#woke to coservative

[fafnir19]

Flying like a bird – isn't that ecological?

I looked out the window, the engine's hum vibrating through my chest. The swelling excitement of my upcoming voluntary ecological year in Brazil was tinged with a hint of guilt. Guilt for the environmental impact my flight was causing, despite the carbon offsets I had diligently purchased. As a gay man committed to supporting minorities and environmental conservation, the contradiction weighed heavily on my mind. Suddenly, the airplane lurched, and a wave of red wine splattered me, the liquid soaking through my clothes. "Oh no! I'm so sorry!" Karen, the stewardess, exclaimed, her voice laced with panic. "It's okay," I reassured her, trying to suppress a chuckle at the absurdity of the situation. As I stood up, the wet fabric clinging uncomfortably to my skin, Karen offered a solution. "I can get you a new seat in first class, and also, here's a co-pilot's uniform to change into. It's the best I can do to make up for this mess." Grateful for the offer, I changed into the oversized uniform and made my way to the first-class cabin.

The extra legroom and plush seat were a welcome relief. As I settled in, the engine's roar filled the cabin, accompanied by the rustling of flight attendants bustling around. "Due to your new seat by the emergency exit, we'll need you to watch a special safety video," Karen informed me with a warm smile. I nodded, paying close attention to the lengthy safety demonstration that followed. My brow furrowed as I noticed the dated gender roles portrayed in the video, and the co-pilot's demeaning attitude toward the stewardesses. After the video finally concluded, I made a mental note to write a complaint to the airline. Karen approached me once more, offering a sweet welcome drink. The sugary liquid offered a momentary distraction from the unsettling video. As I sipped the drink, a sudden wave of exhaustion washed over me, and before long, I drifted into a deep slumber. In my dream, I found myself face to face with the obnoxious co-pilot from the safety video, and a surge of frustration bubbled within me. "Hey, you!" I yelled, my voice echoing through the dream landscape. "How dare you treat women like that! You're insufferable! You can't treat women like that!" The co-pilot smirked. "Why not? They love it. Just look at them." Even in my own dream, I was plagued by his presence. My dream began to warp and twist, and I suddenly saw myself in the co-pilot's uniform, strutting through the cabin with an air of entitlement.

I awoke to the gentle touch of Karen, who smiled warmly at me. "You look great in that uniform, ready for your shift as a co-pilot?" she asked. I was astonished to find that the co-pilot's uniform now fit me perfectly, accentuating my athletic build.

I followed Karen to the cockpit, feeling elated at the unexpected turn of events. Taking my place in the cockpit, I began assisting the pilot as we navigated through the skies.

"Where's the usual co-pilot?" John asked, glancing at me with a curious expression. "I thought we could use a change," Karen replied cryptically, her eyes twinkling mischievously. I was eager to prove my capabilities in this unexpected role. The responsibility felt exhilarating, and I relished every moment of it. This was a dream come true - a chance to live out my lifelong ambition of being a pilot.

Suddenly, John excused himself to use the restroom, leaving me alone in the cockpit.

"So, Karen, what's the story behind all this?" John inquired. Karen's laughter filled the space, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, there is a special safety video and a welcome drink that alters the minds and bodies of our ordinary passengers as we have a lack of co-pilots" Karen explained, a smirk playing on her lips. "It's a compromise between the union and the marketing department," Karen explained. "They want the co-pilots to be the epitome of masculinity and to appeal to a wealthy clientele. But it's all about appearances." John's eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean?" "The union wants heterosexual men who can charm women in every location they land," Karen elaborated. "While the marketing department wants them to be attractive to gay passengers. They've settled on a strange blend of both." "In any case, he is a particularly sweet co-pilot," John remarked, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Suddenly, an idea sparked within me, fueled by the of the safety video. I turned to John, my expression determined. "I need a break. There's someone in row 10 I want to upgrade." "Upgrade?" John raised an eyebrow, his expression mirroring a mix of surprise and amusement. "To the Mile High Club," I declared boldly, the words escaping my lips before I could fully process the audacity of my request. John's laughter echoed through the cockpit, the sound mingling with the steady hum of the engines. "Well, well, looks like our sweet co-pilot is ready to make his mark."

