans would have a fighting chance stockpiling insulin, evacuating, and/or doing logistics for the revolution.

I don't think you understand what societal collapse looks like, or how fragile the complex supply chain that provides for over 345 Million Americans is.

In fact, I was talking about this with your mom the other day. Your dad was hogtied in the corner with his ball gag in, so we had a minute or two while we were waiting for him to get an erection again.

Frankly, he needs to get more vitamin E in his diet -- but that's a discussion for another day.

Anyways, as she was undoing my cuffs, she mentioned that the US had seen a record high of drug shortages in 2024, including Insulin. If we consider how fragile that supply is in peace time and extrapolate even a low level disruption to something like, say, the ability to ship things across the midwest, we'd be looking at a deeply dangerous situation where the death toll would be enormous.

We would have kept talking, but your dad got hard again and my mouth was full with his balls.

Anyways, when "revolutionaries" are fighting a war, their priorities are going to be ammunition, clean clothes, and food for themselves. I'm dead in this revolution, and you don't seem to give a shit -- so explain why exactly I should take you seriously?

Also, as an aside, the people you claim you're fighting for don't even want you to withhold your vote. You're doing this for your own vanity and feelings, and not for the real lives of anyone else. Your parents and I are disappointed in you.

[nixite117]

Worldbuilding

If there’s anything I suck at more than anything in fiction, it’s world building.

So let’s get started.

The general idea of my sci fi world is that Earth has just joined the stars. While this is public knowledge, there is very little known about its dominating species, “humans.” However, Earth has been classified as a Class D planet.

Every planet in the universe can fall under certain labels and classifications based on their abilities to sustain life. N Class planets are incapable of sustaining life, and are what make up most of the universe. Whenever a planet with life is found, it is first classified by what kind of life inhabits it. The two options are sentient and non-sentient. Then, if sentience is recognized: advanced or primitive? A society becomes advanced when they have an established connection to technology.

If no sentient species is established, then the planet is analyzed for threat levels of wildlife and disease. This is their “danger class,” and trumps all other classes. If the danger class is high enough, it is then considered a “death planet” and thus is much too dangerous to land on.

The Interstellar Safety Commission is the governing body responsible for this, and publicizes information about such on all planets that are candidates for resource harvesting and/or colonization. They also do this for private companies who are hoping to mine out various planets.

This organization has existed for almost 30,000 years.

Earth was the subject of this classification just before human’s began building civilizations. At the time, not only did the federation find that the planet had, at one point, been hit by an asteroid, but that the planet was teeming with violent creatures. The federation was newer at the time, it’s many members being unfamiliar with the many shapes that life can take. Thus, sights like the glyptodonts and prehistoric hippos were new and unfathomably terrifying.

Because of the mass amount of planets across the universe, typically the solar system around a “death planet” will be quickly archived. Organizations that apply for legal planet mining can easily find new ones nowadays as tech has grown significantly since the start of the ISC. So Earth was largely forgotten, as was our solar system. So much so that our little corner of the Milky Way was one of many little things that was forgotten. This is a loophole that many exploit but that will be discussed later.

Because there was no observation of our planet after this, Earth was pretty much left to evolve in peace. 10,000 years later, it’s the year 2088 and Earth has joined the stars. Upon reviewing the planet we came from, the ISC was baffled by our ability to survive, much less evolve on what is largely considered a “death planet.” Due to this information being public, many rumors started about the human race. We’ve been amongst the stars for almost a decade, which is nothing in the great span of the universe.

Humans have barely begun diplomatic missions with the universe, as our tech is extremely primitive in comparison to most alien tech. This contributes to the grand mystery around humans.

The main misconception is that humans are naturally aggressive and deadly. They are also all huge, hulking creatures with sharp teeth and a kick like no other. As time passes in space, and we learn more about our place among the stars, many of us learn one great truth about our impression on the universe.

Humans.

Are space orcs.

[burningdreambanana]

An analysis on how the show turned Alicent into an accidental villain (part 1)

I think we are all disappointed with the way Alicent was portrayed this season but I think the issues with her character started in season 1, with the writers inability to give her good motivations, or even settle on what her motivations should be, which doomed her character from the start.

In interviews about season 1, Alicent is described as the medieval equivalent of a "Trump Wife" (which is very dumb in itself, since contrary to a modern conservative woman, Alicent doesn't exactly have much choice but to the accept the patriarchy) but essentially they meant Alicent, contrary to Rhaenyra, supports the patriarchy, the existing system : this is her worldview, she is a traditionalist.

But is this true? The answer is no. Alicent does not support the patriarchy in the show. In fact, she supported Rhaenyra's claim over her own's son right up until she had a personal grievance against Rhaenyra. And once she doesn't have that personal grievance anymore because she forgives Rhaenyra in S1E8, she's back to accepting her as queen.

If the writers wanted Alicent to be a supporter of the patriarchy, then they should have made her support Aegon's claim from his very birth. Which makes perfect sense, Alicent has grown in a world where all she's ever known is male primogeniture and it is still the law everywhere in the realm. Her nonchalance at her son being passed over when being the heir should be his birthright is really weird and was the first sign that the writers are unable to let go of their modern sensibilities and really immerse themselves (and us) in Westeros. They also decided to make the threat posed by Rhaenyra on Alicent's sons lives as a mere lie invented by Otto, when in fact Rhaenyra's claim is so shaky (and becomes shakier when she has bastards) that there's a huge likelihood that she would indeed need to get rid of them in order to ascend the throne in peace and secure the Strong boys's ascenscion to the throne as well.

