#puppet candidate

[sawbuckplus]

[freakinator]

finished flamefrags' vid and it was awesome but i cant help but see the many similarites it shared with ls post-abyss arc

[terresdebrume]

Guy in the DND group chat, in response to Trump being shot: now I'm definitely hoping he's elected again, having him as us president was entertaining

Dude, you're nice but I have Questions about your political opinions

ETA: He remembered his sister lived in the US and took it back

ETA 2: A lot of realizations were had

[fictionz]

Another one bites the dust.

[readandwriteclub]

Ukraine just a ‘piece’ of Trump’s ‘grand alliance’ deal with Russia

[warm-mangoes-with-chai]

[sawbuckplus]

[animezinglife]

Thank you. "The resistance is alive and well in Hammerfell."

Good. Let's ally. Let's trade. Let's cut the head off the Dominion snake together.

Also, once again, you can choose the truce option (which is almost always my choice because there's no good part of war) and not pick or pledge either side.

Skyrim actually really did something by creating a video game grey morality™️ conflict where the issue isn't that both sides have a point it's that both sides absolutely suck balls and barely have any semblance of a point about anything. unclear if what they did was good or bad but they did do something

[annabelle--cane]

naberius tern sucked but at least he was iconic. he was serving and he knew it. and under certain circumstances I think ianthe would be a good candidate to match and recognize the slimy swagger he had going on and honorably carry it with her to complement her own brand of slimy swagger. but that is absolutely not the timeline we're in and so ianthe instead has the shredded remains of a seriously pissed off muscle twink tucked away in her head, and he's absolutely frothing about how she doesn't even do his hair right when she's puppetting his corpse.

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @jozzieblood @buckysteveloki-me @dragonoftheshadows @plaidconvers @kateawolf13 @keira-kaz2y5 @frog-fans-unite @doilooklikeagiveafrack @verynormalsstuff @nynxtea @iminyourceiling @seventeen-x @mgchaser @y0urgirl @lovely-seb @laughterafter @mysuperlaserpissnumber1fan @irasciblemogwai @svtbpbts @vivalas-vega @chonkybonky @bmyva1entine @6urmom @homiesexual-or-homosexual @aoi-targaryen @bitter-semi-sweet @soflegacy @kath-666 @hiireadstuff @highhopes1008 @sineminuse @hawkinsavclub1983 @buckingforbuckybarnes @fandomsearcherforcuntymen @huang-the-geek @joewhs @witchywannabe3263 @iyskgd @ironenemycollective @bumblebeebutter @sizzlingstarlightsky @buckybarnesslutshop @starstruck-cowgirl @angelicdarkn3ss @confused-simp-jpg @hufflepuffsforjoy @nicolebarnes @avatarobsessedgirly @escapismurmom @paige0103 @dollface-xoxo @read-just-cant-stop @sycamoregirl444 @raikan624 @iwritememesnotprophecies @imissbenswolo-blog @Icolumbia1988

----------------------------------------------------------

Tw: cussing, knives, inappropriate physical contact (if you squint)

Part 12

Words of Command - Part 13

Sunlight paints long shadows across the common room. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Manhattan skyline, the buzz of the city barely reaching the tower’s polished quiet.

You're curled in a chair, legs tucked under you, reading something on a StarkPad. Bucky’s nearby—as always—standing against the wall like a sentinel, arms crossed over his chest, eyes scanning the room with quiet calculation.

His long hair falls in his face until he brushes it back absently, metal fingers catching in a few strands.

He doesn’t talk much. But he watches you constantly. Not with suspicion, but with a kind of reverent curiosity.

Then, the quiet shatters.

Tony enters with a flourish, coffee in one hand, sunglasses still on indoors like he’s making a point.

“There she is,” he announces, motioning to you with a dramatic sweep. “Thumbelina, belle of the ball!”

You blink up at him, confused. “Im sorry ... the what now?”

He saunters closer, holding out his tablet like a game show host presenting a prize. “Charity gala. Tonight. Right here in the Tower. Black tie, expensive champagne, morally ambiguous billionaires and their equally suspicious foundations. Great press opportunity.”

