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chelles-trees · 2 years

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Diderot's Coffee

By me

Teaching isn’t all it used to be. Tegan makes me to jump with her sudden entrance.

“Michelle! You need to grab the carboy and bring it over here. We’re just about to leave!”

I pick up the big, cardboard container of ice-cold milk and carry it out of the cafe to the covered pickup truck. Stupid, should have already had this in there. It’s nice to do something that has a definite start and end time. If you can’t handle the teaching and paperwork separately you don’t deserve easy. It’s also nice not being a second mom to 150 teenagers. You could’ve had your own children if not for becoming a girl. The cab doors click unlocked, and I get into the back seat with the induction stove and boxes of croissants.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Stephan asks from the driver’s seat. The boss continued, “Get up front here. You’re so big you are going to smash something. Let Tegan sit back there.”

I nodded and got out. If you throw up right now, you won’t have to go, and then you won’t fee-fie-foe-fum all over everything. Tegan passed from one door to the other right in front of me, then I got into the front without opening my mouth again.

The job site was a film set, looking like old dust bowl Colorado—where the wooden buildings all had raised wooden porches that connected to each other with bridges to make a sidewalk that couldn’t be easily buried in dust. Someone’s daughter’s class was coming for a field trip, and they wanted better hot chocolate and cinnamon apple spice than the regular contractors had on hand.

“Why aren’t you wearing your uniform?” Stephan asked in a hurry, as I lifted an ice chest one tenth my weight and one half my size out of the back of the truck. Jut your chest out so people can see your boobs so they don’t think you’re a man.

“Oh, uh, it’s my first day.” Does he know? Does he see through me? I look down at my black, faux silk, yin-yang decorated blouse, and my loose-fitting slacks. Of course this was too ‘interesting’ an outfit for a first day. What do you want to look like, some wannabe disk jockey? Is it racist in an appropriative sort of way?

“Ah!” Stephan winces. He reaches in the cab, right behind the driver’s seat, and hands me a folded set of clothes. “Put these on.”

The pile includes short shorts, a shirt, and an apron with the outline of a foppish Frenchman holding a mug of coffee and the inscription “Drink Diderot’s, it’s written on high.” How does he know my size?

“Wha- where…” I see the port-a-potties are still being delivered off their truck, and the school bus just arrived.

“I don’t care where you change,” Stephan said. “Just go. Go behind a bush or something.”

He wants to see you change. Looking at everyone milling about, I take the pile of clothes and a plastic bag from the truck. He wants the wrong people to see you change because he wants them to kill you. I walk beneath the wooden sidewalk, jog behind the buildings, then find the biggest bushes I can that are at least 50 yards away and try to change faster than it’ll take someone to follow me out here.

Your legs are so untanned they can blind people at 20 yards. They’re gross, even shaved. Why would you subject anyone to that? Don’t look at that thing between them. It looks like a shaved mouse that ate arsenic and died months ago in a spider’s web. It feels like being pinched by a lobster.

With my new uniform of a beige, button down shirt, white short shorts, and green apron-tisement, I re-emerged from the bushes from behind the buildings, and passed under the sidewalk again to find the whole place deserted. Clothes bag in hand, I put the other hand to my head to shade it from the rising sun on the east, and scan all the way around to the west. Cars and trucks are here. Everything is still half unloaded. There were just no people.

They left you. They just started playing a prank on you, and then they decided to do something useful with their day and left.

“Hello?” I called out.

There is no response.

After another minute of waiting, I decide to just finish unloading Stephan’s truck. Wherever they went, they’ll be back, and I need something to do in the meantime. Maybe I can make myself some coffee.

I just finished setting our little stand up and plugging everything in when the doors to the buildings opened, and everyone poured back out. They were laughing. I heard joking about being drowned and whether they’d still be expected to come to work. Someone tried to do a back of the envelope calculation of how much force it’d take to knock down the wooden structures.

“What is going on?” I asked, a little dumbfounded and trying to hide a tear in each eye.

“Didn’t you get the notifications?” one of the key grips asked me. When I shook my head, he said, “check your phone.”

My phone was in my back pocket, and was set to silent, no vibrate. I reached for it. Why is your hand near your butt? Who will think you’re trying to draw attention to your butt? Who will think you’re trying to flirt with them? Will they be mad enough to say something?

“Tsunami Warning,” read my notification. “Earthquake 650 miles off the coast of California. Get to high ground if within 40 miles of the coast.” I started panicking, then saw the second notification. “Tsunami warning false alarm. Faulty sensor near deep ocean drill rig.”

Cheeks wet with tears, and feeling light-headed, I steadied myself with one hand while I took a few deep breaths and laughed my anxiety away.

“Do you go to Santa Cruz?” I heard a young voice ask.

I looked up to see that a small crowd of 8-year-olds had gathered near me.

“No…?” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever needed to go there. Why do you ask?”

“My sister goes to school there, and you look a lot like her friends.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Her friends live in this big building with some ancient letters on it.”

“Oh! Her ‘s friends are in a Greek house… at UC Santa Cruz.”

“Yeah! That’s the one.”

“And you think I look like them?”

“Well, you’re a big kid, and pretty.” The little boy gave an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders.

I laughed and smiled. Kids are always super honest. I dried my eyes with a paper-towel and asked them if they wanted hot chocolate. They all did. Of course they all did. We chatted about school while I made their drinks. I told them I’d already graduated, and I’d studied literature, biology, and teaching. Some of their eyes got wide. One of the girls wanted to talk about the books her parents had against a wall. She said it was a whole library in their house. One of the boys told me about his terrarium. Someone asked why I was serving them chocolate if I was a teacher—wasn’t I supposed to keep them from eating or drinking when it wasn’t lunch time?—and I said that I might be a teacher, but I wasn’t their teacher. I also told them that I liked chocolate and coffee, a lot.

By the end of the day, I was apparently the kids’ favorite thing on set. It might have been because I introduced them to Mexican hot chocolate that was spicy like Cuauhtémoc and Moctezuma would have drunk. It might have been when I told them about the Turkish defeat at the battle of Vienna, how coffee stolen from the Turkish camp was crucial to keeping the Viennese spy awake long enough to get reinforcements, which I finished by dramatically holding up a croissant—the pastry that was shaped like the Turkish flag to commemorate the battle. It’s also possible that I was such a hit because the movie star who was supposed to be there didn’t believe the tsunami warning was false and drove inland as fast as they could go. You can’t film much without someone in front of the camera.

At one point, I happened to glance into a full-length mirror that leaned against a wall, waiting for its final destination to be decided and cleared. The girl who glanced back looked fit and cute in those shorts. Her legs were muscular. Her makeup was messy, but in a woman-at-work sort of way. The neck beneath her foundation looked like it belonged there. Looking at her from the outside, she made me want to be her. No, I want to continue to be her.

#short story #mid journey #weird dreams #trans #fiction #Diderot's coffee

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blackswaneuroparedux · 5 years

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Anonymous asked: I think you have one of the most cultured blogs on tumblr and I respect your views (even where I disagree) because you are highly educated and experienced and not a knee jerk ranter like many here. Yet I was disappointed by your post on Islam and West with a quote by the conservative writer, Mark Steyn. Don’t you think history shows that the hate filled anti-Islamism of the Crusades taught Muslims to rightly fear and hate Western Christians and that has continued down to our present day?

There’s a lot to unpack here so thank you for your thoughtful words. Thank you for being sincerely honest and open and I hope I can reciprocate in the same way. I don’t claim a monopoly on truth and I am always open to be corrected if I know I am wrong in some way. I hope you are too.

Firstly, Mark Steyn - within the specificity of the quote alone - wasn’t attacking Islam so much as showing the slow burn decline of the West, especially Europe. He was admonishing Europeans for the state of their moral and political decay of their civilisation.

As a side note, Mark Steyn is now Canadian but originally born and raised English. As such he deploys wit and sarcasm in a British way that isn’t entirely understood by North Americans. I don’t always agree with Steyn but I like his colourful turn of phrase and stylish prose. he was a drama critic before he turned his hand to political commentating and so he knows how to provoke.

Secondly, I want to make clear that I am not anti-Islamic. I have a sincere respect and appreciation for Islamic arts and aesthetics. This comes from briefly living in those cultures such as India and Pakistan as a small child and then later backpacking across Iran and Central Asia and South East Asia, and even later serving in the British army in Afghanistan.

As a rule, I also respect people of genuine faith and what it means to them in their every day lives to be better people having learned to speak Urdu, Farsi, and Dari to a fairly conversant level. I have always been the recipient of generous hospitality and unexpected kindness, especially ordinary people I met on the buses or in the night market bazaars or remote villages when I was backpacking.

However speaking frankly, I won’t apologise for being anti-Islam when it comes to the religious Islamic hardcore - unwittingly aided by misguided leftists and PC multi-culturalists - who wish to threaten the fabric of our European heritage or where imported Islamic customs and cultural practices are incompatible with our native European traditions.

Questions of how and in what ways does Islam impact and even undermine the very fabric of European civilisation are legitimate ones provided we can leave aside the unhelpful histrionics of fear mongering and stop taking comfort in broad brush racist caricatures.

Taking easy pot shots at straw men of our created fears may serve as a release for pent up frustration in the short term but does nothing to take a serious approach to practical policies to solving these problems in the long term. We need to have an urgent, sober and clear sighted discussion about how far can western societies can allow Islamic customs and practices to continue to shape our traditional European identity.

Thirdly, your view that Islam was peaceful until Western Christianity started the fight with the onslaught of the crusades is deeply flawed. Your view of the crusades is not unusual though. It pervades textbooks as well as popular literature which is based on out of date historiography.

The historiography of the crusades tends to focus on varying degrees on the three key medieval impulses that drove the crusades: piety, pugnacity, and greed.

In the popular imagination today the crusaders were nothing more than boorish bigots. In films like Kingdom of Heaven (2005), the best of the Christian knights are portrayed as being torn between remorse for their excesses and lust to continue them.

Within the hallowed halls of academia the impression one gets comes down either believing the soldiers of the First Crusade appeared basically without warning, storming into the Holy Land with the avowed - literally - task of slaughtering unbelievers. Or the Crusades were an early sort of European imperialism. Some ‘woke’ historians would go as far as to say confrontation with Islam gave birth to a period of religious fanaticism that spawned the terrible Inquisition and the religious wars that ravaged Europe during the Elizabethan era.

The most famous semi-popular historian of the crusades, Sir Steven Runciman, ended his three volumes of magnificent prose - written in the 1950s - with the judgment that the crusades were “nothing more than a long act of intolerance in the name of God, which is the sin against the Holy Ghost.”

Runciman was badly mistaken and his research has been surpassed as a new generation of historians have moved down fresh avenues of archival research. That’s the nature of historiography.

There will always be a sense of the complexity of each of the historical issues regarding the crusades and why historians often disagree with common popular, often unnuanced interpretations of historical events as popularised by Runciman. It is a topic that crusade historians discuss among themselves quite often, occasionally publishing articles in popular publications.

So I don’t buy in to the argument that literally all the crusaders were virtuous or had pure motives - I don’t think any serious historian does. Nor would I ever categorise all the crusaders on one side as the good guys and Islamic forces on the other as the bad guys. That’s just lazy and silly.

There is a story about Carole Hillenbrand, one of the present leading scholars on the crusades, who was invited by an interviewer in 2018 to venture an opinion on whether the Muslims who had encountered westerners in the Holy Land during the time of the crusades had seen the best of western Christendom in their midst, Hillenbrand agreed that - with notable and distinguished exceptions - they almost certainly had not. In turn what had the Western crusaders learned from their Islamic adversaries? "The most important thing that most of the crusaders who remained in the Holy Land learned ... was to use soap".

History is a two way street of complexity and contradictions. It’s also full of unexpected ironies as we shall see.

At the moment the piety argument is in the ascendancy and is often ascribed to the late great Cambridge historian Jonathan Riley Smith - arguably the most important crusades historian of modern times. As early as 1977, he argued that the crusade was a special type of holy war that was differentiated from all previous Christian holy wars by its unique institutional and penitential nature, thus it had a special religious appeal to those who participated. It was at first associated with pilgrimage to Jerusalem, the most penitential goal of all, and a place where devout Christians went to die, which may be why so many of the earliest crusaders were old men.

I find this argument more convincing because of the reams of research now been done and adds to our broader picture of the crusaders and their motivations.

So you might see the assumptions behind your question make you fall into the Runciman view of the Crusades - and that has been out of date for some time.

The historical truth is that Muslims had been attacking Christians for more than 450 years before Pope Urban declared the First Crusade. They needed no incentive to continue doing so. Islam was always in conflict with Western Christianity from the beginning.

But even here there is a more nuanced and complicated answer which I want you to consider.

Up until quite recently, Muslims remembered the crusades as an instance in which they had beaten back an insipid western Christian attack. Islamic popular belief that was prevalent in these societies that they were the winners, not the losers during the time of the crusades. Past Muslims never whined about the crusades because they saw themselves as the victors.

An illuminating vignette is found in one of Lawrence of Arabia’s letters, describing a confrontation during post-World War One negotiations between the Frenchman Stéphen Pichon and Faisal al-Hashemi (later King Faisal I of Iraq). Pichon presented a case for French interest in Syria going back to the crusades, which Faisal dismissed with a cutting remark: “But, pardon me, which of us won the crusades?”

This was generally representative of the Muslim attitude toward the crusades before about World War One - that is, when Muslims bothered to remember them at all, which was not often. Most of the Arabic-language historical writing on the crusades before the mid-19th century was produced by Arab Christians, not Muslims, and most of that was positive. There was no Arabic word for “crusades” until that period, either, and even then the coiners of the term were, again, Arab Christians. It had not seemed important to Muslims to distinguish the crusades from other conflicts between Christianity and Islam.

Nor had there been an immediate reaction to the crusades among Muslims. As the British historian, Carole Hillenbrand has noted, “The Muslim response to the coming of the Crusades was initially one of apathy, compromise and preoccupation with internal problems.”