As I sauntered down the aisle, I couldn't contain my laughter at the thought of what was to come. Reaching row 10, I leaned in close to the passenger, my smooth voice sending shivers down her spine as I effortlessly charmed her. "Excuse me," I began, suppressing the upheaval of conflicting emotions. "I have a special upgrade for you." The woman's eyes widened in surprise, her gaze flitting between me and the open door to the lavatory. "An upgrade?" "To the Mile High Club," I clarified, my voice tinged with certainty. The young woman's laughter mixed with mine as she eagerly accepted my invitation, a mischievous glint in her eye. We disappeared into the lavatory, our hushed giggles mingling with the steady rhythm of the airplane as we indulged in our risqué endeavor. Moments later, I re-emerged, the satisfied grin on my face indicating the successful initiation of the newest member into the Mile High Club. Returning to the cockpit, I took my place with a buoyant energy, the satisfaction of a successful mission evident in my demeanor.

Karen and John exchanged knowing smiles, understanding the mischievous spark in my eyes. "Done with your break already? You work fast," Karen teased, unable to contain her amusement. "I had to make sure our newest member received a warm welcome," I replied with a playful wink.

The plane landed smoothly in Rio de Janeiro and I couldn't shake the surreal feeling of my dream. After I got out, Karen handed me a business card with a mischievous smile. “If you are interested, the airline is happy to offer you pilot training,” she said. With shaking hands and full of excitement, I accepted the card. I ended my voluntary ecological year before it even started and began my pilot training.

[bisluthq]

here's my phobic/coservative take for people that wanna comment on it: i really really dislike extremely woke white americans who use words like latinx etc, because i know and have seen SO MUCH discourse abt how people from latin countries don't use and don't like those terms because essentially they feel like americans are trying to americanize their languages which is horrible because everything is already heavily america-centric everywhere and it's just tiring.

Ya I learnt it’s inappropriate yesterday when I got called out and I did some minor research and I’m very consciously using Latina/Latino now and if you don’t that’s on you and it’s pseudowoke tbh.

[fafnir19]

Queers for Palestine - The Ramadan Revelation

The sun dipped low over Jerusalem, casting long shadows across the ancient stones, as Jeremy adjusted the vibrant shawls around his neck. The colorful fabric hugged his neck, a comforting reminder of his identity amidst a sea of traditions and cultures. His dreadlocks, a riot of pink and green, swayed gently in the evening breeze as he stood on the terrace of the Austrian Hospice, taking in the breathtaking view of the Al Aqsa Mosque. Jeremy's group, Queers for Palestine, had joined forces with a collective of progressive Christians led by Bishop Betforth, a charismatic man in his fifties. The bishop's silver-grey hair and gentle demeanor belied a sharp intellect and a passion for interfaith dialogue. He preached a message of unity, claiming that Christians, Muslims, and Jews all prayed to the same God. It was a sentiment that resonated with Jeremy, who longed for a world where faith brought people together rather than tearing them apart. "We must stand in solidarity with our Muslim brothers and sisters, especially during Eid," Bishop Betforth proclaimed as they gathered in the courtyard of the Austrian Hospice.

"And we are honored to be joined by Bishop Edged-Budder and her congregation, who have traveled from afar to pray with us." Bishop Edged-Budder, a petite woman with a no-nonsense attitude, nodded in agreement. "Indeed, we must show the world that our faiths can coexist. And what better way than to share in the Muslim tradition of sacrificing a lamb or goat during Eid? It is a powerful symbol of unity and understanding." Jeremy felt a surge of excitement as he listened to the bishops. Their words resonated with his own beliefs, and he was eager to contribute to this interfaith effort. He had always felt a deep connection to the Palestinian cause, seeing it as a struggle for freedom and justice. As a queer person, he understood oppression and the desire for acceptance. He believed that by standing with the Palestinians, he was fighting for a better world for everyone. As night fell, Jeremy sat at the window of his room, gazing out at the illuminated dome of the Al Aqsa Mosque. “From the River to the Sea, Palestine should be free!” he whispered, the chant rolling off his tongue like a familiar melody. He closed his eyes, envisioning a world where acceptance reigned and all people, regardless of their faith or sexuality, could live freely. He didn’t consider himself religious, but in that moment, he found himself praying, “Please let the Palestinians live the lives they crave.” The air crackled. Suddenly, the window burst open, and a blinding light flooded the room. Jeremy’s heart raced as an angel, clad in radiant armor with a flaming sword, materialized before him. “Do not fret, Jeremy. I am Michael, sent to fulfill your prayer. Is this truly what you desire?” Jeremy’s breath caught. “Yes! From the River to the Sea, Palestine should be free!”