You set your pad down slowly. “You want… me to go?”

“Please.” Tony smirks. “You’re more than a receptionist now, sweetheart. You’re RoboCop's handler-slash-life coach-slash-whatever-it-is you do that makes him not kill people on sight.”

Your face warms. “I’ve never been to anything like that…”

“Well, it’s time. Media’s gonna want to know the miracle behind Stark Tower’s latest murder puppet.” He gestures toward Bucky, who stiffens at the sound of his name but doesn’t move.

You shrink a little at the word “murder,” casting a glance toward Bucky. He hasn’t moved. His eyes remain locked. But you see the shift in his shoulders. The twitch of his jaw. As if that word bruises him.

“I’ve never…” you start, voice small. “I don’t really go to events like that.”

Tony waves it off. “You’ll be fine. Wear something sparkly. Nod politely. Drink the champagne. Smile at the cameras. And to make sure you don’t face-plant into the chocolate fountain—”

The elevator dings.

“—And since the Manchurian Candidate here can’t exactly walk a red carpet without someone yelling ‘assassin' ...we’ve arranged you a plus one.”

Agent Collins steps out in a dark suit, sans tie, mousey hair slightly tousled as if he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of being 'fancy'.

His smile is sheepish and nervous, and when his eyes land on you, it softens further, you recognize him from the bookshop.

“Hi,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “I heard you might be going tonight. If you want someone to go with you… I’d be happy to help you through it.”

He’s trying to be casual. He fails.

You feel for the guy, he looks like he might faint. “That’s… kind. I mean, thank you. I—”

You never get to finish.

The air in the room changes.

Bucky turns like gravity shifted. Slow. Deliberate.

His eyes pin Collins in place—not rage, not overt aggression, but a quiet, intense scrutiny. His body language alters subtly—he steps closer to you, standing just slightly in front of your seat, a wall of steel and muscle.

His metal hand flexes at his side.

He says nothing at first.

Then, in that calm, low voice that chills and comforts all at once

“He doesn’t go with you.”

Tony doesn’t miss a beat. “Okay, let’s dial it back. This isn’t the ‘glare him into submission’ hour.”

Bucky doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. “No.”

You reach up gently, your fingers brushing the hem of his sleeve. “Soldat…” you whisper.

He immediately lowers his gaze to you. “Doll,” he says softly, almost pleading. “I don’t… I don’t trust him. You don’t know what he’ll do. I should go.”

Tony sighs loudly, stepping between you and Bucky with a practiced “I’m so tired of this” look.

“No can do, Metallica. You’re the literal definition of ‘liability’ right now. You so much as breathe wrong and three headlines read ‘HYDRA Redux.’ Collins here is boring enough to be safe.”

Collins stiffens slightly, half-offended. “Thanks… I think?”

Tony spins back to you. “Look, Thumbelina, the world’s watching. You’re in the room for a reason now. And trust me—press love an underdog. Especially one who managed to tame the Tin Man with tea and bedtime stories.”

You glance over at Bucky. His eyes are on you now—dark and fixed, unreadable—but there’s a slight tilt to his head, like he’s trying to process what just happened.

Agent Collins blinks. “Hey, I was just doing what I was told—”

“She doesn’t need you.”

“Okay—easy there, big guy,” Tony says quickly, stepping between them with a hand out. “You can put the Terminator routine on ice. You're not going.”

Bucky’s eyes snap to Tony with glacial sharpness. The line of his jaw is granite now, his chest rising and falling like he’s restraining something feral.

“She’s not going with him,” he growls, the words clipped.

Tony scoffs. “And you’re not going at all, Terminator. You’re a walking PR nightmare. I’m pretty sure the invite didn’t say, ‘and bring your emotionally repressed Soviet war machine.’”

You step forward quickly, placing a hand on Bucky’s arm. You feel the muscle twitch under your palm—coiled like a spring.

“Soldat,” you whisper, soft but clear.

His breath catches.