By the 1130s, a Muslim counter-crusade did begin, under the leadership of the ferocious Zengi of Mosul. But it had taken some decades for the Muslim world to become concerned about Jerusalem, which is usually held in higher esteem by Muslims when it is not held by them than when it is.

Action against the crusaders was often subsequently pursued as a means of uniting the Muslim world behind various aspiring conquerors, until 1291, when the Christians were expelled from the Syrian mainland. And - surprisingly to Westerners - it was not Saladin who was revered by Muslims as the great anti-Christian leader - he was a Sunni Muslim of Kurdish ethnicity. That place of honour usually went to the more bloodthirsty, and more successful, Zengi and Baibars, or to the more public-spirited Nur al-Din.

The first Muslim crusade history did not appear until 1899. By that time, the Muslim world was rediscovering the crusades - but it was rediscovering them with a twist learned from Westerners. In the modern period at the end of the 19th Century, there were two main European schools of thought about the crusades.

One school, epitomised by people like Voltaire, Edward Gibbon, and Sir Walter Scott, and later echoed in the 20th Century Sir Steven Runciman, saw the crusaders as crude, greedy, aggressive barbarians who attacked civilised, peace-loving Muslims to improve their own penury state.

The other school, more romantic and epitomised by lesser-known figures such as the French writer Joseph-François Michaud, saw the crusades as a glorious episode in a long-standing struggle in which Christian chivalry had driven back Muslim hordes. In addition, Western imperialists began to view the crusaders as predecessors, adapting their activities in a secularised way that the original crusaders would not have recognised or found very congenial.

At the same time, nationalism began to take root in the Muslim world. Arab nationalists borrowed the idea of a long-standing European campaign against them from the former European school of thought - missing the fact that this was a serious mis-characterisation of the crusades - and using this distorted understanding as a way to generate support for their own agendas.

This remained the case until the mid-20th century, when, in Riley-Smith’s words, “a renewed and militant Pan-Islamism” applied the more narrow goals of the Arab nationalists to a worldwide revival of what was then called Islamic fundamentalism and is now sometimes referred to, a bit clumsily, as jihadism.

This led rather seamlessly to the rise of Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda, offering a view of the crusades so bizarre as to allow bin Laden to consider all Jews to be crusaders and the crusades to be a permanent and continuous feature of the West’s response to Islam.

Bin Laden’s conception of history was a feverish fantasy. He was no more accurate in his view about the crusades than he was about the supposed perfect Islamic unity which he imagined Islam enjoyed before the enduring influence of Christianity intruded. But the irony is that he, and those millions of Muslims who accept his message, received that message originally from their perceived enemies: the West.

So it was not the crusades that taught Islam to attack and hate Christians. Far from it. Those activities had preceded the crusades by a very long time, and stretch back to the inception of Islam. Rather, it was the West - based on faulty scholarship based on misconceived principles sourced from the Age of Enlightenment - which taught Islam to hate the crusades.

The irony is rich is it not?

Thanks for the question.

#question #crusades #history #christendom #religious extremism #islamic civilisation #holy lands #historians

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laurent--stpierre · 5 years

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THIS WILL END IN TEARS [2 / 4]

All right, so this is the start of a series of self paras that all tie into each other. They’re not being posted in chronological order, so make sure to take note of the dates they happened. The information in this self para will spread through the Organization quickly. Enjoy being able to react to it, and be a little bit smug to Johnathan.

Date: August 6th, 2019. Warnings: Typical mob fare. It’s really long tho, so apologies.

“I’m going to level with you, I was looking to make this a bit more dramatic…”

The piece of shit hunched over in front of him didn’t respond.

“It’s not that I don’t care enough about you to put the effort in. It just turns out we picked the one sprawling estate without a fucking basement. Can you believe it?”

As the Frenchman took an exaggerated drag on his cigarette, he glanced around the room for a minute. It really was a world away from the basement he’d been forced to endure; decked out from floor to ceiling in palatial gold that could’ve only been by request of Aurélie. This prick must have thought himself so lucky to have ended up here. It didn’t matter to Laurent, though. Whilst this place mightn’t have had the same looming reputation the Russian torture chamber did, the former Commandant was more than content to make up for its shortcomings with his own hands.

When the man he addressed still didn’t respond, he could feel himself losing patience.

It was no fun if they didn’t play along.

“Come on, now. Did nobody ever tell you it’s rude to ignore your host?” Laurent asked, finally resorting to kicking at the leg of his captive’s chair as he blew smoke in his direction. “If you’re pretending to be unconscious so you don’t have to talk to me, I’m going to be offended.”

“You French cunts really do love the sound of your own voices, don’t you?”

As the man sighed, he appeared to deflate along with it.

“That’s more like it,” Laurent greeted, loudly enough that it visibly startled the Brit. As the Frenchman clapped his hands together in mock jubilation, the man finally looked up at his tormentor through his swollen eyes with a glare so evil, if looks could kill, Laurent would’ve been dead on the floor in a heartbeat. “I personally love the sound of my own voice, but don’t you go stereotyping us all, now. That’s racist.”

“What the fuck do you want, Laurent?”

It seemed an odd question to ask, under the circumstances. Did he even want to know?

“I just want a nice, friendly, productive conversation. How does that sound?”

Plucking this man off the streets had taken more planning than he cared to admit, but the boss had been adamant that this time, the biggest thorn in their side would pay the price for his sins. What happened with Théo had hit them all hard; they were, after all, an organization so used to absolute power that to be limited in this new city was a difficult situation for them to stomach. Whilst they hadn’t been able to intervene when it came to influencing the Met Police, however, they still had just enough eyes inside to know that a certain somebody had paid Théo a visit.

Laurent was sure that he hadn’t seen fire like that in her eyes since Versailles.

It was no secret that Westminster’s Commandant and Aurélie were close. Laurent reasoned that it was the only reason he’d gotten as far as he had in the first place. But for this to be the reason she finally snapped? For Johnathan’s unannounced visit whilst her friend was unattended to be the thing that pushed her over the edge? Unless there was something she wasn’t sharing—and as his short time as head of London, he’d already learned it was better not to ask—he was baffled by the escalation.

That didn’t mean they weren’t all happy to be finally making some moves, however.

Aurélie had been vague but absolute in her orders: Johnathan Parsons was to be reminded that despite what his ego might’ve told him, his actions did have consequences.

Johnathan Parsons was to suffer for all the times he had not suffered before.

The easiest way to get to the brute of a man would’ve been his child, and anybody who’d said the thought hadn’t immediately crossed their mind was a liar. No, they weren’t the Russians, and they tried to keep family off limits as best they could, but this was Parsons. Extreme measures were necessary. Of course, given that she was just about to bring a third into the world, and despite the fact she didn’t doubt they would stoop as low when it came to her, Aurélie had vehemently prohibited any violence against his daughter.

It’d taken slightly more grovelling on his part to spare Jessica Reyes what would’ve no doubt been a painful end. Aurélie hadn’t seemed pleased about that—she’d followed it up with a comment that made him wonder just how closely she was keeping an eye on him—but he had been insistent enough that eventually she’d got bored of arguing. Laurent didn’t regret it; partly because she reminded him of Claudia, but mostly because Johnathan reminded him of himself. The situation was not her fault, and she didn’t deserve to suffer for it.

Eventually, they had settled on the closest person that remained.

“And what exactly do you want to talk about?”

Laurent snorted. Where should they begin?

“I want to talk about everything, Jai. I want to talk about your boss. I want to talk about why one of my people was attacked by the Russians. I want to talk about Théodore Chaussard being behind bars. I want to talk about your business in Tower Hamlets. I want to talk about you slipping me Lara Rutherford’s number to make this go a little easier for you.”

It was his turn to scoff this time.

“No.”

For someone who was such a raging piece of shit, it was almost hard to believe that Johnathan could have any real friends at all. When it had become apparent back in Porto Velho that Jai Dalal was not only his right hand man, but also his most trusted confidant, however, the target on his back grew exponentially with every antagonistic move his best friend made. Jessica and Sarah might not have been ideal candidates, but a man who had committed just as many himself—or been passive to those his boss had in the meantime—was just as deserving of the pain as Parsons was.

“To which part? Don’t say Lara…”

“What the fuck was St. Clair thinking when she sent you here, huh? Her way of saying London is just a joke to the French, by any chance? How does someone like you make it to head of the city?”

If Laurent hadn’t already spent months asking himself those same questions to the point of absolute insensitivity, he might’ve taken the comment to heart. Instead:

“Fucked my way to the top.”

“I—” Jai started, but instead ejected yet another hefty sigh.

“Let me guess, you did the same thing? Johnny boy looks like the type…”

“So you don’t do basements. What, you and your dumb fucking comments like Chinese water torture are the new way of trying to break people?”

“I can send Varden back in, if you’d prefer?”

There was real beauty in seeing fear flash behind eyes that were trying so hard to hide it.

Jai said nothing.

“How about we bring someone else into the mix, instead? Maybe if there’s another person here for you to converse with, I won’t annoy you so much.”

It didn’t take long to tap out a message to his friends in the adjoining room.

“See, you’re the headliner, Jai, but we managed to pick ourselves up a little bonus prize whilst we were out scouting tonight.”

A few silent moments passed in which Laurent contemplated lightning another cigarette, before his action was interrupted by the sound of the dining room door swinging open. Two of his men flanked the hooded figure of a woman; it seemed an excessive entourage, given that she appeared far too injured to even think about fighting back. There was no struggle as they dragged her over, and dumped her square at Laurent’s feet.

It only took a quick once over to realise that the arm she was cradling had been so badly broken, it was visible through the skin. The silent weeping became more obvious as Sylvain and Jean walked away again, as did the realisation that they hadn’t restrained her because they didn’t need to.

“Don’t worry, it isn’t anybody you know,” Laurent assured, like he gave a solitary fuck, leaning forward to take a careful handful of the hood. “This is Ivanna.”

Laurent didn’t know why, but he hadn’t expected her to look worse than Jai did.

He was wrong.

It was a shame it’d come to this, really, because he’d seen her just before Varden and Daniel had been let loose. The woman had beautiful brown eyes, and features so feminine and delicate that it seemed impossible she was a fucking Russian. If she’d been walking down the street, with those same killer legs that were now twisted beneath her in an uncomfortable heap, she would’ve turned his head in a heartbeat. But now? Laurent didn’t doubt that it would take extensive amounts of surgery to give her back any semblance of…well, anything human in definition.

There was so much blood.

Aviv Kasyanenko sure could pick them.

The corner of his mouth turned upward slightly as he glanced down at her hands. The left ring finger was missing as a special fuck you from Daniel, no doubt.

“It’s okay,” Laurent said in a hushed whisper, as though comforting a child, reaching forward slightly to brush against her hair. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

It didn’t surprise him that nothing more than a strangled sob followed.

“You’re here because I want to talk to you, okay? Nothing else. The more you can help me out here, the less likely it is I send you back to them. I really don’t want to do that, Ivanna, but I’m going to need your help.” Sighing out through his nose, Laurent looked down at the dumb fucking bitch. It was a sight so pathetic he was finding it remarkably difficult not to visually cringe. Might’ve made that feigned sympathy a little less convincing, though… “How about we get you up off that floor and into a chair, huh? You can sit in my seat.”

Luckily enough, Jai had either slipped back into unconsciousness, or had just learned how to behave, because the idiot didn’t speak a word as the Frenchman slowly hoisted the pretzel into the chair. It seemed impossible, but she almost looked more uncomfortable now she was seated. Maybe he’d find a second to feel bad about it later. Until then, and now that he was without his own chair, he slowly crouched so that he was face to face with her.

“Is that better?”

Even though he knew it wasn’t, it seemed as though she’d nodded because she was scared not to.

“Thank you…”

“Did you hear that, Jai?” Laurent gasped, turning his head quickly to glance at the Indian. “That’s what it sounds like to have manners. You could learn a lot from the Russian, here.”

Silence.

Prick.

“Unfortunately, he’s not too chatty, Ivanna, but he’s going to help us with this conversation we’re going to have, is that all right?”

The brunette nodded stiffly, and his warm smile seemed to have comforted her somewhat, because for the first time since she’d entered the room, she finally looked up at him. Laurent immediately wished she hadn’t. They were as badly damaged as the rest of her. As his own gaze travelled down to the hands she cradled in her lap, he slowly took a hold of the one which wasn’t missing a finger or attached to a compound fracture. It felt like ice. As he brushed his thumb across her knuckles, he couldn’t help but wonder whether or not he still had that bottle of hand sanitizer tucked away in his jacket pocket…

“The first thing I need to ask you is when did you get here? When did you come to London?”

The interrogation proved to be an arduous process. Most of her answers were quiet, stuttered, or forced through the sound of what could’ve easily been her choking on her own blood. Jai seemed to have no understanding as to why he was present, and that amused Laurent even more than the bitch before him who genuinely believed that he was going to help her if she was honest. The Frenchman alternated between holding her hand and gently stroking her hair as she answered the basic questions about the Russians, where they were set up, whether she’d come with Aviv, and who else had followed her out to the city.

Ivanna bared all because she was scared.

Because she was not a mobster, and because she just wanted the pain to stop.

Laurent didn’t feel bad for her when she started to cry. All he could think about was how much Claudia must’ve been hurting when the Russians had done the same thing to her.

It wasn’t until he finally got to the most important question of all that Jai would learn why the Frenchman hadn’t conducted this discussion in another room.

“Why did the Russians come to London, Ivanna? Did Aviv tell you?”

When her eyebrows pulled into a confused frown, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the Russians could’ve headed to any city they liked. Why pick London?”

There were other things he’d wanted to ask; perhaps, he could’ve even phrased that more subtly. Unfortunately, it seemed as though her strength was fading by the minute, and as her head lolled back uncomfortably—like a child trying to fight sleep—he quickly moved his hand up to help her. The tears had started to well again. It was almost as though she knew that her answer would condemn her family, even though he was sure she didn’t realise quite how much.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, bringing her head to rest against his shoulder. Blood on his Hugo motherfucking Boss. Unreal. “This is the last thing I need to know, and then you can go, all right?”