If they had followed with that, than Alicent would have had solid motivations : the unfairness and humiliation of having her son being depraved of what should have been his birthright, and her legitimate fear for her children's safety.

Instead, since they made Alicent turn on Rhaenyra because of a personal grievance, she ends up looking like this petty, bitter, crazy woman who made everyone's life much more miserable, damaged her sons and put all her family in danger because of a grudge.

And it doesn't help that her grudge is poorly explained and pretty confusing. What exactly is Alicent so angry about ? Is it because, like Emily Carey said, she was in love with Cole? We didn't see that all in the show and Rhaenyra had no way of knowing so it would be insane to be this pissed for that. Is it because she in love with Rhaenyra and basically acting like a crazy ex even though they never were together and she herself is married? Is it because during their confrontation Rhaenyra didn't reveal her affair with Cole and implied she was virgin (though she never actually said)? It would be pretty rich of Alicent to be pissed about that considering she concealed her meetings with Viserys to Rhaenyra for months. Did she assume that because Rhaenyra slept with Cole than it must have been true she had sex with Daemon in a brothel? Is she just that pissed that Rhaenyra had sex out of wedlock ? (it would make sense for her to be disappointed but angry?).

All of these possible reasons make Alicent look frankly irrational and insane.

Then when her anger is finally justified after what happened to Aemond, this is where she decides to forgive Rhaenyra, making her apparent fear of her children's lives she transmitted to them look like a lie she made up to justify her anger and turn her children against Rhaenyra and her kids.

Her final motivation of S1, which is to follow Viserys "last command" doesn't make her look innocent, it makes her look worse. Not just because it's so dumb she actually believed Viserys changed his mind, but because we know for a fact Alicent has had not trouble disregarding Viserys wishes before, even to his face. But now that he is dead she acts like she has no choice? And forces Aegon on a throne he doesn't want, somehow acting as if this is not a declaration of war towards Rhaenyra and Daemon, and still taking a holier than thou, I can have this and peace too attitude.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Margaret Hartmann at New York Magazine's Intelligencer:

If you thought Donald Trump’s plans for world domination would stop at unhinged threats to take over Canada, Greenland, and the Panama Canal, think again. The president-elect fully entered his imperialism era on Tuesday, announcing offhandedly that he’s changing the name of the Gulf of Mexico to “the Gulf of America.” The press conference at Mar-a-Lago on Tuesday morning was ostensibly about his economic agenda, but Trump played all the hits, trashing windmills, President Biden, electric heaters, special counsel Jack Smith, and various federal judges. Then, amid meandering criticisms of the United States’ neighbors, Trump mentioned, “We’re going to be changing the name of the Gulf of Mexico to the Gulf of America”.

Fascist megalomaniac Donald Trump is a danger to world peace, as he suggested that the Gulf of Mexico should be renamed Gulf of America. Trump continues his obsessive quest to take over Greenland, Panama Canal, and Canada.

[bobauthorman]

One Piece of the New Era

Occasionally in One Piece, the phrase "New Era" is tossed about by various characters. When the story starts, it has been 22 years since Gold Roger's legendary execution, when his final words spurred countless pirate crews to form in search of his treasure, the One Piece. This is called the "Great Pirate Era". But in the two decades since it began, no one has claimed the treasure, and the world has entered a status quo, upheld by the three Great Powers; The Navy of the World Government, the Seven Warlords of the Sea who work with them, and the Four Emperors of pirates. So, what is the New Era supposed to entail?

The first time we hear of a "new" era is in Jaya, where Bellamy tosses this out;

As far as Bellamy is concerned, the New Era is where pirates give up on immaterial goals like becoming Pirate King or pursuing dreams. Instead, they focus on regular treasures, like what pirates normally do. As the arc goes on, it becomes apparent that Bellamy is just a bully looking for a fancy rhetoric to hide behind, to the point that even Blackbeard calls him out indirectly. Luffy easily driving Bellamy's head into the boardwalk later shows just how weak this "new era" talk is.

The next time we hear of a new era, it's from Bellamy's boss, Don Quixote Doflamingo;

This is very vague, and hard to figure out, but essentially Doflamingo's version of the New Era is where the relative 'peace' established by the Three Great Powers will come crashing down, and only the truly strong and ruthless will be able to make their way. As we learn, Doflamingo has ties to both the World Government and Four Emperors as a Warlord and black market dealer, so he's in the perfect position to let the chaos unfold, safe and secure. No matter who wins, he comes out on top.

Except, he's not as safe as he thinks, which Trafalgar Law proves when he pulls the Straw Hats into his vendetta;

As Law points out, just because Doflamingo has had a good run doesn't mean he can hold onto it forever. If only the truly "daring and mighty" can survive, where does that leave the puppet-master who hid in the shadows? Nowhere. In this moment, Law trumps Doflamingo's rhetoric, and later on Luffy, who embodies the true freedom the series preaches, takes down the Celestial Demon.

And speaking of Luffy, what about his idol, Shanks?

Shanks also speaks of the New Era. From what I gather, he sees it as a changing of the guard, with new blood coming in to replace the old. He clearly sees Luffy as the bastion of the New Era, the positive aspects of it. However, he also sees the New Era being developed by Blackbeard, and tries to warn Whitebeard of the danger Teach poses. But Whitebeard was already aware of Blackbeard's threat, and his inability is a sign the old pirate is losing his place in the world...

And when Luffy's group does prevail in Wano, defeating both Kaido and Big Mom, who is there as an 'attaboy?'

You guessed it.

With all this in mind, it says a lot that in a series of inherited will, the greatest enemy is Imu, a being who is apparently immortal.