His head turns slightly toward you. His expression changes—not softened, but sharpened with focus. That voice—that name—grounds him.

You keep your tone gentle. “it's ok ... Stand down... please”

It takes him a heartbeat.

Then he exhales through his nose and drops his shoulders a fraction. Still stiff. Still fuming. But he listens.

Because it’s you.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Christ. This guy’s like a rescue pit bull. Looks adorable curled up next to you, but God forbid someone tries to touch his leash.”

"Jesus Tony, can you go 5 minutes without a insult please" you say but there’s no real bite in your voice.

Agent Collins backs off a step, hands raised. “Hey, it’s fine. Really. I didn’t mean anything.”

Bucky’s metal fingers twitch again, but he keeps still, eyes locked on you like you're the only thing that matters.

And in his mind? You are.

You gently shift closer, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. “It’s just one night,” you say quietly. “And you’ll be here when I get back.”

That flicker—fear maybe—crosses his face again. Subtle, buried. But you see it. He doesn’t know what he is without you in the room.

He leans down slightly, voice rough and low near your ear. “Doll, he'll keep you safe ?.”

"Yes, so will Steve, Tony and Nat, I promise only a few hours and I wont be alone" You place a hand against his chest. “Help me pick a dress. Please?”

It confuses him. But it also… distracts him. In a good way. He nods once, slow.

The bedroom Stark put you and Nat in is spacious but cold in its luxury—clean lines, chrome details.

You stand before a full-length mirror, barefoot in a silk robe, hair half-done and a knot of anxiety building in your stomach.

On the bed, four dresses are laid out like options in some bizarre game. All elegant. All a little intimidating.

Nat lounges at the edge of the bed, one leg crossed over the other, sipping a cocktail like she isn’t the deadliest woman in the room.

“You're overthinking it,” she says with a smirk, eyes watching your reflection. “You’ll look good in all of them.”

You chew your lip, tugging your robe tighter. “I don’t know how to be at something like this. What do I even talk about? What if I trip? What if I—”

Nat sets her glass down and rises in one graceful motion. “You walk, you smile, and you keep your answers vague and charming. If you don’t know something, just say it’s classified.”

You blink at her. “Classified ... does that actually work?”

She shrugs, amused. “People love mystery. You already have half of Stark Tower wondering what your deal is these days.”

Your voice softens. “And what about Bucky?”

Nat sighs, her tone changing. “He’s not going, you know that. Too many people, too much noise. But Steve and I will be there. If anyone gives you trouble—and if you wanna check on him just come back up”

“They won’t even see you coming,” Steve’s voice echoes from the hallway, followed by a low whistle. He steps into the doorway with a reassuring smile.

You turn as a low sound draws your attention to the far corner of the room.

Bucky.

He’s been standing silently for the last fifteen minutes. His arms folded, shoulder leaning into the wall. He’s tense—not in a dangerous way, but like someone wound too tight, every inch of him ready to react.

He watches as you hold up a sleek black gown against your body. Natasha raises a brow.

“You like this one, Soldat?”

His eyes narrow. “Too easy to move in.”

You frown. “I thought that was the point.”

He steps forward slowly, his boots heavy on the floor. “Don't want 'em looking at your throat in that"

You laugh under your breath. “It’s just a dress”

He doesn't smile.

You hold up a deep red gown next. Bucky stiffens slightly.

“That one’s…” he tilts his head, metal fingers flexing, eyes fixed on your reflection. “You look like they’d spill blood just to walk next to you in that.”

Natasha grins. “That’s a yes from the Soldier.”

You eyes widen as you look away. “I don’t want to look like—like that.”

He steps closer, dropping his voice, eyes locked on yours. “You look like you.”

You tilt your head. “That a problem?”

He doesn’t answer. Just watches. The weight of his stare is tangible.

There’s a knock at the door. Steve answers, but Bucky’s already moved again—this time positioning himself just slightly in front of you.

Agent Collins stands awkwardly in the hallway, wearing a tailored suit and holding a single white flower in his hand. His smile falters the moment he sees Bucky.