“It was what they agreed.”

“What who agreed?”

Laurent spared a glance at Jai.

The man was a professional. There was no way on God’s green Earth the French would’ve been able to get the answers out of him, no matter how long he was left alone with Laurent. What seemed unlikely, however, was that he would be able to stop himself from reacting to somebody weaker spilling everything right in front of him. Ivanna might not have been the most reliable source in the world, but if he could get the back up of a reaction from Jai, then her words would surely hold more weight than that of a woman trying to save her own life.

Not that she seemed intelligent enough to lie.

“I don’t kn—” It sounded as though she was really struggling, now. If she didn’t hurry the fuck up, he might miss out on the confirmation all together. “I don’t know everything. Aviv doesn’t tell me.”

“Who agreed on what, Ivanna?”

“The Rutherfords, when they asked for help in Porto…”

In a split second, it felt like all of the air had been sucked from the room.

Of all the cancerous things he was expecting might leave her mouth, that was not one of them.

Porto? They were in fucking Porto?

“What do you mean? What help did the Rutherfords ask for in Porto Velho?”

“They needed help. Help. The hotel. If we helped with the hotel, they said we could come here…”

If he hadn’t been so stunned by the words that had just left her dumb fucking mouth, he might’ve made a solid attempt at ripping her head from her shoulders. The Russians had been in Porto Velho this whole fucking time, and it had gone unnoticed? Unpunished? Was the hotel she was referring to Versailles? It seemed pretty fucking unlikely they’d enlist Russian help to work on PR for the Chelsea fucking Royal… Laurent could feel every ounce of anger he’d felt about that whole cluster fuck—even if his pain had come at the hands of someone else—flood back in an instant. Aurélie had been stabbed. Alessia was dead.

“You stupid fucking cunt.”

The outburst was a solid reminder that Jai was still in the room, because for a minute there, lost in an absolute flood of wrath, Laurent had forgotten he’d existed.

Whilst he was fully expecting this to go his way—to get solid confirmation that it had, indeed, been the Rutherfords who had invited the Russians to London—he had not expected their desperate collusion to go back so far. For it to have been the Russians who had orchestrated the attack on their hotel, and not the British family they had been blaming for years. Fuck, they should’ve known… They might’ve had the money and the influence, but to attack the heads of two powerful crime families so boldly? It was out there. Too fucking out there.

The fucking Russians.

“Do you mean Versailles?”

It was impossible to keep himself from shaking. Laurent had long ago given up the gentle hand against her head for fear of crushing her skull before she could finish.

“She means Empire. The Russians helped us with funding for Empire.”

That particular bluff might’ve landed better if Aurélie didn’t have Amir, the actual fucking investor, wrapped around her little finger.

“The Russians help at Versailles, and the Rutherfords let some of us move to Haringey. It was the deal. I just wanted a fresh start. We just wanted to be anywhere but Launceston…”

“You people will literally say anything to drag us down,” Jai scoffed.

Even though he was gearing up to shout again, Laurent’s hand had already found its way to the cool metal of his gun. It did nothing physically to soothe the fact he felt like he was on fire, but the deafening sound of the point-blank shot—the sight of Jai slumping back as soon as the bullet smashed through his skull—was satisfying in ways he could only hope to relive with Johnathan. Laurent stared at the carcass as though he expected it to speak up again. Get fucking cocky now, you prick. Ivanna was now in fits of sobs so loud he could hardly hear himself think. Still, his hand held firmly onto his weapon, and he wondered whether he should turn around and shove the thing into her noisy fucking mouth.

“Wasn’t he helpful, Ivanna?”

“You said you weren’t going to hurt me…”

The sound of the door opening, Sylvain and Dan bursting through the door to see what was happening a second later, did little to distract him from the woman in front of him.

“I never break a promise.”

Her pathetic relief was the cherry on the top of the dead Jai sundae.

“But that man over there?” Laurent said quietly, lifting a hand to gesture toward the men with a smile. “This is Daniel. Did Aviv ever mention somebody named Daniel to you? Maybe Noa?”

The way that she seemed to freeze in an instant suggested yes. It hadn’t taken a bullet to drain the life from her; just a boyfriend who couldn’t keep his mouth shut, and the couple of brain cells it took to add two and two together.

“Aviv took some things that belonged to Noa. Wedding and engagement rings. He almost took their baby’s life, too, did you know that?”

Laurent had thought her face couldn’t possibly look even worse than it had done post-beating, but as it contorted into the ugliest fucking crying face he’d seen since Sofia Kurylenko, he realised that he’d been wrong. This was definitely worse. Dan could have dibs on the physical suffering, but Laurent was glad to be the one to make her suffer without having to life a fucking finger.

He would enjoy thinking about it for weeks to come.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Ivanna,” he said, standing up straight and slipping his gun back into the holster. “But Dan? I think Dan is probably going to hurt you a lot.”

#self para #i miss writing laurent aww

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schizo-spoon-blog · 5 years

Text

Spoonbender Society: Selected Schizoepistles

FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE:

We Live In A Society

People say we live in a democracy/democratic republic, a form of government intended to amplify what people think and address problems they find to be important. But it doesn’t ever seem to function that way.

The issue is in voter suppression, but as always not in the way people generally think voter suppression works. The issue is psychic, spiritual, and social suppression of citizens. Systemic over-development of senses of rationalization, neuroticism and anxiety, industrially incentivized narcissism.

People develop a deathly fear of what others think, or may think, or what they may have thought about them or what they think, what they may think, or what they may have thought.

A democracy where we’d rather not hear what other people have to say, because we find their thoughts offensive and retarded. That’s one thing people are happy to share. But because we suspect that there are so many offensive retards in the world, we fear... "Perhaps I’m a retard too?" You wonder that even for just a second in your life, if you have a soul. It’s OK to be a retard really, but you’ll never believe that it’s OK, and that's probably What Your Fucking Problem Is.

The opinions of us purported non-retards, to avoid sounding like complete retards, end up soft, ambivalent and stale, phrased like True Neutral Orgasm in Ego-Death Nirvana, but less Chad, less gratifying, and nobody cums. To not be reminded of the possibility of our own retardation, we like to pretend that if the retards just shut up and nobody can hear them, they go away. If they are Physically Removed from our presence, their evil thoughts and their malicious intentions will go away with them. We win. But they don’t. They never do.

We always fail to Psychically Remove them. We lose.

We can hypothesize a law of conservation of hatred, correlate one too of love, but the truth is banal. How can it be in light of our timeline? Why are these Hate Groups all over the place? Hitler’s corpse is rotting or burned to a crisp, or embalmed in a tomb or made a toilet for Some Rich Dude ((parenthetical removed)). (Or was he cloned?)

Great Fatherland Germany - defeated by the "untermensch" and partitioned like a cheese between rats. That Great "Faustian" and "Supreme" "Aryan" Race is subjugated by the hated "Juden" and all the "vermin" of the world, humiliated, castrated to be reunited a shadow of its former self. Yet the Nazi threat is omnipresent nearly a century later, in an era which may be an alien planet to those who lived in Hitler’s time.

How is it that the Great Allies, our fathers and grandfathers, achieved such total victory over so loathsome a foe, so unsympathetic and vile, only to see his Evil infect their own countrymen and posterity? How can something so thoroughly defeated still persist in what could be our neighbors or our co-workers our bosses or our employees? Each one could be a secret Nazi now. In parenting blogs moms worry that their children are becoming Nazis from goofy men they see in videos on line. Marriages are ending in divorce because the husband or wife is allegedly or apparently a Nazi. How could this happen?

Have you ever seen “The Matrix? Who hasn’t? You know all about the red and blue pills, and all the rainbow-flag DLC that it comes with, black and pink and green and brown and in configurations invisible to the human eye, I’m sure. If you don't know, the pills are portals to different realities. Take the black pill and you only see death, take the white pill and everything’s alright, take the blue pill you vote for Hillary, take the pink you become genderqueer. But this is not about taking any pills. This is about going off your meds. Going straight edge - except for whiskey, cigarettes, cocaine and pussy. It’s about the spoon - no, not for shooting up. It's for bending - with your mind. Remember? That spoon - The Spoon That Isn’t There.

That spoon is a Nazi.

If you are aware that there is no spoon you can tie it into knots. You can make it into a balloon animal. That Nazi Spoon could be a Jewish Socialist from Vermont, or a kosher Brooklyn Zionist, or a Dominican Taxi Driver. It could be an evil copy of your own son from Bizzaro World. It's probably your uncle. It could be Rottweilers, and Chihuahuas. Whether Pitbulls are Nazis or Jews/Blacks is an ongoing debate in the contemporary discourse.

But imaginary shit can be whatever the hell you want. You don’t have to be "The One" to Bend the Spoon. You don’t have to be anyone at all. What was the name of the kid who said the line about the spoon again? Nobody knows, nobody cares, and that's the beauty of Spoonbending.

"The Nazi" is the guy who keeps talking when he should shut up. He might be autistic, but he could just be an asshole. There is a strong possibility he could be both. Why does he keep saying all of this ridiculous stuff? He’s more offensive and more retarded than the usual, but it feels like He Has To Be This Way. Like it’s his curse, He Knows Too Much. He fell down some rabbit hole and ended up gorged on Fascist Propaganda. He mentions some girl named Celine. He rambles on about some guy you’re pretty sure is a Tekken character... the guy who turns into the Devil maybe. He mentions a vacation in Turkey with his family but insists on saying Constantinople and there’s a wild-man tear in his eye. He insists he knows about Atlantis and calls you gay for saying you liked Aquaman. Instead of saying goodbye he says “Subscribe to Pewdiepie.” The Nazi belongs in an institution. You wonder if he has guns and if maybe he should have them taken for a while. He probably doesn’t, but you can’t be sure. He’s 12.

When is it too early to become a school shooter? Is 12 too early to be an incel?

12 is probably the age at which incels hatch from their human hosts.

“Who is Pewdiepie, and how has he groomed my nephew into the Hitler Youth?” many families today are asking. They think they’re looking at a spoon. Conditoning fills your heart with a desperate desire to see the spoon. A fact, pure fact, logical, reasonable, peer reviewed, widely accepted, So True, a Textbook Fact. The spoon. Everyone else sees it too. That goddamn Nazi Spoon.

You ever try to ask this at a party as an ice-breaker and see how the guests react?

“So, anyway, was The Holocaust Real?”

“Excuse me, what?”

“What do you think, was it real, how many people do you think died, don’t the gas chambers sound goofy to you?”

”Um… no… they don’t sound goofy. What are you talking about?”

“You ever hear about the Nazi Roller-coaster they had at one of the camps? They’d put Jews into a roller-coaster except they’d fly off the edge and get splattered. That’s how the Nazis killed ‘em. I swear. I read it in a book by a Holocaust Survivor. Impossible to believe if it weren’t so True. No shit. You hear about that?”

”I’m… gonna get another beer.”

Of course there’s a Correct answer to that initial question. It’s also the Right answer. Who would ever get this wrong? It's the 2+2=X of History. Well…

Pop-Quiz, Random Nazi Check, Anybody here Hate Jews? You a Groyper, Son? What’s so funny? You think the Cookie Monster committing genocide is a laughing matter boy? We don’t take kindly to your kind around here.

Maybe you should give the Nazi-check thing a try, it’ll separate sheep and goat real easy for you.

If you do this everyone will think you are The Nazi.

The Nazis hated Jews, but did they hate real Jews as Jews exist, or did they hate the Fascist Propaganda Jew who was a work of fiction? On that note, were you in love with your last failed relationship, or just pretending you were? Have you ever had one impression of a person, but then learned they were another kind of person entirely? That first impression you had, the one that wasn’t True, was that a Real Person, or Imaginary? But you still spent all that money and sweat on an imaginary girl, huh?

Hope her hole was real.

I think that fake bitch of an ex you dated was a nazi. Your ex was a fascist. Oh, was she Jewish? It doesn’t matter, changes nothing. I’ve never met her - wouldn't matter if I did. When I imagine her, she's in Hugo Boss black and got skull-and-bones on her officer's cap, and she's saying racial slurs as she ruins your life, cheats on you, drains your bank account and kills your dog after getting custody over it in court. I imagine all bad people this way. All women who rejected me were exactly like this.

But I must breach working-class anti-fascist solidarity, and admit, on That Question ("Would you?").... Yeah, I would. Sorry bro. Take me away Comrades, I admit it, I'd give it to that Nazi Jew raw. Would I do that to her as she exists, or the Fascist Propaganda her who is a work of fiction?

That depends. You still got her number?

haha it's ok you can call me an incel, it's a step up from what i actually am

(User was banned for this post.)

The Nazi and the Fascist aren’t my hallucinations. That’s not my mental illness. But it’s adjacent to me, it’s thrown at me without my Consent, and it's a Trigger. I'm paranoid about commies myself.

In the multicultural cyberpunk year of 2019, with its trans-human gender-sex-orientations, anti-racist ethno-narcissism, fanatic anti-normalism, cultish critical theory intersections, grand byzantine minimalism, placidity, in such splendid predatory banality… In the absolute state of the world! – Aah! An undead ideology conceived by a salty Frenchman in the badlands of South Dakota in the 1890s shambles forth the devour all that is Good and Holy in the Great United States of AmeriKKKa, God Help Us All! And A Child Will Lead Those Dreadful Legions of Corruption Upon All The Meek Of Our Fallen World!

Or it’s just a spoon that isn’t real.

Nobody wants to be straight-forward, and I gotta navigate the labyrinths of euphemism. Maybe there's something weird going on - how people talk, how people act, how people think, none of those correlate to each other. It makes you feel schizo when you do all your mental rain-man calculus and realize there's a fucking Elephant in the living room and he's not wearing any goddamn pants. Once that little ray-of-sunshine blesses your tiny bug-man brain to enlighten you that the elephant is real, and the spoon isn't, it's only a matter of time before you're crowned in tinfoil a Potato King on your off-grid Bug-out estate in the Idaho Panhandle, or start drinking yourself to death and bullying mailmen (or both).

