#what a farce

[yrsonpurpose]

fia tonight trying to reassess 1200 track limit violations and final race classification

[runabout-river]

https://x.com/Jonathan_K_Cook/status/1766082836807700652?s=09

[fandomchaosposts]

and it's all too much for little Lando Norris (me), 21 years old (20) he just needs a bit of sleep (take me out with a gun)

[news4dzhozhar]

TO DONATE DIRECTLY TO THE UNRWA, GO TO THEIR WEBSITE HERE:

[ssaalexblake]

did anybody make a bingo card for stp s3 Specifically dealing in options that are about the stereotypical sexist tropes and/or just in general ways tv treats women like shit for white dudes development/tears/happiness, because honestly we’re 5 episodes in and if this theoretical thing had been made, we’re almost at a bingo by now, lets be honest. 

[claraameliapond]

Anyone notice they always give bland actresses like Emma Stone and Jennifer Lawrence accolades and oscars whenever there's a ground breaking film that challenges the status quo, and has genuine talent and artistry?

I think it's because the "Academy" feels threatened by real talent and non white, non misogynistic art

They make themselves less and less relevant and less and less prestigious everytime they do this

Excluding people who are more talented than them? That's very Academy Awards. Self congratulatory parade? You must mean the Oscar's.

What a farce.

I've been saying this for years - it's a power play, a self congratulatory power play and ego trip.

They gave Olivia Coleman one, for gods sake. That was a put down to every other actor on the planet.

Angela Basset was deliberately snubbed in a put down so Jamie Lee Curtis could win? Really?

Austin butler's Elvis performance- that really was the best, excluded too: noone too talented, noone non white American, they'd never let Baz Luhrmann, an Australian, actually win.

They'd never let a female film about females like Barbie actually be nominated or acknowledged, but acknowledge the one male star in it for being progressive. Sure.

We can all see what you're doing, it's not subtle

people’s oscar winner

[engafordoma]

So my job has been transferred to the GMCA today except the IT transfer didn’t bloody work and everyone who was supposed to be around to help is on leave because it’s the Easter holidays so I am sitting in my flat completely unreachable and unable to do any work love that for me

[sunderwight]

Thinking about a situation where SQQ gets a look at Luo Binghe's package (post-Abyss but pre-Maigu Ridge, or in an AU where Maigu Ridge doesn't happen) through like, the outline of his pants or whatever (maybe Binghe took a wardrobe tip from Jareth of Labyrinth), and then got to thinking about how huge Luo Binghe's meat is, like in an actually non-sexual way this time just his brain gets onto a tangent about a bunch of scenes from PIDW where the descriptions varied wildly, and then he starts wondering about exactly what size it is, because to go by the novel's descriptions it's either bigger than average but not insane or there's another arm stuffed into that codpiece somehow. Surely it's closer to the former than the latter? SQQ doesn't have any other evidence that physical limitations in this world are that different from his own world, but then again, would it come up in any of his conversations if women in this world have sufficiently cavernous vaginas for damn near every virgin Bingge met to accommodate a dick that big? Does it at least make childbirth easier? He hasn't exactly polled anyone on it, so it could be the case. But what about the back door, so to speak? There were a few sex scenes that went in that direction, forbidden tunnel of love type stuff and it was all incredibly bad and cheesy, but of course, SQQ actually has a "back door" too and surely he would notice if it was possible to stick his own arm up it. Although it's also not as if he's tried, and as a peak lord with a fantasy metabolism he doesn't actually have to take a shit either, his body processes everything extremely efficiently and it's been years since... well anyway it's not like he's had occasion to investigate it much, now that he's thinking about it. Maybe he can? Not that this is relevant information to anything though and given the inconsistencies the probable limitations of the numerous people PIDW Binghe had sex with, his package, though prodigious, is probably not actually that big of a weapon. How could he even comfortably keep it contained otherwise...? Etc etc etc.

Meanwhile the entire time he's having this internal spiel, he's just... staring. At Luo Binghe's dick. Really blatantly. It doesn't even occur to him that he's doing something incriminating about his interests or possible attraction precisely because he's not, for once, getting flustered about it (much) but is in fact genuinely vexed by the mystery. This is not so much a case of imagining Luo Binghe's dick as wondering about fantasy physiology. So he's lost track of where his gaze has wandered.