In that instant, the world seemed to hold its breath. A low rumble of thunder shook the windows, and outside, a fiery sheen enveloped the Al Aqsa Mosque. The golden dome now glowed with an otherworldly light. And then, as if summoned by Jeremy's wish, a figure emerged from the heart of the mosque. It was a creature of nightmares. Its body, human in form, stood tall and muscular, but its head—oh, its head was that of a goat, complete with curling horns and a beard of coarse hair. The creature's eyes, deep and dark as the pits of hell, fixed on the city below. With a bellow that shook the very foundations of Jerusalem, it cried out, "My Muslims, it's time to get justice—do as I have taught you!"

The scream reverberated through the streets of Jerusalem, reaching every corner of the city. Chaos erupted as the Muslims heeded the call.  Jeremy's excitement turned to horror as he witnessed the carnage unfolding below. Screams, shouts, and the sounds of violence filled the air. The Muslims, driven by a fervor he couldn't comprehend, began a brutal campaign of conversion and purge. They killed those who refused to convert to Islam, showing no mercy. But it was the treatment of the queer community that horrified Jeremy the most. The Muslims hunted down LGBTQ+ individuals, their hatred fueling their violence. No plea for mercy was heeded; no offer of conversion spared the queers. The Muslims stoned some to death, while others were subjected to a gruesome neutering, enslaved to serve as eunuchs in Muslim harems. The Muslims' hatred for the queer way of life was palpable, and they took a twisted pleasure in their brutal methods. The streets ran red with blood, and the cries of the dying filled the air.

“Jeremy!” Bishop Betforth’s voice broke through the noise, his face pale. “We need to get out of here. Now!” And Jeremy ran, his pink and green dreadlocks bouncing with each step, alongside his fellow activists, including Bishops Betforth and Edged-Budder. The once-bustling city now felt like a death trap, every corner potentially hiding more violence. They made their way out of Jerusalem, the city's walls and the golden dome of the mosque receding in the distance, and headed for the Mount of Olives.

They sprinted towards the Ascension Church, perched atop the hill. Reaching the Ascension Church, breathless and hearts pounding, they collapsed inside, barricading the door behind them.

Inside, the angel Michael awaited, leaning casually against the organ gallery, his presence both comforting and commanding. "Here, you will find shelter," Michael announced, his voice echoing in the sacred space.

"Who is that creature in the mosque?" Bishop Betforth's voice trembled as he addressed Michael, his usually confident demeanor shattered. "That is Allah," Michael replied, his voice carrying a weight of millennia. Bishop Betforth's face drained of color. Bishop Edged-Budder, equally disturbed, sought further explanation. "Is that... is that our Lord?" Michael's laughter filled the church, echoing off the stone walls. "As bishops, you should know better. Paulus was clear in his letter to the Corinthians. 'The things which the Gentiles sacrifice, they sacrifice to demons, and not to God.' Allah is a demon, not the Lord." Bishop Betforth's face drained of color as his progressive, inclusive theology crumbled around him. Michael's words were like a hammer, shattering the carefully constructed beliefs that had defined his career. Bishop Edged-Budder, too, struggled to reconcile this new, horrifying reality with their beliefs.