If you'd like to avoid that sort of Elephant-Mania Spoon-denialism, maybe you should try answering Uncomfortable Question instead of being so Weird about it, oh wise Mr. Kirk, Mr. Shapiro, Mr. Talking-Head, Mr. Important-Guy, Mr. Movement, Mr. Politics, Mr. Voice of Reason, Mr. Metatron. Take it from a schizo-maniac with a manifesto, you’re freaking out the hoes.

Try Praeger U talking points out on a Tinder date and watch her shrivel up from instathot to instahag -- she will go through menopause before your very eyes, that's how dry her pussy will get. Trying not to sound racist while talking about the Antarctic Nazi base and the importance of craniometry in ethnocultural anthropology will get you more action than anything that sounds like a paraphrase of Charlie Kirk -- because even if you're still being cringe at least you aren't being fake. Point and laugh at that fucking elephant - the moron isn't even wearing pants! That'll get her thinking about taking your pants off. Or not - it's not foolproof. If she doesn't laugh, red-flag, she's a Nazi so Begone Thot!

Please, for the love of God, go off-script! See the damn elephant and forget the spoon, and forget the wise Mr. Kirk, Mr. Shapiro, Mr. Talking-Head, Mr. Important-Guy, Mr. Movement, Mr. Politics, Mr. Voice of Reason, Mr. Metatron. Take it from a schizo-maniac with a manifesto, you'll go insane if you don't.

[. . . ] [T]hen there's that neuroticism, that narcissism, that fear. The whole point of these politics groups and gatherings and Q&As is what, anyway? Is it really just basic marketing tactics, like a live-action advertisement you expect for people to passively consume as though it is persuasive? To shove free-markets and free-speeches down my throat and have me swallow it without having anything that’s been bothering me answered? What do I look like to you, an Ideology Whore? You don't even reciprocate a good time, huh? I'm not that kind of girl. You didn't even buy me dinner. You made me pay to bore me. I'd cuck you if we dated just to make a very important point -- fully aware it'll go over your head. Fuck you.

We gotta hear The Script. We gotta recite The Script.

Real Conservatives Think Like This. Real Progressives Think Like This. White People Walk Like This. Black People Walk Like This.

Gotta hear that joke ten thousand times so you can recite it like a mantra in your sleep.

Free markets mean free people. Facts don’t care about your feelings. Private Companies can do what they wish. What you do in your bedroom is your own business. We want legal immigration, not illegal.

Abolish ICE. Your childhood hero says Trans-Rights. Do you not want me in the movement? Abolish whiteness.

The Racism of Lowered Expectations.

Reparations.

A white nation.

Workers of the world unite!

Abortion is a human right.

Have you got it memorized?

Let’s go over it a few more times.

Say it with me! Hillary was found innocent in a hundred hearings and it is sexist to besmirch her reputation.

Repeat after me! Trump’s economy is the best in history, and if he's racist why is black unemployment is at historical lows.

You benefit from unearned privilege. You suffer from toxic masculinity.

The world is about to end and everything you know and love will die, and it is your fault, for not believing in the correct things at the correct time.

Are you laughing yet?

I’m dying. I feel like an e-girl, and my orbiters are sides.

But do you wanna know what I really think? The whole bit about psychic and social suppression? You ever hear about the Procrustean bed? Well, what if we put your political, social, moral consciousness and your psychic abilitys into a bed like that. We could talk about it. You ever play Xenogears?

Or you could just put me in a box. I really wouldn't mind. I'm Houdini. Hey, was Houdini a Nazi, like Henry Ford? Can we get a fact-check? I didn't mean to be problematic.

Break the Conditoning - Step outside the box, and use it as a step ladder. Ascend, Beyond the Box - use The Spoon.

Bush did 9/11, the Israeli’s danced, the Aliens killed JFK - sure - but I only say this because of my MK Ultra Schizo-brain. It’s true, it’s false, it’s fact, it’s myth, I don’t have to believe any of it -- I also don't have to believe any of you if I don’t want to. My feelings do not care about your facts, and did you know that some of the world's most uncomfortable facts are manifested into being by uncomfortable feelings? Is it the fact of the bullet that kills the political dissident, or the feelings of his executioner? Is it the deranged lust of the rapist that violates his victim, or the fact of his power to do so? I guess it depends on whether the perpetrator said "nothing personnel kid" before he committed the act. I don't know about that Nazi Rapist's feelings, but MY feelings are valid and I can believe or disbelieve whatever I want on the basis of my feelings, and my feelings alone. My feelings bend the spoon of your facts.

Are you going to say I don’t have the right, Adolf? Sucks for you, bud, I may be a commie by blood, but the heart that pumps it was assembled in the ole USA -- and we got the Right to be a Retard here in America. It's a Free Country.

[Note: please insert image of Jonathan Frakes from Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction]

Now that the dust has settled: Was the Nazi Roller-Coaster Real? Or did we put the Truth in a Mass-Grave? We will let you know at the conclusion of our program.

Sincerely and Full of Suffering Your Friend Always, Orcbrand

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problematicthoughtsandsonglyrics · 5 years

Text

Part two

-“I swear if you pour that water on your corndog I’m gonna kill myself”

-“The powder works so much better”

-“Ah. Ah. Don’t make a lot of noise” (wish I remembered context for this one)

-“He’s going to smite me during second period”

“You’re going to get smitten bro”

-“I’m going to aggressively Gangnam style to Africa”

-“Wow, I don’t remember drinking this much water, ever”

-“I look like I’m walking like a godforsaken penguin”

-“All liberals are suicidal”

-“My dad is a giant teddy bear. Her dad, on the other hand, is who you should be scared of”

-“If my dad wanted to hide a body you’d never find it”

-“There are so many hoes at this school. That’s all I have to say to you”

-“I’m getting a headache where’s my chocolate”

-“Skinny banana? Don’t you mean Jacob’s penis?”

-“Wait let me write something” *proceeds to write Osama Bin Laden under religious leaders*

-“Well what happens if he makes a sandwich out of your body?”

“That’s cannibalism. But cannibalism will solve overpopulation and world hunger”

-“Last time I had a banana I realized you could stick a straw in it and blow and it makes the banana warm”

-“I can’t find the furry mask”

-“I want a Lightning McQueen waffle maker”

-“I need to download a Disney XD wallpaper right now”

-“Life’s not easy being green”

-“I’m gonna run Mr Woodfield up on my dick”

-“I have a new conditioner... I mean follower”

-“We should all get lockets and put a picture of Shaggy in them”

-“Kind of like when a car passes by you really fast and makes this noise” (he did the nyoom sound)

-“You should be a car Mr Childress”

-“Get that finance over here. Let me get. That. Tax.”

-“I wanna go home and eat ratatouille right now”

-“I don’t have a nice face so that leaves one thing. My ass”

-“Ben Shapiro is gonna kill all the liberals”

-“I made a fucky wucky, my bad”

-“No, dude, he would hear us cursing in the hallway at top volume and never said anything”

-“You know what Maddy? I don’t like you anymore. I don’t want to be friends anymore”

-“Maybe if you burn in the fires of hell all the alcohol will burn too”

-“Spreading the diabetes, one marshmallow at a time”

-“At least you got to preform in front of Colonel Sanders”

-“Who’s pet is she?”

-“Everybody gets Kraft Singles, on me”

-“I’ve been scarred for life so much it feels more like a tickling sensation”

-“No one wants to touch you!”

-“It’s less like a rape and more like a gangbang”

-“There is no leader we’re all submissive runts”

-“Temporary joy, permanent pain”

-“Heteronormativity can eat my ass”

-“So what should we have overlapping heterosexuality?”

-“Just because my voice sounds like a man doesn’t mean I am one”

-“I wasn’t expecting a sip of vodka at 7:40 in the morning”

-“If you can’t do it then the best way to go is: don’t do it”

-“If anything, you’re in the way of the wine”

-“I mean, if the Catholic Church had done it right, we would have communism”

-“He is the straightest gay man I know”

-“The last time I had orange juice, I think you guys let me have a mimosa”

-“Your jacket makes you a big blob”

-“You’re like Cetaphil moisturizer because you make me wet”

-“I wish I was as bomb diggity as Beyoncé”

-“My ice cream is crunchy”

-“Quick question, how do you lose a banana?”

-“I’m really confused, yet oddly aroused. Is this normal?”

-“What kind of damn Gucci dogs come here?” (talking about a place with $60 dog food)

-“Your knees look ripe for sucking”

-“Weenus penis suck my kneeus” (they said this in unison while doing the sign of the cross)

-“And my cat’s name is Crazy”

-“If I could drown in applesauce that would be nice”

-”Why do heroin when you can have garlic bread injected directly into your veins?”

-”It’s red ribbon week for the horns. Say no to crack”

-”Oh my god I’m so hungry right now, I should’ve brought my sushi”

-”Where is this man’s penis?”

-”Wait a minute, if a guy masturbates that means he’s using his dick more often, so why doesn’t it grow?”

-”Someone say something smart cause I can’t”

-”Does anyone here have self confidence?”

-”Hello small child. What’s it like having a high voice and ambitions?”

-”I walked over here and thought she was trying to be 21 Savage”

-”Oh my god are you worshipping the antichrist?”

-”See, I know a lot about North Korea because I plan to take it over”

-”Which sounds like a lesbian affair, but it’s not”

-”My mom can spot my hair on the ground and sniff me out”

-”Goddammit. Who is you?”

“Logic would dictate that I answer no”

“It’s machete time baby”

“I have to protect it as if it were my nutsack”

“If you don’t appreciate that, you’re wrong”

-”Your elbow is a bone it can’t be muscular”

-”San Angelo ain’t hell but you can see it”

-”There’s only two things to invest in. Paintings and land cause they aren’t making any more of it”

-”Cats need to be in the center of a pentagram”

-”If you get bored, drink”

-”They put an homage to blind people. Not like they’re gonna see it”

-”If you don’t have your green card you’re gonna get dimma-deported”

-”Why is the uncle taking pictures but keeping the camera for himself?”

-”My body is going to start physically rejecting fruit snacks”

-”I would wear a Wonder Woman costume to school”

-”I don’t know the first thing about anime”

-”I don’t know why my first thought was ‘cheese stick’”

-”DA DA DA is not the most exciting thing you’ve played! Shut up!

-”On the eighth day, God created trombones”

-”It smells like cheese in the microwave”

-”I wonder what would happen if I ate powdered pancake mix”

-”I guess I didn’t breast feed her long enough”

-”Hey kid, there’s a hotspot in the van”

-”That’s not going to be good for anything. My waist line or my budget”

-”I’ve had to pee four times. It’s noon”

-”Sword swallowers are the best deep throaters”

-”I don’t know where my socks went”

-”Maybe if you wore pants your legs wouldn’t be cold”

-”You could take a survey of everyone in this whole school and they’d say that Minecraft is a culture”

-”Yeah I would fake a broken arm if it would get me out of testing”

-”Can I have a spicy roll of corn?”

-”Where’s my Asian?”

-”I baked a fucking birthday cake last night”

-”It’s been christened. Christened by ass”

-”I’ve eaten so many expired tortillas my body’s probably used to it”

-”Broccoli and hard drugs are two different things”

-”You’re like the bitch whisperer”

-”Dominance wasn’t established until the later years, but it was effective nonetheless”

-”Is uber a country?”

-”I think I’m good. It’s like dusting off the scent of another woman”

-”You’re under arrest, if you really want to be”

-”I get drunk and I spend money”

-”No honey, that’s heartless. I can still be a caring racist”

-”Are big boy gains genetic?”

-”Wait so he moved the infinity gauntlet from his hand to his dick? What the literal fuck?”

-”If I get a chair with wheels, then I win”

-”I was looking up Foghat on ancestry.com”

-”We all know the more alcohol you consume, the more insightful you become”

-”I’ve had enough experiences in wineries and breweries to last me a lifetime, and I’m only nine”

-”Innuendos and Speedos: his story”

-”You have sobriety on your side”

-”You spilled beer on the Scrabble board”

-”How many times do I tell you, we don’t listen to the retarded kids in school”

-”Furries can enjoy shitposting also”

-”Slow songs make me cry”

-”The resistor is your ass”

-”God dangit there’s a freakin egg in my boot”

-”Oh, Liberia. I know that from the vine”

-”Screaming is kid friendly”

-”Textual evidence states that that’s bullshit”

-”I’m on an emotional high and I’ll crash four hours later”

-”Yeah I got these yesterday and they’re already looking scuffed”

-”Yeah there’s always at least one cocky bastard”

-”All I need to know is how much a coat hanger costs”

-”I kept thinking Europe was a state”

-”I am a handy woman”

-”Oh my fucking god there’s communist Superman. I kind of love that”

-”Why is dog a gender?”

-”I will flood your mucus membranes with urine”

-”Does that mean it’s violent masturbation?”

-”Flex seal is the only 100% effective contraception”

-”It’s like telling someone not to do drugs while sniffing crack”

-”I like my men like I like my apples: red”

-”I invade the percussion’s privacy and pretend I’m one of them”

-”Are you calling my lap dances mediocre?”

-”Don’t even talk to me if you haven’t made out with a Frenchman”

#random #quotes #quotation #funny #humor #self deprecating humor

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preserving-ferretbrain · 5 years

Text

Garth Ennis Is A Hack

by Rude Cyrus

Friday, 10 April 2009

Rude Cyrus is deservedly rude about The Boys.~

Once upon a time, superheroes were seen as protectors of the innocent, bringers of justice, and saviors of mankind. When I was a kid, there was no greater thrill than watching Superman pummel giant robots or stop a plane from crashing into a city. As time went on, the public began to tire of flawless beings that could do no wrong, so creators began to make the heroes more “realistic”, at least in terms of character. Antiheroes like Wolverine and The Punisher became popular while concepts like vigilantism would be explored in comics like Watchmen.