The longer it goes on for though the more flustered Luo Binghe gets though. Like, should he say something? Is this a prelude to Shizun making a move? Is there... something wrong with it? Why is he staring so intently? Is Shizun aware that he has just been looking straight at Luo Binghe's dick for almost ten minutes now...? He should definitely say something, right? Maybe this is his chance! Or maybe he should wait and see what Shizun does next? Should he try a line? Something suave? Ask if he wants to see it! Shizun can absolutely see Binghe's dick if he wants to! No wait, but what if Shizun is planning on making a move and he ruins it by being impatient? He should wait and see where this is going.

...How long is it going to take, though...?

Luo Binghe's brain frazzles between trying to decide if he should make a move or prepare to be receptive towards one, or maybe check and make sure his dick hasn't turned into tentacle or something without him noticing, while Shen Qingqiu slooowly (very slowly) begins to realize that yes, he has been staring at Luo Binghe's dick while lost in thought for such a long time that now it's weird. It's definitely weird. He should look away now, at once, except now if he stops staring at Binghe's dick it's going to end whatever stalemate this is and he's probably going to have to explain why he was ogling it in the first place, and he definitely cannot explain anything, so he just keeps staring while furiously trying to think of a non-gay explanation for why he's now glaring intensely at Luo Binghe's crotch.

...He can't think of anything. Oh god. This is a disaster. Luo Binghe is going to kill him for being a perve!

(Good luck, Binghe.)

[moonshynecybin]

Any updates you’d want to share of your incredible marc 31&unfucked/airport rosquez wip? Or do you move in silence

twink for sale. never fucked. part one here, part two here ! yet again i have not reread the previous parts so these idiots might very well be talkin in circles. c'est la vie i am what i am.

Marc leans against the counter of the bar, a thick slab of slightly sticky wood covered in a mess of elbows and drinks. It’s not exactly a dive, but it’s unpretentious, laid back. Marc likes it. Likes the sound of the music and the smell of cigarette smoke.

The Ducati crew are all here, plus the Gresini people— celebrating an all-Ducati podium that saw Pecco roaring away into the distance before anyone could figure out a way to catch him, shades of Jorge Lorenzo. Marc had snapped up P3. Whatever.

He sighs. Studies the menu like he isn’t just going to order the same thing he always does.

Alex is feeling sick— staying at the hotel— and he doesn’t even know why he’s here. It's nice, but he doesn’t really know anyone. He wants to text Santi, see what the people at Honda are up to, but he balks. Someone might run a headline, and he doesn’t want to deal with that. He'll call them later, when he gets back to Spain, and link up for dinner then.

He orders his mojito and pauses, caught as a warm hand lands on his shoulder. He looks over, expecting one of his mechanics or someone from the factory team. Instead— Valentino. VR46 must’ve been invited as well. 

A grin splits his face before he can help it. 

“You still order the same drink.” Vale muses, like poking that particular bruise doesn’t even hurt him. He just— remembers Marc’s drink order like it’s nothing,

Marc ducks his head. “Shut up,”

“No, it’s just, you said– you are older now, yes? I thought maybe you would make a change?”

“Why should I? I like what I like.”

Vale flags the bartender and asks for a Negroni, curls his long hand against the glass. Marc catches his eyes on the bones of a wrist, the way it looks in the low lighting. He blinks.

He doesn't know what’s going on with him lately. 

Vale leans closer, looks around, conspiratorial. Grin white sharp in yellow light, shirt gaping at the collar to expose the long lines of his neck. He raises a finger at Marc.

“You know, Bez has a bet about you,”

“Bezzecchi?” Marc asks, pulling back into himself— he’s never called him Bez, isn’t about to start now.

Vale tilts a chin over to the corner, where Bezzecchi and Pecco seem locked in some sort of boozy, animated discussion. Marc catches snatches of words in Italian: tattoo, turbo, braking.

“What bet?” He asks, turning back to watch Vale take a sip of his drink. It’s a wonder there’s not a camera on them. Although— he thinks about that headline. Friends again. Maybe he wouldn’t mind.

“That you will not win another title,” Vale says casually, smacking his lips around the bitter of his drink. 

They’ve never been two people known for playing it safe.