“Evening,” he says, offering the flower to you. “Figured, uh, a boutonnière was too much.”

You take the flower gently. “Thanks, that’s sweet.”

Bucky doesn’t move, but his jaw tightens. “You bring a knife?”

Collins blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You’re taking her into a crowd. You better have something besides your weak smile.”

“Soldat,” you warn gently.

His head lowers, eyes meeting yours. “You sure about him, Doll?”

Collins clears his throat. “I’m literally government-trained. I think I can handle—”

Bucky moves so fast no one knows what he's planned until the click echoes through the air—Steve’s combat blade is suddenly off Steve's belt and balanced in Bucky’s metal hand, tip down.

"Jesus ... c'mon pal" Steve mutters, a look of shock on his face.

“Soldat, stop ... please?” you ask softly, stepping closer to him.

He hands the knife back to Steve with a quick flick and mutters, “I was gonna hurt him.”

Nat smirks. “He’s like a cat leaving dead mice on your porch. It’s his way of caring.”

You reach up and gently press your hand to Bucky’s chest again. “It'll be two hours ... three tops?”

His hand—flesh this time—comes up and briefly hovers near your arm. Not touching, but close. “Don’t like not being with you.”

Your breath catches. “I’ll be back up in a few hours, Promise.”

He nods, once.

Bucky stands at the window, arms folded, his silhouette sharp against the glass. Outside, Manhattan glows in gold and steel, a city that doesn’t feel like his.

Behind him, your scent still lingers faintly in the air—soft and clean, like soap and warmth.

Steve stands a few feet away, watching Bucky with the quiet worry of someone who knows exactly how close to the edge he is.

“You don’t have to pace,” Steve says gently, holding out a small device. “Here. It’s a comm.”

Bucky doesn’t turn around. “What is it?”

“You’ll be able to hear her. Talk to her too, if she calls you.” Steve’s voice is calm, measured. “Just keep it in your ear. No one else will hear. I figured… it might help.”

There’s a beat. Then Bucky turns, slow and cautious, like the offer itself might be a trap.

“You’ll stay with her?”

Steve nods. “Yeah. She’s downstairs with Collins.”

That name twists something sharp in Bucky’s chest, but he doesn’t say it aloud. He takes the earpiece in his gloved hand, inspecting it like a weapon.

“You left this for me?” he asks, voice low.

Steve lifts a box and sets it on the table—a plain, scuffed cardboard container. Inside, photos. Dog tags. Cracked gloves.

Bucky doesn’t open it. Just stares.

“I thought you might want it, when you’re ready,” Steve murmurs.

The room sparkles with chandeliers and white marble floors, filled with the sound of glasses clinking and superficial laughter. You feel like you’re wearing someone else’s skin in your gown—elegant, beautiful, but too seen.

Your heels click softly against the floor as you cross to the balcony, a little overwhelmed by the crowds and the attention. Tony’s somewhere inside charming a senator.

Natasha is holding court near the bar, and Agent Collins is distracted in conversation with a UN rep.

Then Steve appears beside you, quietly, offering a warm smile.

“Hey. You doing okay?”

You nod, then glance out over the city. “Don’t like crowds"

He reaches into his pocket and hands you a earpiece.

“This is from Bucky. Or rather—for Bucky. I gave him one too. Just press this small button to talk. It’s a secure line. Just you and him.”

Your eyes widen. "Thank you Steve”

You slip the earpiece in, tucking it carefully behind your ear.

“Press it when you’re ready,” Steve says softly, giving your hand a squeeze. “and I’ll be close, if you need anything.”

You step farther onto the balcony, where it’s quieter, and press the small button with trembling fingers.

Your voice is soft, barely a whisper. “Soldat? Can you hear me?”

There’s a pause.

Then, low and rough in your ear

“Doll.”

You smile in relief, the sound of his voice grounding you. “I wanted to check on you. Steve said I could.”

His breath stutters. You can hear it. Like the soft shift of metal against fabric. “You’re too far.”

“I’m still in the building,” you reassure him. “Just downstairs. On the balcony.”