Unfortunately, the pendulum swung a little too far during the ‘90s, a decade where you couldn’t swing a dead badger without hitting some DARK and GRITTY antihero. This is the same decade that gave birth to Image Comics, a publisher that needs to make an acquaintance with an H-Bomb. All you need to know about Image Comics is that it took over the canceled Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtlesfranchise and turned Donatello into a cyborg. That says it all.

This brings me to the present and The Boys, a comic series written by Garth Ennis and illustrated by Darick Robertson (which I keep pronouncing as “da’ Rick”).

Let me just say that I hate this series. I don’t hate it because it’s ultra-violent and ultra-sexualized. I don’t hate it because it makes superheroes (or “supes” as they’re called here) turn out to be a bunch of amoral douchebags. I don’t hate it because I think Garth Ennis is an overrated hack who’s convinced everyone he’s a genius. No, I hate it because I can’t stand the characters.

Everybody, with few exceptions, is thoroughly repugnant. Just look at the main characters:

Billy Butcher is a sociopath with a neck the size of a ham and a perpetual smirk plastered on his face. He owns a bulldog named Terror that can fuck things on command; seemingly hates supes because one raped his wife, who ended up dying because the fetus ripped through her stomach. Butcher ended up beating said fetus to death with a lamp.

Wee Hughie joined The Boys after his girlfriend was accidentally killed by a supe named A-Train. Much of the series is focused on following Hughie’s thoughts and actions, which is unfortunate because he’s a wet blanket with exactly three facial expressions: anger, incredulity, and shit-eating grin. He’s also a dead ringer for Simon Pegg – I suspect Ennis was sitting around, smoking pot, and said to himself, “Dude, wouldn’t it be cool if Simon Pegg had superpowers?”

Mother’s Milk is a somewhat decent guy, which means he gets shoved into the background more often than not. He seems to derive his powers from an entity he calls “Momma” in a process that makes him vomit. Why does he have to do this? Who cares, let’s watch a midget use a massive vibrator!

The Frenchman and The Female are psychotic killers with the ability to rip people apart with their bare hands. Defining characteristics: one is French, the other lacks a penis. Garth Ennis doesn’t give a shit about them, so why should I?

And what would a team of morally dubious antiheroes be without a team of superheroes to oppose them? Enter the Seven, an analogue of the Justice League, filled with characters that make The Boys look like The Boy Scouts. The only good member of the group is Starlight, and she’s constantly degraded by the other members, whether it’s forced into wearing a more revealing outfit, giving fellatio to the male members of the group as a “test”, or nearly being raped by the aforementioned A-Train. It’s also strongly hinted that Homelander (leader of the Seven and Superman analogue) was the one who raped Butcher’s wife.

What a charming bunch. Thankfully, it’s not all bad, as Starlight later becomes Hughie’s girlfriend. It’s a match made in heaven, as they’re both outstandingly bland.

Other notable characters include a CIA analyst with a fetish for female paraplegic athletes, a CIA director that frequently has humiliating sex with Butcher, and recurring cameos by Stan Lee – okay, he’s called the Legend, but it’s supposed to be Stan Lee. Perhaps “Exposition Man” would be a better name, because all he does is talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk…

Speaking of stereotypes, there are quite a few on display here. For example, there’s the two fat, hairy, greasy, comic book store-owning Italian brothers who are constantly using variations of “fuck” and threatening their customers with graphic violence; the enormous bearded Russian who talks about communism and the Motherland all the time; the “East Coast vs. West Coast” superhero teams that are always fighting each other, throwing up gang signs and using the n-word. I kept wondering why Garth Ennis was doing this, and I settled on “because he thinks it’s funny.” See, Ennis is pointing out how absurd these stereotypes are, so it’s not really racist, right? Right?

Despite all of this, I forced myself to read all 29 issues, which, at times, felt like I was cutting off my legs with a rusty hacksaw – oh, look, the Russian guy is called “Love Sausage” because he has a fifteen-inch cock! Oh look, Hughie has menstrual blood on his face from oral sex because Starlight was on her period! Oh look, one of the superheroes can vomit acid! Isn’t that a knee-slapper? Worse still was the heavy-handed social and political commentary that Ennis shoehorned in, ranging from how St. Patrick’s Day sucks, to how the military-industrial complex has the United States in a chokehold, to American politics (the President and Vice President being analogues for Dick Cheney and George W. Bush, respectively), to how superheroes are evil. He even uses 9/11 to make his point, for fuck’s sake. Basically, one of the hijacked planes crashed into the Brooklyn Bridge (the World Trade Center and the Pentagon were spared) because the Seven tried to save the day but bungled it due to incompetence and selfishness. Do you see? SUPERHEROES ARE EVIL!

No, that wasn’t what made me stop reading this comic. What made me stop was the latest story arc, called “We Gotta Go Now”. The Boys have to investigate the public suicide of Silver Kincaid, a member of the G-Men (no prizes for guessing who they’re supposed to be an analogue of), for reasons I can’t be bothered to look up. Hughie has to go undercover and infiltrate one of the younger G-teams (as “Bagpipe”, because he’s Scottish, get it?) called G-Wiz. See the subtle pun there?

It’s immediately apparent that something is off with G-Wiz – sure, they might seem to be your average fraternity (i.e. boorish drunks obsessed with bodily functions), but they’re a little too comfortable with each other, if you catch my drift. Couple this with the revelation that G-Men’s leader, John Godolkin (analogue of Charles Xavier – apologies for all the analogues) actually abducted almost all of the G-Men when they were kids and turned them into superheroes, the fact that he refers to the G-Men as his “children”, and all of the dark mutterings of “what we had to deal with” and things start becoming clear.

At this point I thought, “No way. There’s no way Ennis would be so cheap and unoriginal. There has to be more to this.” I read issue 29, and, lo and behold, one of the characters confirmed my worst fears:

John Godolkin is a child molester.

That was the last straw. It wasn’t because one of the villains was a pedophile; rather, it was because Garth Ennis had resorted to such tacky exploitation in order to wring an emotion from his audience. Instead of taking the time to craft something novel, Ennis, out of sheer laziness, decided to go for the biggest heartstring and yank. Why have a complex villain when you can just say, “He’s an evil kid-toucher! BOOGA BOOGA!”

I’m sure Ennis pats himself on the back every day for what he thinks is scathing criticism on the superhero genre and insightful commentary on numerous aspects of life. He isn’t clever, creative, or even likable. He’s just a lazy hack. My smoldering ire also extends to the fans that keep buying this dreck and give it good reviews. What the hell is wrong with these people? My guess is that, in their minds, they equate DARK, GRITTY, and SERIOUS with being good. In my mind, it’s just BULLSHIT, BULLSHIT, and more BULLSHIT.

Themes:

Damage Report

Sci-fi / Fantasy

Comics

bookmark this with - facebook - delicious - digg - stumbleupon - reddit

~Comments (

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)

Wardog

at 17:17 on 2009-04-10I don't know what to say ... I am completely flabbergasted by the awfulness of this. Why on earth is it garnering praise?

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Arthur B

at 17:26 on 2009-04-10Once upon a time the publishers of

2000 AD

thought it would be great to hand over all the writing duties for the comic for a few months to Garth Ennis, Grant Morrison, and various hangers-on. Why they thought this was a good idea was a mystery because Garth had already proven he shouldn't be trusted with other people's properties when in

Strontium Dogs

(the sequel series to

Strontium Dog

) he pulled a blatant retcon out of his capacious arse to turn the sweet, gentle comic relief character The Gronk into a psychotic gun-toting protagonist. Nonetheless, the magazine went ahead with the Summer Offensive, as it called the promotion (because, you see, it's Garth Ennis and he likes being offensive, and it happened in the summer), and the general tone of the comic went from "12A bordering on 15" (in movie age rating terms) to "18 certificate and a big argument about violence in the media on the side", which prompted the parents of certain younger subscribers, such as myself, to cancel the magazine.

And that's how Garth Ennis ruined

2000 AD

for an 11 year old Arthur.

Seriously, the man is awful. I think the only thing he's done that I've actually liked was

Hellblazer: Dangerous Habits

. Frustratingly, that was brilliant. He's capable of not being an idiot if he tries, he just

doesn't try

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Rude Cyrus

at 19:49 on 2009-04-10This was actually nominated for an Eisner Award for "Best Continuing Series" in 2008. And comic bok fans wonder why so many people don't take comics seriously.

Thanks for the image, by the way.

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Wardog

at 20:35 on 2009-04-10For a moment there I was wondering if you meant the image of an 11 year old Arthur but then I realised you meant the literal image that illustrates this article. I hope it's okay - I chose the cover that most annoyed me :)

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Sonia Mitchell

at 23:23 on 2009-04-10This series sounds horrific. Thank you for the warning.

(I badly want to google cyborg Donatello. I'd like to think it can't be as disastrous as I'm imaginging, but that would probably be naive. I'm therefore restraining myself...)

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Arthur B

at 00:46 on 2009-04-11

Oh hey look what else Image have published.

On the other hand, they also put out

The Walking Dead

, which

I really like

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Guy

at 03:59 on 2009-04-11Speaking of Image, this is one of the most funny/disturbing things I've ever read: Rob Liefeld's 40 worst drawings: http://progressiveboink.com/archive/robliefeld.html

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Arthur B

at 15:04 on 2009-04-11I'm amazed they were able to find 40 drawings worse than

the infamous Captain America one

Actually, I'm not amazed, Liefeld is terrible. Oh God, the feet...

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http://webcomcon.blogspot.com/

at 06:31 on 2010-07-11Thread necromancy: After reading this article from the random button, I'm reading

The Boys

out of morbid curiosity. I've gotten through the first couple of storylines, issues one through ten. It's about as disgusting as Rude Cyrus has said, with everything as juvenile and pointlessly violent and so forth.

One of the annoying things is that there are occasionally glimmers of interest that make me think "You know, if Garth Ennis actually gave a shit, and stopped dropping tons of stupid violence and stupid sex and stupid ham-fisted 'haha the gay activist is violently afraid of actual homosexuals' shit, he might actually be able to make some points about 'how do we make superheroes accountable?'" One advantage of

The Boys

is that, unlike

Civil War

, it's just one author, so there aren't a bazillion different axes being ground. And it doesn't seem like it's constrained by being a DC Comics Continuity Event, the way

Civil War

was a Marvel Comics Continuity Event. And every once in a while, it seems like Ennis might have something to say on the matter.

But it inevitably degenerates into "hurr hurr supes are pervs, butcher punches them." Fuck you, Ennis, for being wasted potential.

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http://webcomcon.blogspot.com/

at 06:32 on 2010-07-11Aack, unclosed HTML tags. Sorry! (I'm used to a forum that won't let me post if I have unmatched tags, and didn't check.)

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Rami

at 05:43 on 2010-07-12@webcomcon: Fixed it for you. I'm afraid FerretBrain doesn't really do warnings -- but we do suggest using the Preview button!

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http://blackgeep.livejournal.com/

at 18:20 on 2010-07-13Continuing thread necromancy!

I am a comic book artist. I detest

The Boys

with a deep, abiding disgust. My employer thinks it's brilliant. He is also a big fan of Liefeld (needs more pouches!), so go figure. While

The Boys

is bad, try having your only income being working on the dream project of someone who likes

The Boys

, and feel your artistic integrity shrivel.

I actually considered sending in issue one of

Polis

(what I'm paid to draw) to Ferretbrain for a review; I may yet do that alongside

Polis

issue two and my own side project for what the great minds here could find a fun comparison. "The world is corrupt and drug-addled, corporations are evil, and our main hero is an amoral Cape [superhero] with few redeeming qualities." versus "A space princess and space pirates act terribly toward one another, but all in good fun." I asked my employer, and he thinks any publicity is good.

Speaking of "Cape" and "Supe", what is this allergic reaction to the word superhero? Yes, superhero is a long word, but so is computer. From my perspective, it would seem more likely that superhero would get shortened to just hero. Then advert campaigns about "The

real

heroes of X city: our policemen and firefighters" would take on a whole new weight. Plus, I haven't met many people who say 'puter, and compy only caught on after Strongbad popularised it.

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Dan H

at 19:11 on 2010-07-13I think the thing about abbreviating "superhero" to something like "cape" or "supe" (did Watchmen use "mask" or am I making that up) is that it highlights the fact that this is an EDGY SERIOUS WORK OF FICTION about EDGY DARK CHARACTERS not some KIDDY THING about SUPERHEROES.

Because as we all know, nothing screams "maturity" like going to great lengths to appear mature.

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http://blackgeep.livejournal.com/

at 21:32 on 2010-07-13The thing which screams maturity the best is to have everyone swear all the time, and put blood and torture on every page. The ability to engage in traditionally adult themes while employing transgressive story elements such as bodily fluids, misogyny, and rape is the hallmark of an individual whose mind has progressed past puerile adolescent fascination. As you said, superheroes are so childish. We aren't writing stories about superheroes under a different name. These are adult stories about well rounded characters employing serious themes. Just like Terry Goodkind is definitely not a *pfft*

fantasy author.

Sarcasm over, I honestly don't remember if

Watchmen

used "mask." I guess I've just lost some comix-cred.

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https://me.yahoo.com/a/O9dPXbw3peUAacFQM4aervEXf232TbhO0FE-#dcc46

at 13:13 on 2011-10-28Hey guys. I'm aware this is a few years old but just discovered the site and enjoying it, even when I disagree.

But this is the only one I think I needed to comment on.

Firstly, Garth Ennis is demonstrably not a hack. That's just incredibly lazy.

Secondly, this review seems to have totally failed to come to terms with the text.

OK. I'm not going to argue against certain points here. There's gross out humor, there's swearing, there's a hamster well-up in a zombie's bum. There's puke and disgusting, disgusting periods that no man should ever have to read about (cos girls, right! ew. The writer of this article agrees!) and there's even some blood and guts and a superhero orgy and someone strangles Scarlet Witch with a belt!

But.