Marc hums, fiddles with his bar napkin. “Oh, does he?” He doesn’t mention the bet he’s been told Uccio has. Four thousand dollars towards the same.

Vale nods. Places an elbow next to Marc on the bar and leans. Marc catches a whiff of his cologne— something spicy.

“Why should I care?” Marc shrugs, plays confused. He doesn’t— it’s Bezzecchi. He’s always been a bit weird about Marc. After Valencia last year, Marc has just written him off completely. One of Vale’s devotees too caught up in their history to think clearly for himself.

Vale laughs. “I guess you shouldn’t.”

“And what about you?” Marc prods, a little spiky. He's pretty sure he knows the answer. “What do you think? Will I win?” 

Vale tilts his head. 

“You could do it,” and Marc stares. “—if it rains.” Is the punchline that drags a smile back to him like a punch to the gut.

“Ah, I see. Master in the wet.” Marc waggles his eyebrows and Vale chuffs a laugh, scrubs a hand down his face like he’s embarrassed he finds Marc funny. 

“No no, but you’re the only one crazy enough— Brno 2019,” He reminds Marc. “Why was it raining for us and not for you?”

Marc doubles over, presses his smile into his palm. He still can’t quite believe this is happening— that Vale still knows how to twist the knife enough to make it sweet instead of making it hurt, teasing in ways that make Marc bark a laugh instead of blink away the burning feeling in his stomach. Now the joke is— how bad it got is almost funny. The ludicrousness of their falling out. His injury. Vale retiring. Leaving Honda. and Marc shouldn’t be laughing really, but Vale’s always found a way to thrive in the comedic incongruity of a situation. How the hell did we even get here? Is the question, and they both seem to find it abruptly hilarious, tension snaking ephemerally away from them as they giggle like children.

Vale regroups, catching his breath, “Bah, anyways. Pecco will be very, very strong. Hard to beat when he is giving 100%.” 

It’s probably the truth. It’s what he should say. Marc doesnt think he means it, and his smile grows.

He pretends to think. “Yes. He is. But I'm not trying to be greedy— nine is, nine would be a good number.” Continuing their theme—half a jab, half a joke—a test. Are they there yet, he's asking, can Vale take the same treatment from Marc? Daring Vale to confirm all his worst assumptions. If he’s going to pull back, get it over with. Pull him down to earth from where it feels like he’s floating away.

“Not as good as ten, no?” Vale says smoothly, and it would sound like taking the bait but his voice is still a tease, and his smile is still there, and he’s still next to Marc. Leans closer, even.

Marc doesn’t think he’s blinked in the last 45 seconds.

“No,” Marc lets every bit of his confidence into his voice. Nine times world champion is good, but Vale is right. He wants ten. “No, it’s not.”

“Ah, so that is the plan? Beat me?” Vale pulls another sip from his drink, leaning on the bar like he owns it. 

Marc shrugs, grins hugely. “Beat everyone. These guys— they are not better than you, and they are not better than me.”

“Maybe not.” Vale’s looking at him, eyes sparkling, and Marc’s melting down, like sugar dissolving into tea.

He clears his throat. Maybe the mojito is stronger than he thought. He hasn’t— they’ve never talked about it like this. He hasn’t wanted to talk about this. But he likes that it’s happening now, somehow. That it’s happening like this, like it’s the past instead of the present.

“Eh, you know, you’ve been coming to a lot of races.” 

“I have people I want to see.” Vale says, which could mean a lot of things, and “Old friends included,” which could mean less things but also isn’t necessarily any less confusing. Then he taps a finger on the edge of Marc’s drink, a non sequitur. “Can I try?”

Marc nods, feels like his brain is running a step behind his body. Watches Vale move the straw to take a sip from the rim, then think through the taste hitting his tongue.

“Do you like it?”

Vale shrugs, noncommittal, then pushes his glass towards Marc. He puts his hand on the back of Marc’s neck. 

“Here. Try mine.”

“No, no no— I have had Negronis. Too bitter.” Marc says, even as he raises the drink to his lips. There's no straw in this one, just lips against glass. He wonders if it’s the same spot Vale had been drinking from earlier.

Bitter aromatics burst in his mouth. He makes a face against the strength of it, feels Vale’s laugh through his hand on the back of his neck. He shivers a little, it’s— he doesn’t know why he's doing that.