Another pause. “It’s loud.”

“I know. But you’re safe. I’m safe too.”

You can hear the tension unraveling slightly in his shoulders, the metal creaking faintly as he eases back into a chair—or maybe the floor. Wherever he feels most stable.

“Are you sitting down now?”

“Yeah. Got your voice in my ear.” His voice lowers, almost reverent. “Don’t need more than that.”

The night drags on, glittering and exhausting. You sip from a champagne flute more to keep your hands occupied than anything else.

Agent Collins has been at your side most of the night—at first polite, now looser, sloppier.

His shoulders crowd you against a marble pillar as the party noise swells.

His laugh is a little too loud now, his hand brushing your waist like he thinks he's charming.

You stiffen automatically, heart kicking up into your throat.

His fingers graze your waist again as he leans in close. “You’re real pretty, Stark’s lucky to have you around…”

You flick your eyes around the room without moving your head.

Nat is at the far end, deep in conversation but watching like a hawk.

Steve, standing near the bar, catches your uncertain glance immediately, posture sharpening.

Sam and Bruce, talking by the grand staircase, straighten subtly, clocking your body language.

But before they can act—you remember the comm tucked into your ear.

You press it lightly, pretending to adjust your hair.

Your voice is feather-soft, almost hoping he can hear it.

“Soldat?”

The answer comes immediately, rough in your ear like gravel softened by velvet.

“Doll.”

Your knees almost buckle in relief.

“Everything’s good upstairs?” you murmur, trying to keep the conversation casual so Collins doesn’t notice.

“Window’s open. No threats.” You can hear the faint mechanical whirr of his metal fingers flexing. “You cold, Doll?”

You smile faintly despite the situation, the smallest tilt of your lips. “A little.”

He’s silent for a moment. You can almost picture him scowling out the window, body taut as a wire.

“Come back up soon. Don’t like you down there.”

His voice is protective but neutral. He doesn’t understand yet that Collins isn’t just background noise.

You shift slightly as Collins’ hand brushes your lower back again, too familiar.

“Soldat…” you whisper under your breath. “Can you just keep talking?”

“Should be with you, Doll,” he rumbles instantly.

You hum softly, pretending you’re still focused on the party as your friends start to converge on you discreetly.

“I wish you were down here with me,” you say, voice so small he almost misses it.

He doesn’t understand the context, not fully. But the possessiveness in his voice is pure instinct—bone-deep and absolute.

You barely shift, instinctively trying to shrink into yourself as Collins' hand drifts too far down your back, his voice low and slurred near your ear. The weight of it makes your skin crawl.

Then—

A shadow crosses the marble floor, boots thudding lightly.

Steve Rogers steps into the space with the ease of a man used to commanding a battlefield.

His hand claps firmly onto Collins' shoulder—friendly enough for appearances, firm enough to jar the agent back a step.

“Son,” Steve says with a smile so mild it’s almost chilling. “Think they need you back at SHEILD.”

Collins stammers something unintelligible, already paling under Steve’s calm, blank-eyed authority. He stumbles off, muttering apologies, disappearing quickly into the crowd.

Before you can catch your breath, Natasha is already there—silent and predatory, like a cat weaving around your side. "You okay?"

You nod once, shaky, feeling your chest finally start to loosen again.

From the far side of the room, Sam breaks away from his conversation with Bruce, eyeing you critically over the crowd.

He approaches with an easy, exaggerated swagger, a crooked grin playing across his lips.

“Well now,” he says loudly enough to draw curious glances but quiet enough to stay lighthearted. “Looks like somebody just survived the Hunger Games over here.”

You blink at him and a breathless laugh bubbles out of you.

Sam doesn’t miss a beat. He offers his hand like a courtly knight from some old movie.

“Come on, Short Stack. You owe me a dance after all that damsel-in-distress action.”

You stare at him, not sure if he’s joking or serious.

Natasha rolls her eyes affectionately and nudges you forward with a smirk.

Steve, standing sentry-like behind Sam, gives you a tiny nod.