The scene where poor old Annie, Starlight, has to service six members of the Seven to get in? It's awful. And a considerable part of the text is concerned not only with her coming to terms with the assault but (and how often to you see this?) actually come to terms with and starting to heal from the assault.

The two black teams who scream the N word at each other? There's no discussion of the young black man who is going to be forced into one of the teams who sees nothing he recognises of his experiences in tired mainstream hip hop lingo and posing. A man who has begun to understand that to become a superstar, he has to enter into a well-dodgy narrative.

No discussion of the good people warped into being celebrities and what that costs them, which is the central metaphor of the book.

Or the actual honesty when Hughie, who's never met a gay man but has to hang out in a gay club and suddenly finds his liberal sensibilities a bit overwhelmed. A scene that's never, ever played for cheap gay joke laughs.

The point of Hughie going down on a girl with a period is not that it's gross and his mates laugh at him. It's that he refuses to let something as dumb as that get in the way of his relationship with Annie. He cops some jokes and some pisstaking but then will not let the deathly embarrassed girl freak out over what turns out to be ... nothing at all.

In recent years, we've also seen a cheap man-on-man 'Dark Knight Returns' rape joke actually turns out to actually be a proper discussion on the reasons why a chap might not be able to discuss it with his friends. And what that cost him.

St Patrick's Day sucks? Surely an repatriated Northern Irishman who grew up in the Troubles has nothing to say about the immigrant experience to the United States. What a hack!

As for scoring political points off 9/11.... mate. Welcome to the world. I fail to even see an argument here.

I'm not going to say everyone should love The Boys. And sometimes I get a bit weary of schoolboys bleeding out of their arses and all the rest. And I think Ennis has made his point about religion by now. I do. (Spoiler alert: Preacher)

I like the comic but I don't expect everyone to be able to laugh like I do when the mentally ill Batman analogue has sex with a meteor.

So don't like it. That's cool. It's not like I'll gnash teeth if you don't like what I like. But this review has really failed to come to grips with and has actively misrepresented the text.

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Arthur B

at 13:32 on 2011-10-28Hi dcc46, welcome to Ferretbrain!

I've not read

The Boys

but I have read enough Ennis to at least address this point:

Firstly, Garth Ennis is demonstrably not a hack. That's just incredibly lazy.

You know what else is incredibly lazy? Basing your writing career so heavily on cheap shock tactics which come across like a 13 year old trying to be edgy. I couldn't get past the first volume of

Preacher

because Ennis' obsession with gore, fucking, and other scatological subjects just became intensely monotonous. His contributions to 2000 AD were much the same. His

Hellblazer

run started out brilliantly - I think

Dangerous Habits

is both the best thing he's written and the best

Hellblazer

story that

anyone

has written - but I couldn't abide the rest of it precisely because he kept falling back into bad habits.

When a man makes a career out of indulging his puerile instincts to an extent where consistently and repeatedly his material degenerates into lame attempts to be shocking for the sake of it, that's pretty hackish.

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https://me.yahoo.com/a/O9dPXbw3peUAacFQM4aervEXf232TbhO0FE-#dcc46

at 13:51 on 2011-10-28Well, if that's all you've read of Hellblazer, that's cool. When he was, what, 21, he wrote that. There was a bit of a fall off in quality before he'd come back with stories of Kit and Ric the Vic and end up telling stories of the devil contrasted with the nasty realities of racial politics in early 90s London.

If you passed on Preacher, that's cool. That second story arc is uninspired. But you missed out on a a meditation of faith, friendship, watching a man try to navigate between his old-fashioned 'chivalry' and a woman who refused to be patronised or left behind.

So I honestly don't see shocking for shocking's sake. I see bad taste. But I've never felt there's a kind of splatter punk aesthetic at work.

That's sort of my point.

I see humour that may or may not work for you. But I'm suggesting to you that if you can get past the guts and jizz all over the shop. And if that's really a sticking point for you, then you won't ever get into it.

But I think your wrong if puerility is all you get out of the work.

I know you had issues with his early 2000AD run. I never got that. I'm Australian and 2000AD seemed to ship... on a madman's calendar. So I can't comment on that.

So I tell you what. Try something like his PG Hitman. His war stories, where he reigns himself in. His Punisher MAX, which is humorless as a Derek Raymond novel.

But I'll split you the difference: Jennifer Blood is fucking awful.

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https://me.yahoo.com/a/O9dPXbw3peUAacFQM4aervEXf232TbhO0FE-#dcc46

at 14:05 on 2011-10-28Anyways, I'm off.

But, a hack writer is a bad writer. Matt Reiley is a hack writer. He's bad at the English language, his plots are hackneyed, his haircut is stupid.

If you don't like Ennis' work, that's cool. But just because you think he wraps things up in grossness doesn't make him a bad writer -at all-. He's an accomplished writer with themes and metaphors and all that writery stuff.

Nevertheless, good site. Talk later.

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valse de la lune

at 16:00 on 2011-10-28

So don't like it. That's cool. It's not like I'll gnash teeth if you don't like what I like. But this review has really failed to come to grips with and has actively misrepresented the text.

How quaint; you appear to be gnashing your teeth exactly because Cyrus didn't like the thing. I also agree with Arthur's assessment of Ennis: overrated hack pandering to things teenage boys--usually teenage white boys at that, what with the n-word thing--find oh so edgy and clever.

Preacher

is absolutely fucking unreadable and I spit in its general direction.

And, while you can certainly use the word "hack" to denote a poor writer--which I'd argue Ennis

, at that--his general attitude and output are pretty hacky too, in the lowest-common-denominator sense.

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Rude Cyrus

at 20:31 on 2011-10-29Here's the thing: whatever good points or ideas Ennis may have are ruined by the juvenile shock tactics he wraps them in -- it's one thing to use violence and sex occasionally and for great effect, it's another to use them

all the time.

For example, I can agree with Ennis that St. Patrick's Day is an excuse for every American with a drop of Irish blood to wear green and get sick on beer, but when he ends this commentary on a close-up on a hat filled with puke, it makes me roll my eyes.

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halfacat · 6 years

Text

Thoughts on Crazy Rich Asians

Let me just say: IT’S ABOUT TIME ASIANS GOT THE SPOTLIGHT!!!! Holy hell, I’ve been waiting for this moment for the past eight years and dreaming of something like this happening for all my life. Asians are hot, Asians are cool, and Asians are worthy.

With that said, I am hyped for Crazy Rich Asians. I am currently reading the book right now, and I’m having a lot of fun. It’s a dumb book, but it’s dumb in the best way possible: it’s luxurious, dramatic, emotional, and crazy, and I AM HERE FOR IT. It’s less than seven days until CRA hits theaters and already, the reviews are awesome (which, naturally, makes me tear up). And with the reviews coming in, so are the people who are not so excited for this movie...

1) According to Rotten Tomatoes, CRA is at 100% with 17 reviews. Obviously, this rating will fluctuate the more reviews that come in, but 100% with 17 reviews? This movie is looking BOMB. And yet, people are complaining about the rating: how obviously the movie has to be Fresh or else the critics will be deemed racist or how CRA is getting the same treatment as how Black Panther did. I have just one thing to say: Yes, this movie is about Asians and with an Asian cast, but can’t a movie be Fresh just because it’s a good movie? Why do we have to politicize everything? I get that the title is “Crazy Rich Asians” but it’s just a title! Should “Black Panther” just be Panther? It would’ve still done well in the box office regardless! Also, CRA is a rom-com so can’t we just enjoy it as it is?

2) ASIAN MEN! *heart eyes* Okay, but there has been controversy surrounding the casting of Nick Young. Why is Henry Golding, a hapa, playing Nick Young, a full ethnically Chinese character? Golding is half-white, and Hollywood has a knack for picking white characters for their lead roles. With a perfect opportunity to cast a hot Asian dude, why cast only half of one? I agree that the casting may not have been the best BUT just because Golding is half doesn’t mean we should discount his Asian heritage. Asian people are Asian, and some Asians are more “Asian” than other are, but that’s alright. Henry Golding is charming, cool, and hot, and I am confident that he will play an impeccable Nick Young. And honestly, if people aren’t ready for a full Asian love interest, then at least they can go halfway if that’s what it takes for them to understand that Asian men are hot as hell.

3) Asian representation! Asians in general have always been portrayed as weak, nerdy, smelly, and weird. We are constantly fetishized, hypersexualized or desexualized (no in-between), and seen as either sex objects or the laughing stock. Our facial features (specifically those of East Asians’) are always mocked. People don’t think Asians suffer from racism but we do. Unfortunately, we are seen as white people so the public is less inclined to care. We are always overlooked in entertainment (i.e. Doctor Strange, Ghost in the Shell, Aloha, etc, etc.) and when something good comes along that protray us as something else other than ninjas or geeks or ancient masters or sex toys, people have the gall to say to make fun of us STILL. For example: “CRA is racist! There are no white people!” By the racists’ logic, every movie that features little to no POC is considered racist...

4) But, where are the other Asians? Both the book and movie have been criticized for its lack of South and Southeast Asians, groups that are prevalent in Singapore, which is already a Southeast Asian country. CRA should be “Crazy Rich East Asians” because only East Asians are features. (By that logic, shouldn’t it be “Crazy Rich Ethnically Chinese”?) People are confused as to why the characters speak in British accents but are from Singapore...why not Singlish? I agree that there should have been more diversity in Asians (because we have problems with that already). HOWEVER, not to excuse the plot at all, but Kevin Kwan created a story about Chinese people in Singapore. He wasn’t obliged to write about the minorities, and that sucks, but who are we to tell him what to write about? Not everything can include everyonem and with CRA, it focuses on the Chinese elite that are very narrow minded - that is the point! Also, Kwan is writing about the crazy rich Asians, and already, that excludes much of the population in the world anyway. But yes, like I said before, I do wish more Asians were included, but for right now, I’m just so, so happy that Asians, specifically East Asians, are getting some real appreciation in the modern Western world. Like what Constance Wu tweeted, “I know CRA won’t represent every Asian American. So for those who don’t feel seen, I hope there is a story you find soon that does represent you.” Honestly though, how many Hollywood films can you say had an East Asian lead that wasn’t a stereotype? How many Hollywood films can you say even had East Asians in it that actually talked and did stuff? How many Hollywood films can you said has East Asian love interests?

5) CRA is not the best Asian representation. It is Asian representation, and LOADS BETTER than the usual portrayals of Asians, but it’s not the best. I mean come on, pipe smoking moguls? Evil psychobitch mother-in-laws? CRA is basically a Korean drama. Am I complaining? Not really. I’ll be lying if I said I didn’t wish a different film was used to highlight Asians. Then I remind myself that CRA is a step. Not a huge step, but a step towards a more inclusive Hollywood.

~~~

UPDATED 8/15/18:

6) The actresses are white-worshippers. Constance Wu has been seen with a white boyfriend, Gemma Chan has dated Jack Whitehall, and Michelle Yeoh is married to a Frenchman...these women are not Asian! Oh, but they are. Since when did our dating preferences decide whether we were more a race than not? If they really are white washed then sure, we can be wary. But Wu has always been an advocate for Asian rights and Yeoh is an Asian legend, and Chan isn’t tied down to her race either. Asian women have a bad reputation in the dating game and are seen as white-worshippers. This is true only for some Asian?Asian American women. I have seen and know more than fifty Asian and Asian American women who are either dating or engaged or married to Asian and Asian American men. Take that.

7) It’s just a rom-com but with Asian people...That’s the point! Since when has Hollywood ever casted an Asian man as the lead for a blockbuster? Since when were Asians seen as worthy of love, attention, and sexual attraction? Since when were Asians viewed as people with passions and emotions and desires? Crazy Rich Asians changes all of that.

~~~

I’m relieved that we are finally getting the spotlight for once, and a spotlight in which people can laugh and swoon over. Besides for a select few Asian led films (i.e. Joy Luck Club), CRA is a milestone in Hollywood history. Sure, it may not be the best portrayal of Asians or be that inclusive for other Asians, but it’s progress, and we have to recognize that! Racists, let us have our moment. South and Southeast Asians, I know it’s all East Asians but I promise, CRA is a nod towards the right direction. Whatever your thoughts on this book or movie or casting or actors or wahtever, please set them aside because CRA happening and Hollywood allowing it to happen is just amazing.

I’m so overwhelmed right now. I’m here for all this representation, and I know that CRA will pave the way for other POC to shine like how Black Panther did. Please go watch this movie, guys. We need to break box office records and show that Asians do matter. Let’s support!

#crazy rich asians #asian #representation #POC #kevin kwan #henry golding #constance wu #hollywood #movies #films #east asia #singapore #southeast asia #south asia #asian power

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qdesjardin · 7 years

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It gets late at night, and Curtis is thinking of taking a blissful bus ride back to his flat - feeling relief of miraculously finding that woman. Clare says that it isn’t safe at night; there are people who want to assault him for being black, being potentially a Muslim - I imagine in this future that things have become irreversibly divided in France.. in Europe generally.

In the ending to Days Before Christmas, when I wrote Clare being in a brighter future where she reunites with Martin - I was more naive at the time. I hoped that the world would progress in a brighter direction, to reflect Clare leaving behind her nightmarish reality to become a shining star of a person. But as I’ve gleaned, it isn’t working out that way. There’s a huge contradiction in the European psyche where they see the solution of standing up for their boundaries as racist and xenophobic, while turning a blind eye to the toxic influence of Islam migrants who don’t want to integrate with European values, but conquer everything from within.

I’d say it’s like a person who’s grown accustomed to being in a relationship with an abuser; instead of seeing it for what it is, they easily snap and blame other people, other factors - like their own family trying to reach out to them. In their mind, it’s their fault the abuser is mad and unhappy with them, and by some grace of God, would they make some amends and make things happy again -- the man endlessly pleads to the gatekeeper as he ages and withers away to let him pass before the door of the Law, but to no avail.

This is something I wanted to illustrate, having myself been in relationships gone terribly sour. At this stage in the story, I aim to make the reader uncomfortable - feeling uprooted and disoriented and betrayed by the familiar turned ugly, while wanting a foothold to hold onto for assurance.