He decides not to think about it. It could be cold in here, he hasn’t really been paying attention.

“Ah, you’re one of those with a sweet tooth?” Vale takes his drink back from the well of Marc’s hand, and their fingers zap a little static shock that makes Marc feel brave.

Marc winks. “I am guilty.”

Vale just— looks at him. And they’ve done a lot of that in their history, looked at each other, tried to ascertain the next move to make on track or the next mind game to use in a press conference— but this feels different. Marc feels different. His skin feels tight and his head feels dizzy and his heart is pounding, and through it all Vale keeps looking, and he doesn’t quite know what to say or what to do, but he knows he doesn’t want it to stop.

There's a big cry from the other side of the room, breaking his train of thought— some mechanics in a rowdy conversation of some sort, and Marc becomes hyper aware of how exposed they are right now. Anyone could see— well, he doesn’t know quite what, but he knows he doesn’t want them to see it. He shifts, darts eyes to the exit.

He wants to leave, and it could be the alcohol, but Vale’s face is pretty much the exact thing that Marc wants to see right now.

“Want to head back?” Marc asks, feeling a little reckless— it’s a flyaway, he’s pretty sure they’re all packed inside the same hotel.

Vale considers him for a minute, and as Marc waits for him to speak he wonders if the booze is catching up to him. The world feels like it’s rushing around his ears. 

“For sure.” Vale murmurs, and when he takes his hand off of Marc’s neck he can feel it slide all the way down his back.

When they get into the Uber, Marc looks at his phone and gives a little groan. Tries to shake it off. Feel more sober. Reassert some normalcy from their earlier tension. Vale and him– they haven't been friends in eight (Or nine? Marc thinks, Is it nine?) years. There’s bound to be growing pains.

“It’s so early.” He groans.

Vale nods. It is.

“I’m old.” Marc continues, reminded of their conversation in the airport. It’s true now— with Aleix going, he’ll be the veteran. How did that happen. You can’t talk to me about old, Vale had said. But he finds that he wants to.

“You are not old,” Vale echoes, with emphasis, like Marc’s insane. What does he know, he’s even older.

Marc puts a hand on his bad arm, which hurts. Slides down in the seat a little, loose with alcohol. He's such a lightweight now. He lets out a big sigh.

Vale nudges him. He's got a look on his face— that same conspiratorial one from the bar earlier, and Marc cranes his neck up.

“Marc,”

“Yeah?” God, his eyes are blue.

“Tell me— do you want to pay Bez back?”

“What?” Marc croaks, not really processing what he’s saying. He doesn’t want to talk about Bezzecchi— he can still see the skin between Vale’s shirt and his neck, can’t stop looking at it. He leans in heavily. Thinks about a world where Vale puts a hand on the inside of his thigh and leans right back.

“Yeah.” Vale flips up his hand to flash a hotel key card. probably Bezzecchi’s. He grins, waiting for Marc to get the joke, and after a moment— it clicks. Laughter explodes out of Marc’s chest. 

It's been a minute since Valentino and him were on the inside of something. In cahoots, instead of at odds, and he feels— energized. Adrenaline creeping into him like an old friend. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel old at all, and he wants to get out and do something— sweat, dance, move, fuck. Get Vale to keep smiling at him. Ruin Bezzecchi’s day. Win another race this year. Win a championship.

For once, he sure that Vale feels about the same.

He leans into Vale’s space, sees his smile widen in return. “Let’s hide all of Bezz’s socks.”

So they do.

[somedayillbepeterpan]

On my 456283936 rewatch, I find that Cressida pointing how the marriage mart has a way of pitting women against each other was the most relatable thing ever

THE MARRIAGE MART WAS A BUSINESS TO ENSURE THE CROWN’S POWER STAYS WITH THEM AND NEVER REALLY WORKED FOR THE HAPPINESS OF THEIR CONSUMERS AND THAT IS WHY WHISTLEDOWN IS A GREAT MIRROR TO THE WHIMS OF THIS TIRED CHARADE AND WHY SHE ALWAYS IRKED THE QUEEN

[mistressemmedi]

Banning jewelry in the name of safety, banning team members from celebrating on the fences in the name of safety, banning certain underwear in the name of safety... And yet we have people casually strolling all over the pitlane while a race is still going on 💀