The music is slow, dreamy, the kind that swells around the chandeliers and polishes everything with a golden glow.

Sam, despite his usual cocky bluster, is surprisingly gentle as he leads you into a simple sway, he's always been brotherly with you, not to the same extent as Tony but close.

“See? Not so bad,” he says, spinning you lightly so the skirt of your gown flares out. “I mean, you’re no Beyoncé, but you’ll do.”

You giggle, feeling calmer already.

In your ear, the comm crackles to life again.

“Doll?” Bucky’s voice, low and questioning.

You lean your head subtly against Sam’s shoulder so no one sees you tapping the comm switch near your ear.

“I’m okay, Soldat,” you whisper. “Sam’s just… making me dance.”

There’s a beat of pure silence on Bucky’s end. You can feel the blank confusion.

“Making you…Is he hurting you, Doll?”

You nearly trip over Sam’s feet trying to smother a laugh.

Sam feels you stumble and grins.

“No, Soldat,” you murmur. “It’s… fun.”

Another heavy pause, like Bucky is trying to compute fun like it’s a foreign word.

Sam notices you biting your lip, eyes sparkling mischievously.

“Is that your bionic-boy-toy on the line?” he teases, twirling you again.

“Tell him, you got moves.”

You roll your eyes at Sam, but can feel your cheeks burning even hotter.

“Soldat,” you whisper sweetly into the comm, “Sam says I've got moves."

On the other end, you hear the low, almost imperceptible grind of Bucky’s metal hand tightening into a fist.

“He talks to much,” Bucky growls, clipped and possessive.

Sam, oblivious to the full conversation, keeps up his chatter.

“You know, I know he's seen some shit, but that dude’s basically a cybernetic gorilla.” he says conversationally.

You almost miss a step again, laughing at Sam’s attempt at humor.

Bucky’s voice is still in your ear, low and territorial.

“Say the word Doll, I'll come get you"

"It's ok, Soldat, Im coming home” you whisper—your words settle something volatile inside him.

Sam dips you theatrically just as the song ends, making you squeal.

[readandwriteclub]

USA SIDES WITH RUSSIA AGAINST UKRAINE IN UN VOTE CONDEMNING INVASION

:-(

[reality-detective]

CIA BLOODLINES: OBAMA, HARRIS, AND THE SYNTHETIC PUPPETS OF GLOBAL CONTROL

THIS WAS NEVER POLITICS.

THIS WAS PROGRAMMING.

Barack Obama was not “elected” — he was engineered. A CIA-manufactured Manchurian candidate, born in Kenya, raised abroad, and conditioned like a weapon. Barry Soetoro was the Agency’s first full-scale success: an MKUltra asset wrapped in a Harvard diploma and sold to America as “hope.”

His stepfather, Lolo Soetoro, was not a loving parent — he was an Agency asset embedded in Indonesia, trained in psychological suppression and eliminations.

Obama wasn’t raised.

He was programmed. 🤔

[qqueenofhades]

So I keep seeing people play the "Harris is a Cop, so I'm not voting for her because ACAB" card, and not even pointing out that she was a DA/Prosecutor rather than an actual cop seems to change their minds - as far as they're concerned, working with cops in any capacity makes you a cop. Do you happen to have anything that'd make for a good counterpoint to this argument (or, at the very least, something to make those of us who still plan on voting for her despite our dim views on Law Enforcement not feel so bad about it)?

....Not feel so bad about it?

First of all: these are laughably, incredibly unbelievably unserious people, and frankly, my first advice would be NOT to bother trying to engage with them at all, because there is nothing whatsoever they will ever accept in the way of logical proof to change their minds. First it was "you can't ask me to vote for Biden specifically because of [insert issue here.]" This changed a lot, from Roe getting overturned by the corrupt SCOTUS, to the train strike (hey anyone remember that?) to student loan forgiveness and then had settled firmly on Gaza. So now, lo and behold, they're given exactly what they asked for: a new younger candidate who is not Biden and explicitly more progressive on the Gaza issue (Harris was the first member of the administration to openly call for a ceasefire). So they turn their noses up, rush to their favorite 2020 disinformation founts that were first spouted when they were trying to sabotage her in favor of Bernie (who endorsed Biden pretty strongly before he dropped out), flirt with Jill "Actual Agent of Putin" Stein, and other equally expected and equally bullshit maneuvers. Lololololololol online leftists. Never change, or something.