Anyways, CJ returns home. He only has enough money for a single bus fare - it’s September, his monthly pass has expired. When he gets on, he takes a seat by the side door, and he gets some uncomfortable leers from a Frenchman in front of him. For the first time, he doesn’t feel welcome, it’s not like home anymore. Another symptom of his innocence being stripped away. He waits for the man to get off at a stop, but the man still stays on the bus.

Then a pretty couple gets onto the bus, with the girl being pregnant. They notice CJ in his hoodie (already barely hiding his discomfort). After a moment of consideration, they sit by the Frenchman, where CJ avoids their gaze - he blares out music full-blast from his earbuds, trying to take his attention off of them.. a sort of silent intimidation.

A mental image of a rosary in heavy shadow, mid-air, rotating, with a thin metal chain attached. CJ’s heart palpitates with a strange anxiety.. not unlike that of imagining something major yet to come.

Clare’s words echo in CJ. He suddenly remembers how that rosary, with its ruby centre, was around her neck, when the bus is interrupted by a molotov cocktail shattering, flames erupting over the windows, melting them into modern art. The molotov wasn’t even aiming at the bus, but rather it’s thrown as part of a riot.

In France of this time, there are no-go zones where Muslim-inhabited banlieues are secluded from the rest of French residences. Buses are not allowed to cross through them, so this riot takes place by the border of one such Muslim banlieue - instigated by young, angry French youth who want their own pure France back.

CJ ends up getting off the bus prematurely, runs away from the commotion the rest of the way home. He hears sirens approaching, riot patrols clamping on the violence.

Her affection, her love isn’t there anymore, and he knows it.

“Why have you forsaken me..?” -- the same words inside CJ could just as well go for anyone who has lost faith, lost hope or connection in what they’ve poured their hearts into. It’s a question screaming its soul out for an answer, no matter how insipid or grotesque.

So he’ll see Lillian, one more time. He looks over the previous conversations they’ve had together, and a thought occurs to him: what if he could peer into what she was doing at the moment when she sees his messages? He asks this possibility with his friends and one of them, Dmitriy, an experienced cracker, enables CJ to do just that.

At his residence, CJ sends Lillian an unsuspecting holographic recording (message) of himself, to check in on her - he waits a few agonizing minutes for his message to be seen (not heard), and he imagines it could be like in one of the movies he’s saw, where a kidnapper has stolen her away and is just reading all the messages she would’ve received. If that were the case, he could be a real hero.

What he sees is different.

She’s dressed as a punk rocker, seemingly expressionless as she looks over what she’s just received, before turning around to pick up a microphone and sing, soulfully, her long hair wavering in tune with her fierce energy - no audio (a limitation of the cracking tool).

The image of her fades out.. an intense jealousy swells in his heart now, consuming his emotions with a blackening, numbing pain. She was doing all that, and never even told him. She’s intentionally keeping him out of her loop.. why?

CJ plays some basketball outside alone. He does lay-ups, slam dunks, three-pointers on that aged basket to keep his mind off the emotional pain. He’s loved basketball since he’s seen Space Jam -- it’s a piece of home he carries with him. At Chicago, he’d play around evening in the alley, before he’d know it, other people would join in on the fun for a pick-up game. It always makes him smile.. before all this.

It’s cloudy. CJ puts his own basketball away and gazes out at the coldness that the seasonal change has brought out in the streets. He flashes back to Lillian -- she’s resting in his arms - they’re on a bench at the park, the most sweetest scent of nectar from the flowers. She is adoring his face with her gaze, her hands gently coaxing his ears, and he just knows if he leans in to know her soft lips by his own - the same as asking his family for a hug when he felt down or lonely - the same as hugging his plush M&M Orange when he was younger and nervous of the dark, the soft plushness letting him know that there will be a tomorrow, and that it’s enough just to relax and simply be, resting still with the glow in the dark stickers in his room, and the noises of his own breathing upon his bed. It would be alright.

It would be alright..

He feels vulnerable, and something in him just breaks, and he begins to sob, alone and to himself, not knowing why.

At the residence, CJ is packing his items into luggage, melancholy weighing in his movements. Clothes, toothpaste, laptop, while disposing much of his school notes in the wastebasket. They’re useless scraps of paper, all except the ones with his memorable doodles and made-up rap lyrics =)

Then he stumbles across his school yearbook. His attention droops on it, and he opens up the pages. Beyond the customary photos of every student, are the captured moments which he’s lived at the school. Tobogganing down the snowy hills in winter. Being in the halls when someone rode a scooter, blaring out French rock from his phone (there’s Curtis by his locker).

The graduation ball.

Curtis and Lillian dancing in the dimly-lit gym, disco lights illuminating their faces intent on one another to the music. All his memories emerge out of nowhere, and it’s like he wants to hug someone deeply for every single, stupid, little, silly moment that he’s lucky enough to have had -- no one’s around.

He knows what he has to do now.. he just needs to meet up with her in person and maybe, just maybe it would turn out to be a simple misunderstanding that he could laugh it off when he gets back home, and turn this lingering unhappiness of his upside-down.

“Please don’t, CJ. Seeing her one last time is going to make it harder for you,” his friends go. Even his own friends aren’t supportive of his predicament anymore.

CJ doesn’t want to hear it - he ventures out to find Lillian.. if she’s even still around in Paris anymore, for she was also an exchange student whose family happened to care enough to make a temporary living in this place of romance.

Afraid of showing up at her place directly (leading to an incredibly awkward encounter with her together with her family), he scours the places where he remembers she loves to go. McDonalds, the park, the classy art theatre.. feels more like aimlessly roaming in nostalgia than a purposeful search, but he finds fliers on the wall - a gig, with Lillian as the singer! Today’s the last night to see it!

The venue takes place at “La Fontayne” club - which through experience, CJ knows the address to be around the richer avenues. The ticket price is around twenty Euros - too bad, it’s sold out.

No turning back now.

CJ sneaks in through backdoors, where the crew are too busy prepping the instruments and lighting to notice while it’s raining heavily outside. He acts like he is doing some useful stuff (like drinking the provided fruit punch) to blend in.

Amidst the swirl of self-organizing chaos manifesting itself into a show, CJ spots Lillian by the makeup mirrors, having already rehearsed, loudly chattering with her bandmates about the events of their last night’s wildness.

He’s briefly relieved to be able to see her with his own eyes again, and it seems like looking upon her naturally animated self is enough to bring joy to his beating heart.. until he remembers he doesn’t belong here, with her.

It’s announced the band will be live in a minute. A crew member spots him. He doesn’t have a backstage pass, so he quickly backs into a nearby hall and ducks into a washroom stall. His heart is pounding from sheer adrenaline, he’s just comprehending what craziness he’s leapt into. At the same time, he knows he’s not one of those people who just suck it up and mope when things are going wrong in their lives. That’s worth something.

The reason he is here is because he believes in himself enough to still give a fuck.

The crew members enter the washroom with security, and Curtis can hear them talk about “securing the area from a potential code brown.” He only knows they’re talking about him, and he gulps as they search around, flashlights prodding the urinals and then the stalls [the stalls here don’t have the gap underneath the doors].

Each door opened sends a shiver through Curtis, while he hears the audience roar from the curtains unfolding and Lillian chalking it up on the microphone.

The security guards bust open the stall next to Curtis, followed by violent struggling - there was a junkie who was busy speedballing (heroin + cocaine), and it takes all the men just to subdue him, and soon leaving the washroom and Curtis safe.

CJ creeps out, and from the shadows of the backstage, absorbs every facet of the wild performance. The way the drummer slams his kit, the guitar and bass, the way she sings - albeit not flawlessly, still has this engaging passion (subconsciously reminding him of the first time he almost climaxed with her).

They want more.. Curtis wants more. In another world, he’d be by the front of the audience and Lillian would just wink at him, for seeing his soft face is encouragement.

The show is over - everyone roars with craze, and Lillian wishes them all a happy, safe travel back home. When the curtain falls and she packs up her microphone, Curtis takes this as his cue to stand up to her. It’s now or never. He starts emerging from his hiding spot, only to see her embrace the lead guitarist in a passionate kiss, a full blown make-out session. His emotions freeze, and it’s like his chest is threatening to explode from the sudden massive build-up.

The backstage is all but abandoned now, leaving a lone spotlight shining on Lillian and the guitarist. She wraps her arms around his neck while he takes her, moaning. Lifting her up underneath her legs-- carrying her to a waist-high speaker by the wall, and while she has her hands feverishly all over his chest, the guitarist unbuckles his pants and reaches beneath her black skirt.

A jolt of spontaneous ecstasy from her, her leg trembling. The guitarist is pushing deeply and deeply, over and over, again and again, letting animalistic urges whelm his consciousness.

Curtis watches. He is terribly aroused (he could start to smell their combined sweat and heat and bodily pheromones - Lillian’s, mixed with this guitarist’s), and so confused as to the turmoil of raw emotions he didn’t know he’d possessed, swirling, caving his good senses in. He hears her vocalize out her cries (of pain? no. of sheer euphoria that she never shared with Curtis), all as her hand clasps the nape of the guitarists’ neck.

“No,” he says, not wanting it. “NO!” He screams her name in an explosive rage.

It shocks Lillian and the guitarist (Cesar) out of their ravenous desire, and if you were here in this moment, it is Curtis, tears streaming down his cheeks, sadness and anguish filling the void where Lillian’s love once was. Cesar quickly tucks his glistening penis back into his pants, before approaching Curtis - he’s somewhat exhausted, upset over the intrusion.

Curtis focuses all his despondent rage on Cesar, and attempts to charge at Cesar, who simply sidesteps and in the process throws CJ tumbling across to the floor. After a second of looking upon CJ, Cesar kicks him hard.

“Stop it! Cesar!” Lillian manages to pull Cesar away. “Curtis.. um.. I never expected you to show up.”

When Curtis gets up from the ground, trembling, the look of pain in his eyes catches them off-guard. “I’ve been waiting for you so long,” he goes. “Why did you leave me.. why didn’t you tell me you were singing at some gig.. you don’t even care about me. Tell me you don’t care about me. Tell me I mean next to nothing to you anymore!”

“Is this some lover of yours Lil’? This negro-- ha. Ahahahahah! Don’t make me laugh - Lil, get him outta my sight.” (I’ve always found it fascinating when you have beautiful women pair up with people who you see act heinously, like Cesar here, even if only because of status, power.. security under the guise of men giving off domineering signals. Or because inside they’ve come to feel like this is how love for them is like, this is what they deserve.)

“Why are you so upset about me?” Lillian says, almost dumbfounded - but really suppressing a truth in her mind so she could cope with her day-to-day troubles. “Aren’t we just.. friends?”

Friends.

“No, Lillian.. I love you. I loved you since I got to know you from McDonalds.. we shared that royale with cheese meal together, and your cats. Ever since, I grew to love everything about you..” His next words, amidst his sniffles, he knows are so cheesy, but it’s the only words he has to put that feeling which permeated his summer. “I loved your humour about so many stuff.. I loved how gentle and delicate you were with your cats. I love your unique spirit underneath you. Just being with you made me so happy. You made my summer. I’m glad for that.”

Cesar spits at CJ, then picks up his jacket and storms out the door, one last contemptuous look at CJ, before leaving the two lovebirds alone.

“Curtis,” she goes. “I hardly even know you. And you don’t know me. We only met because of that stupid ball, and you just.. gah! I hate how you’re so demanding of my time. Calling me at least twice every day, wanting me to talk and hang out with you always. It’s exhausting, I can’t be there on top of you 24/7!” She is fuming now. “You know, you’re really this needy boy who’s pathetically hooked on what I do, like I’m your drug who gets you high, like I’m your dream girl who’s going to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“No.. no..”

“I really just want you to be happy by yourself. Thanks to you, my night is ruined, I have to pack and sleep for my flight home tomorrow. I gotta go.” She picks up her packed kits and knapsack. “Please stop clinging onto women for everything. You’ll find success in life. Ciao.”

“Lillian!!” Curtis reaches for her, managing to find hold on her black punk-rocker shirt. “How could you, you selfish cunt--”

“Let go of me!” She thrusts him away.

Security guards toss Curtis out of the club, into the rainy night, where Curtis looks up from the gutter and sees Lillian get inside a car, her brothers eagerly prodding her about her concert.. who cares, her car drives away.

People leaving the club look at him - they don’t think much of him besides that he’s just some drunkard.

“I HATE YOU LILLIAN!” He gets up and in some defiance, thrusts his hands against the air and the falling rain. “I fucking hate you! Rot in hell!” And Curtis screams into the rain in one last, desperate gasp, and his body muscles failing him, from exhaustion and the coldness drenching him, he lets the ground swallow him whole.

“No, no, please, come back..”

The sound of painful, stifled cries. It’s Curtis, refusing to accept what must be. Sobbing, breaking down, feeling like a sad shell of a human being.

#mine

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hamiltonschoolmusical · 8 years

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God Bless John Laurens (Hamilsquad x reader)

Summary: Politically-minded reader is torn up over the election (let’s face it, who wasn’t?) John and the rest of the Hamilsquad plan a day of good food, good movies, and good friends to help cheer them up. (Modern AU)

Genre: fluff, with very slight angst (I think this is my thing now)

Warnings: swearing, mentions of the Antichrist and company (a.k.a. Don #notmypresident Trump and Mike Please Leave This Earth Forever Pence)

Word count: 1,031

Notes:

This is an anti-Trump fic for an anti-Trump blog! Please unfollow me if you support Trump and his ideals. And to the rest of you sane people, if you ever need anyone to talk to, I’m here.

I kinda want to make this into a series, where reader and the squad go to the Women’s March, BLM protests, political events, etc. Thoughts?

Oh, also, slight Lams, ambiguous relationships with the Hamilsquad. Picture as platonically or romantically as you’d like.

(Y/F/M): your favourite movie

(Y/F/D): your favourite drink

(Y/F/F): your favourite food

“God bless America.”