[mortiscausa]

i can't stop thinking how funny it would be if gareth's brothers did in fact recognise him and were just like 'well clearly he has his reasons so let's all be good big bros and pretend we don't know him' and then spend the next few weeks before he goes off on his quest pretending extremely badly that they have never ever met this kitchen boy before nope not at all even while other knights are looking at them and looking at gareth and going 'hmmm'

[news4dzhozhar]

22 Democrats vote to censure Tlaib over Israel criticism

Twenty-two Democrats on Tuesday voted to censure Rep. Rashida Tlaib (R-Mich.) for her criticism of Israel following Hamas’s deadly attack last month.

The resolution, sponsored by Rep. Rich McCormick (R-Ga.), accused Tlaib of “promoting false narratives regarding the October 7, 2023, Hamas attack on Israel and for calling for the destruction of the state of Israel.” It also references her use over the weekend of the controversial phrase “from the river to the sea,” which is considered by many to be antisemitic.

Democratic leadership earlier in the day urged members to vote for a motion to kill the censure resolution and the party largely stuck together, with only one Democrat voting to advance it.

Many defended Tlaib’s right to make the controversial comments, citing the First Amendment, despite disagreeing with her words.

But on the final vote, 22 of Tlaib’s colleagues opted to reprimand her.

“We are at an exceedingly perilous moment, when emotions and intentions are on a razor’s edge. I believe that Members of Congress should be free to express their opinions, no matter how distasteful they may be. I also believe they have a duty to express the values and priorities of their districts,” Rep. Brad Schneider (D-Ill.) said of his vote to censure Tlaib. 

He added, “I recognize this censure resolution is not a perfect resolution in its language or form, but unfortunately it is the only vehicle available to formally rebuke the dangerous disinformation and aspersions that Rep. Tlaib continues to use and defend. I feel that I have no other recourse but to vote to censure her.”

Here are the Democrats who voted in favor of the censure resolution:

Rep. Steve Cohen (D-Tenn.)

Rep. Jim Costa (D-Calif.)

Rep. Angie Craig (D-Minn.)

Rep. Don Davis (D-N.C.)

Rep. Lois Frankel (D-Fla.)

Rep. Jared Golden (D-Maine)

Rep. Dan Goldman (D-N.Y.)

Rep. Josh Gottheimer (D-N.J.)

Rep. Greg Landsman (D-Ohio)

Rep. Susie Lee (D-Nev.)

Rep. Kathy Manning (D-N.C.)

Rep. Jared Moskowitz (D-Fla.)

Rep. Wiley Nickel (D-N.C.)

Rep. Chris Pappas (D-N.H.)

Rep. Marie Gluesenkamp Perez (D-Wash.)

Rep. Pat Ryan (D-N.Y.)

Rep. Brad Schneider (D-Ill.)

Rep. Kim Schrier (D-Wash.)

Rep. Darren Soto (D-Fla.)

Rep. Ritchie Torres (D-N.Y.)

Rep. Debbie Wasserman Schultz (D-Fla.)

Rep. Frederica Wilson (D-Fla.)

In addition to the Democrats who bucked their party, four Republicans voted against the censure: Rep. Ken Buck (R-Colo.), John Duarte (R-Calif.), Thomas Massie (R-Ky.) and Tom McClintock (R-Calif.).

[eepyghost]

is there a scientific study linking watching ranboo for extended periods of time to questioning your gender

does ranboo turn the kids not cis. is this something they're known for.

[queerofthedagger]

delight of the day: survived the first week in the new job without burning anything down

[lala-blahblah]

I will never make this because it would be for an audience of one (me) but ever since reading "If we Were Villains" (story about serious drama kids in college who perform shakespeare and deal with a murder) I have been entertaining the thought of a crack fic crossover with High School Musical The Musical The Series where the staff decides they will no longer put on shakespeare after the tragic accident that happened at Thanksgiving, because Shakespeare plays would only increase the tension and drama. So they hire Ms. Jen who decides their spring play will actually be High School Musical (which exists in the 90s in this universe) and it ruins the vibe so much that everyone gives up on being dark and mysterious because they're universally pissed at Ms Jen for making them learn choreoraphed basketball dancing.