That said: because their minds are so set that they will never vote for any Democrat ever, you can't really give them any logical information to separate them from this conclusion. I don't have the links on hand, but etc Google and Wikipedia are free: Harris's tenure as district attorney and California AG was progressive even by modern standards, and it was happening in the early 2000s: she refused to prosecute for low-level weed offenses, pushed for harder sentences for assault weapons, performed gay marriages LONG before it was legal even in San Freaking Francisco, refused to seek the death penalty, worked with restorative justice programs, etc. This was after she was a first-generation American child of brown immigrants who took advantage of equal-opportunity education programs to go to law school, and her parents were already high-achieving academics (one a cancer researcher from India and one an economics professor from Jamaica). Sure sure, she definitely seems exactly like Derek Chauvin to me. Critical thinking is great! #VoteJillStein! A literal puppet of Putin and unabashed Assad fangirl is definitely the pro-peace morally correct option here!*

In other words, the morons do not give a single shit about factual reflections of Kamala's record. They do not care about whether her time as a district attorney was progressive (it was) and whether she was actually a cop (she wasn't). They're so wedded at the hip to their braindead disinformation propaganda that now we're going to see the excuses change at lightspeed from why they can't vote for Biden specifically to why they can't vote for Harris specifically. None of it will be remotely tethered to reality and all of it will be in extreme and obvious bad faith. As I said, there are plenty of persuadable voters elsewhere who HAVE been energized by her elevation to candidacy. If you are indeed interested in winning voters to her side (as opposed to having to find reasons to justify yourself to the All Voting Is Evil crowd who will never listen to or believe you anyway), I suspect your time would be better spent elsewhere, and outside the echo-chamber leftist social media space in general.

Aside from that, I have gotten a few hand-wringy asks about Kamala and the election overall, and I gotta say, I am not going to waste my time and effort replying to them. We have about 100 days to win this election or become a fascist dictatorship. We are already in uncharted territory, but the replacement of Biden with Harris went UNIMAGINABLY smoothly, far, far more than anyone (including me) ever expected. It reminds me of the presto-chango that the French center, left, and center-left parties pulled off to replace candidates, IN FIVE DAYS, to better position themselves to defeat the fascists. Compared to that, three and a half months is a cakewalk, but we still absolutely do not, DO NOT, have time to sit around worrying and hand-wringing about this or that hypothetical Bad Thing. It deeply unsurprises me to hear that US Online Leftists are still throwing snits and pitching their toys out of the pram rather than getting on board, but the rest of us don't have any time to waste and need to apply our energy to where it will be best put to use. So yes.

*extreme, extreme sarcasm alert

[thebreakfastgenie]

Democrats, consistently and quite admirably, want to not just win, but win as The Adult In The Room. This worked when Republicans were at least pretending to play the same game, but in the Trump age they're resigned to the fact that the president is just there to be a mascot for their pet Cabinet secretaries, judges, etc to ride on. Even if the Dems could stoop down to this level, should they? If they could be guaranteed the White House in 2028 by running a celeb with zero experience or interest in governing (like a Twitch streamer or an MCU star or hell, Billy Joel), would you say that's worth it?

This is a harder question than I thought it would be.