His words rang through the speakers, accompanied by quiet applause. With shaking hands, you reached for the remote and shut off the TV. Fuck. It had really happened. You had rallied, protested, and most importantly, voted (and, needless to say, not for the carrot-hued racist). And still, it had come to this. You were annoyed, outraged, and anxious, and you knew that tomorrow you would get started on how to survive the next four years of Trump (or more accurately, one year of Trump and three of that equally-disgusting Pence). Today, however, was going to be a day of reflection and happiness with your best friends. You might not know when the next when will arrive.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t watch it with you,” John Laurens said, as he trudged into the room and sat beside you. “I just couldn’t listen to one more thing out of his mouth.”

“It’s okay,” you responded, struggling to hold back your emotions, because even if it was okay, you weren’t. And apparently, neither was Alex, fuming silently on the other side of the sofa.

“Wow. So Alexander Hamilton is capable of shutting up for one second.” John teased, trying to direct the conversation away from the inauguration.

“Shut up, John. Stop trying to change the subject.”

“No, you shut–” Alex walked over and firmly pressed his lips against his boyfriend’s, stopping John mid-sentence. Alex pulled away and pressed a finger to John’s lips.

“Don’t try to get between me and (Y/N) and politics. Let us rage.” You let out a small laugh. All of your friends were very socially conscious, but you and Alex were especially politically-minded.

John, still blushing, pulled away. “Okay, well, can you save your rage for tomorrow at least? Herc and Laf are coming over with food, and I thought we could all just hang out and watch a movie or something. You know, just to spread some good vibes.”

Alex nodded and turned to you. “Sounds good to me. (Y/N)?”

A day of merriment and well-being could do you some good. “Sounds amazing.” You put on an air of fake annoyance. “I mean, I guess I could put off my socio-political agenda for a day. But only cause you’re forcing me to.”

Just then, the door to your apartment burst open as Lafayette and Mulligan entered, arms full of plastic bags and takeout containers.

“Learn how to knock, maybe?” John quipped, but he was grinning.

John and Alex went into the kitchen to pour drinks while you chatted with Herc and Laf lightheartedly. It was only a matter of time, though, before the subject matter returned to politics.

“Hey, (Y/N),” John interrupted, handing you a glass of (Y/F/D). “Chill day, remember?”

“Ugh, fine,” you replied, putting on your best angsty teen impression. “Now let’s go get some food. I’m starving.”

The four of you made your way to the kitchen, where an impressive array of food lay out.

“Laf! You got (Y/F/F)! How did you know it was my favourite food?”

The Frenchman gave you a generous serving and smiled softly. “John told me. He wanted to make today as relaxing and comfortable as possible for you.”

You bit your lip, nearly crying, except this time out of happiness, not of frustration. “What did I ever do to deserve you? All of you are just so damn nice to me, even when I’m in rage mode.”

The four boys pulled you into a huge group hug. Your face was squished against Herc’s chest, but you didn’t mind one bit. You wanted to stay in this moment forever, but your stomach was growling and you had a long four years ahead of you.

“Thank you, guys. I needed this. Now let’s eat.” You all separated and made your way to the living room, Lafayette planting a kiss on your head. “What are we watching?” You enquired as you stood up to turn off the lights.

“You’ll see.” answered John, flopping on the sofa with Alex and Mulligan beside him, and Lafayette at the end. As you sat down, Alexander pulled both you and John onto his lap. The movie started playing and you gasped and turned around.

“No! Laurens! You didn’t go out to get (Y/F/M) just for me, did you?”

“Nah, I just like watching the hot guys.” John replied. Alexander playfully punched him on the arm.

“But seriously, (Y/N),” John continued, a more serious tone in his voice, “You not only deserve, but need a day of relaxation, indulgence even. You are an amazing person, but you can be a little…non-stop sometimes. And having Alex around to encourage you doesn’t really help. Sometimes you just need to take a step back and take some time for yourself. Take a break from trying to help the world and help yourself.”

You wanted to protest, but John was right. You were opinionated and annoyed with a lot of things in life, and you knew the effect your strong personality had on people. It was an honest-to-God miracle that John had been able to put up with you and Alexander for almost a year now.

You felt the familiar lump in your throat as you started to cry, pulling John into a deep hug. “Thank you. All of you. Thank you Laf and Herc, for coming here on the dreariest day of the year for no particular reason other than to bring me food. And dear Lord, John, bless you. I don’t know how you can stand both me and Alex.”

“I guess I’m the world’s first gay saint, then.”

You laughed through your tears, feeling only slightly guilty for crying on Alex’s shirt.

“Okay, enough with the emotions. Let’s all shut up and enjoy this cinematic masterpiece.”

All of you started actually watching, and everyone else seemed immersed in the plot. But every few minutes, you couldn’t help but look at the amazing people around you. Loving and lovable Hercules. Lafayette, in all his French fabulousness. Clever, motivated Alexander, the only person who had ever matched your wits. And John, probably the most caring, sweetest person you had ever met. Lucky you. You had all of them.

#alexander hamilton #john laurens #lafayette #hercules mulligan #hamilton #hamilton an american musical #hamilton imagine #hamilton fanfic #imagine #hamilsquad #hamilsquad x reader #anti trump #writing #fanfiction #fanfic #fan fic #fluff #hamwriters

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randomrichards · 8 years

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BEST LIVE ACTION SHORT: – ENNEMIS INTERIURS (ENEMIES WITHIN) What starts out as a straight forward interview becomes an intense interrogation in this scathing, political thriller. Set in the 90’s, the film also looks at France’s turbulent relationship with Algiers. As the film begins, An Algerian teacher (Hassan Ghancy) applies for French Citizenship. He answers a series of basic questions of France’s Culture to an officer (Najib Oudghiri). But as the interview progresses, questions start to lean toward a terrorist attack by two Algerians. The officer suspects those two were at the same mosque meeting the teacher was at. The interrogation grows more hostile as the officer tries to get the teacher to name names. The premise probably has the simplest delivery of the films in this category. Most of the film is just these two character in a single room, talking. And yet it’s the most gripping short in this category. Starting with a simple Q & A, writer/director Selim Azzazi builds a slow burn of suspense coming out of each information revealed. The teacher also reveals himself to be a complex protagonist. Though born in the Algiers, he considers himself first and foremost a French man. He argues that since Algiers was part of the French Empire when he was born, he is therefore a Frenchman. But his fate lies in the hands of a man who could deport him with just the click of his pen. And no one will let him leave without two names. You don’t know much about him, but thanks to Ghancy’s performance, you care for him and don’t believe he had anything to do with this. This film takes a simple premise and keeps you in suspense. When it’s over, you’ll have a lot to talk about with your friends. – LA FEMME ET LE TGV The most romantic short in this category, this adorable little gem from Switzerland follows the developing relationship of two people who never meet. Every day, the TGV passes a little house of Elise (Jane Birkin), whose always there to wave her Swiss Flag. This seems to be the only high point of her day. Once a successful business, Elise’s bakery now struggles with competition from the All Deal retail store. Not helping is this ballet blaring techno tunes right next door. Her son Pierre (Mathieu Bisson) has grown up and moved out. Her only companion is Balthazar the budgie. So, the only excitement of her day is the coming of the TGV. Then one day, a letter comes flying onto out of the train and onto her lawn. So, begins a loving correspondence between Elise and the mysterious train conductor named Bruno. Elise would send letters and her treats to Bruno, who throws his letters out the window, along with some cheese. But their romantic correspondence comes under threat when the train takes a different route. La Femme Et Le TGV reminds me a lot of 84 Charing Cross Road, a biopic about two bookdealers (Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins) who formed a bond through business correspondence. Both films are romances centered around two people who never meet. You’d think this would be the kiss of death for romance films, and yet both films seem to make it work. Romance live and die by the chemistry between the two leads. How can you have chemistry when the two leads never have a scene together? With great writing, that’s how. Elise and Bruno bring out their most romantic sides in their letters, often turning to each other to vent their personal problems. Though it begs the question; are they falling for each other’s true selves or just idealized versions of each other? What also makes it work is Birkin’s performance. She creates such a quirky character in Elise that she brings joy in every minute she’s on screen. When she waves her swiss flag, she brings out her character’s genuine happiness. Plus, she faces the task of selling the questionable decision of falling for a person she hasn’t met. Her romance feels so genuine that you can’t help but root for her to get together with Bruno. She also as good in her low points, especially when Pierre gives his mom a degrading birthday present. The film is also very funny. Elsie cherishes Bruno’s gifts of cheese. There’s just one problem; she hates cheese. So, we are treated to the hilarious image of a fridge full of cheese. La Femme et Le Tiv will leave audiences swooning over this romance. – SILENT NIGHTS All the way from Denmark comes a love story about two people fallen on hard times. Kwame (Prince Yaw Appliah) immigrated from Ghana in hopes of providing more for his wife and kids. Instead, He finds himself on living on the street, making a living by collecting bottles. Meanwhile, Social worker Inger (Malene Beltoft) cares for her deadbeat, drunken mother Solveig (Vibeke Hastrup), who makes her life a living hell. These two lost souls come into each other lives when Kwame’s beaten by some racist thugs and Inger comes to his aid. After nursing him to health, they sleep with each other. They seem like a great couple, if it weren’t for a few problems. First, Solveig is gets very racist when she’s drunk, which leads to an awkward first meeting. Second, there’s both living in states of extreme poverty. Oh, and there’s the matter of Kwame’s wife and kids in Ghana. The film seems to draw inspiration from Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s romantic masterpiece Ali: Fear Eats the Soul. Both films focus on the relationship between a lonely woman and an immigrant and the prejudices inflicted upon them. While not as frequent as in the later film, Silent Nights still has Kwame dealing with racial hostility, as previous beatings indicate. In an interesting spin, the hostility doesn’t only come from Caucasians. In fact, the thugs are of Danish born Arabs. I assume writer/director Aske Bang’s trying to prove whites aren’t the only ones’ hostile towards refugees. The film is clearly a commentary on the Syrian refugee crisis. What is surprising is how complicated the film portrays Kwame. The man came to Denmark thinking it would give him a better chance to provide for his family, only to find himself under a tunnel in the freezing cold, at least when the shelter’s not full. Fearing shame, Kwame can’t bring himself to return home without anything to show for it. On one hand, we can sympathize with his circumstances. But then Bang tests our sympathies by having him commit criminal activities. Kwame’s need for funds becomes urgent when his daughter contracts malaria. In his desperation, he commits a horrible act that’s not only criminal, but also nearly destroys his relationship with Inger. Sure, you understand why he did it, but it’s still a horrible thing to do. And then there’s the fact he’s cheating on his wife and doesn’t even have the decency to tell Inger, which may prove unforgivable for some audience members. We probably wouldn’t feel any sympathy if it weren’t for Appliah, who brings a lot of heart into his performance. The film has a lot of ups and downs. The films’ highpoint is the opening scene, which intertwines Kwame’s and Inger’s troubled lives with a church choir’s beautiful rendition of “Silent Night.” The low point is the ending. The message it sends is just…confusing. Whether the high points outweigh the low points is up to the audience. – SING (MINDEKI) Not to be confused with Illumination’s recent animated film, Sing is a Hungarian import. Moving to a new school is never easy for a kid. Despite the butterflies in her stomach, Zsofi (Dorka Gasparfalvi) fits right into her new environment, even joining her new best friend Liza (Dorka Hais) in the schools’ award winning choir class. After the first rehearsal, Zsofi comes to see why choir director Ms. Erika (Zsofia Szamosi) is her favorite teacher. But then Ms. Erika pulls her aside and insists Zsofi lip synch for the rest of rehearsals, which drains the poor girl of her enthusiasm. Soon, the girls come to realize how unfair adults can be. While a lesser actress would have hammed it up as Ms. Erika, Szamosi delivers a more nuanced realism to the character. When we first meet this teacher, she seems like a nice, encouraging teacher. When she does put down Psofi’s singing, she twists her insults under a polite guise; “You can sing in your head.” Szamosi maintains her polite manner as Ms. Erika tries to rationalize her questionable treatment of some students. It takes a hard push for her to show her true colours, but even then, she tries to mind her manners. Through Ms. Erika, the girls can see how adults make excuses for bad behavior, always believing themselves to be in the right. Matching her performance as the girls. Whenever they are together, Gasparfalvi and Hais make the interactions between Zsofi and Liza feel like real life conversations between two girls. Gasparfalvi is so joyful in the early scenes that when Zsofi’s spirit is broken, it’s upsetting. These little actresses further the depth of their character’s relationships when Zsofi won’t tell the concerned Liza why she’s upset. When they gather the choir team to get back at Ms. Erika, their hilarious revenge is glorious. SPOILER ALERT: These elements come together thanks to Director/Co-writer Kristof Deak. But one scene proves he has excellent storytelling skills. During one choir rehearsal, Liza starts to grow suspicious. She looks to student after student, and comes to realize Zsofi isn’t the only one who’s lip synching. The irony is the choir’s song is about singing in defiance. The fact he pulls this off without any spoken dialogue takes a master storyteller. – TIMECODE We conclude with the Palme D’or winning at the Cannes Film Festival. Today seemed like any other day for security guard Luna (Lali Ayguade) until she got a call from her boss. Apparently, a client’s tail lights were knocked out and the boss wants her to check the video. After typing in the timecode, the video reveals fellow guard Diego (Nicolas Ricchini) was dancing across the parking lot and accidently kicked out the light. Instead of ratting him out, Luna decides to try her hand at it. On her shift, she awkwardly dances in front of the security cameras and leaves a note of the times for Diego to watch it. Diego plays along, leaving notes for her to watch his dancing. This exchange starts a funny bond between these two. This is the third short film in this category centred around a blooming romance. The question is does this even count as a romance or just two friend enjoying a common activity? Either way, this short film is very funny, especially in the way it ends. Who Will Win? The odds are in favour of Ennemis Interieurs. This film is probably the best written and best acted film on the list, bringing a complex discussion of immigration and terrorism under a deceptively simple guise of a political thriller.

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