The screams and chaos of the city below served as a constant reminder of the tragedy unfolding. The once-idealistic group was now faced with the harsh reality of their actions. Jeremy had never felt so lost, so betrayed by his own ideals. "How could this happen?" he whispered, his voice breaking. "I just wanted peace and freedom." He had been so eager to fight for a cause that he had ignored the complexities of the situation. "I thought I was fighting for justice," he whispered during a moment of quiet reflection. "But I was blind to the truth. I thought I understood their struggle, but I was projecting my own experiences. I never considered that their vision of freedom might be so different from mine.” Michael, sensing Jeremy’s turmoil, turned to him. "You wished in good faith, Jeremy. For this, I grant you a second wish." Jeremy, his eyes wide with understanding, spoke with newfound conviction. "I wish for peace in Palestine." The angel nodded, and a deep rumble shook the church. The group rushed to the windows, witnessing a scene that would forever change their understanding of the world. The Al Aqsa Mosque, the very symbol of the Islamic superstition, shattered into a thousand pieces. The ground shook, and the Muslims below cried out in terror. Some, in a moment of clarity, realized their error. They turned away from the demon they had worshiped and embraced the true, living God. Others, stubborn in their denial, transformed before their eyes. Their bodies contorted, becoming black goats, mirroring the evil they had served.

Jeremy watched, his heart heavy with realization. Islam, he now understood, was not a path to peace but a gateway to pure evil, a worship of Satan himself. The bishops, despite the carnage, clung to their false ideologies. Their pride and intellectual arrogance blinded them and made them refuse to let go of their false, woke interpretations of the Bible. "But we must continue our mission of unity! Muslims, Jews, and Christians—we all worship the same divine being!" The bishops' plea was desperate, their voices laced with denial. Michael's response was firm. "Ye cannot drink the cup of the Lord, and the cup of demons: ye cannot partake of the table of the Lord, and of the table of demons. Allah is no god; he is a demon, and you've been communing with him. If you cannot see the truth, you are but mouthpieces of Satan, spreading his lies." As the bishops continued to resist, their forms began to shift. Their human features melted away, replaced by the coarse fur and twisted horns of black goats. Their refusal to accept the truth had damned them, turning them into creatures of the very evil they refused to acknowledge.

Michael, his work here done, hummed a tune, a victory song. "From the River to the Sea, Judea is now free!" His voice carried a sense of finality as he disappeared, leaving the group to process the events that had unfolded.

Years later, the sun hung low over Gaza, casting long shadows that danced across the dry pasture. Jeremy stood at the edge of a field dotted with hyssop and wild herbs, the air thick with the scent of earth and sun. Thousands of black goats grazed, their eyes glinting with an unsettling intelligence. He had returned, but everything felt different—sharper, harsher, and strangely more real. He brushed a hand through his now neatly trimmed black hair, a stark contrast to the colorful dreadlocks he once sported. The vibrant shawls he used to wear were replaced by a well-pressed shirt and khaki pants, a polished reflection of his newfound convictions.

As he wandered through the fields, a figure emerged from the horizon, a Jewish shepherd with a weathered face and a cautious demeanor. He approached Jeremy, a crooked smile breaking through the dust on his cheeks. “Be careful,” the shepherd warned, nodding toward the scattered herd. “These goats are rather aggressive!” “What are you doing with these goats?” Jeremy asked, glancing nervously at the animals, their dark coats shimmering in the fading light. “Nothing, just protecting them.” The shepherd gestured broadly, his voice low and serious. “The Christians believe that if the goats renounce Allah and truly regret their sins, they might become humans again!” Jeremy frowned, the weight of the shepherd’s words settling heavily in his chest. “Against whom do you protect them?” “Against the Muslims from abroad,” the shepherd said, his tone darkening. “They pay high prices on the black market for such goats to sacrifice them during Ramadan to Allah. Every year, we lose a couple of thousand goats.” Shocked, Jeremy’s voice faltered. “But… won’t these Palestinian goats die out soon?” The shepherd chuckled, a sound devoid of mirth. “Palestinians produce hate and plenty of children, whether as human or goat. That seems to be so deep in their nature that it is irrespective of their form!” Jeremy’s heart raced as he considered the implications. The goats grazed peacefully, but beneath the surface, tension simmered—much like the world around them. “I hope they find redemption,” he murmured, more to himself than to the shepherd, who merely nodded, his gaze distant, lost in thoughts of his own. Suddenly memories of Michael’s hummed tune entered Jeremy's mind. “From the River to the Sea, Judea is now free,” Jeremy muttered under his breath, feeling the weight of those words settle within him, shifting his understanding of freedom and peace in ways he never imagined.