I will say first that I don't think running a celebrity would work (although someday I will find the Billy Joel 2016 campaign logo I drew) for Democrats and I'm not persuaded running a non-Trump celebrity would work for Republicans. But in a hypothetical where it would guarantee a win..... a liberal puppet who would appoint qualified people to run departments and sign legislation passed by qualified Dem legislators and listen to advisors.... it's hard to say no to that outright. I think we should though. I think that's a temptation we should resist. Because at the end of the day your celebrity with a good heart but no interest in governing or idea how to do it has the nuclear codes. The presidency is a job and I want someone who can do it well. The skillset that makes someone good at governing isn't exactly the same skillset that makes them good at campaigning, which is a recurring problem (Hillary Clinton would have been excellent at governing, for example). Democrats want to win as the adult in the room because they believe our leaders should be adults. I still believe that. Governing competently is important. One of the reasons I supported Biden over some other candidates I aligned with slightly more ideologically in the 2020 primary is I had tremendous faith in his ability to govern (I was right to! unfortunately most of the country didn't notice. they rarely do when things are going well).

However, I think Dems should start playing a little dirtier. If we get a Dem House majority now or in 2026 they should obstruct the hell out of everything. They should go mask off and say our priority is not allowed Trump to do anything, like Repubclians said about Obama. If they get an opportunity to do some shit like hold a SCOTUS seat open for months they should do it. But I don't think they should run a celebrity. I think we can stop trying so hard to be the adults in the room without completely acting like children.

[ficandkaboodle]

Analyses of Most Ghost Characters be like…

Terzo was a tragic and extremely deep figure who, based off observations provided by his ghouls and Bishop Necropolitis, was a brilliant mind whose ideas were bastardized and squandered, which resulted in a disappointed and bitter husk of a man who still made an effort to display kindness. However, we will likely never truly know the full story of who he was because he lied so damn often.

Most of how we perceive Secondo is arguably the result of Sister badmouthing him as well as ghouls being brutally candid about how he acted in interviews. However, there’s reason to believe Secondo might’ve been just as multifaceted as Terzo, in that he wasn’t being his complete self to the audience. There’s evidence that could suggest Secondo did not enjoy being Papa in its entirety so much as the perks, which were ironically also hindered by him being Papa at the end of the day. It’s not hard to interpret him as someone who might not have enjoyed being a part of the bloodline at the end of the day because of what it meant he had to sacrifice.

Copia is a manchild, likely as a result of how he grew up: Orphaned, likely a social outcast, very likely undiagnosed. As a result, he might’ve become convinced that the only way to rise above it was to become someone worthy of adoration: Papa. But even after he ascended, his troubles didn’t stop: He had to learn his parentage, didn’t address the fact that his brothers were now dead, and spent the last few months he had with the woman he now knew was his mother dissociating because he developed a fear of death. This fear, mind you, that easily ties back into the theorized likelihood that he placed his self-worth into his success. And this is before getting into his willingness to be a puppet —

Papa Nihil’s complexities come in the form of his tendencies to escape reality and the consequences these brought. He was very likely an absent father, which would have had effects on his sons (say, attention-seeking tendencies; a distrust in authority; abandonment issues). In fact, the only things he seems to seek from his youth is his extremely short-lived music career and his unstable relationship with a woman who ultimately kept quiet about their son(s) they conceived together and ultimately played his lust and delusions against him to play nepotism. And by leaning into this, he got his own children killed. He only “became a father” after he died, and it’s sad that he actually seems his most lucid then. What’s all the more mind-boggling and makes you wonder about his tenure is his ability to be in the moment and try and convince Cardi to learn to do the same. It makes you curious: Was Nihil actually a good Papa when he wasn’t distracted?

Sister Imperator is willfully emotionally constipated and will justify it as being “for the good of the church”. She has definitely been affected by her decisions and what she’s done, from her relationship with Nihil to her giving up her babies and watching them at a distance, only interacting from a work standpoint. She lies, keeps secrets, has people killed off, all to tie her spawn into the position as Papa, which is curious considering her position means she’s already above the station of Papa. She does care about Cardi, but she doesn’t care for him the way he needs to be and, as a result, arguably only exacerbates his anxious tendencies. She’s an extremely interesting character but it’s so easy to water her down to just being manipulative and evil.

………………

Analyses of Primo —

Primo is fucking crazy man I don’t — Like, he might be a serial killer; he would punch a panda for profit; we aren’t even entirely certain he’s human like I would legit headcanon that Primo is a changeling and the fandom would run with it because what choice do we have, he honestly actually could be!!!