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denkithunder · 4 months ago

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ᨳ♡₊➳ jujutsu kaisen x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack with plot

"You hate your job. The pay is bad, your manager is worse, and customers are somehow both entitled and clueless. Just as you finish contemplating whether unpaid breaks are a human rights violation, weird new people keep showing up to the café. They all seem to know each other. Sometimes they talk in cryptic phrases. What the hell is this domain and why do they want to expand it? One time, a man with stitches on his forehead walked in, made prolonged eye contact with you, and then left without ordering anything. You’re pretty sure he was a serial killer. Another time, the one with white hair and sunglasses indoors mentioned a "higher mission", and you’re 90% sure this is how cult documentaries start. One of your regulars only speaks in weird food-related phrases. You assume he has some kind of medical condition, but no one explains anything to you. But you are not about to ask questions, because ignorance is bliss and also job security. And unfortunately, they are all weird and they seem very interested in coming back."

꒰ masterlist ꒱ ₊⊹. ꒰ chapter 5 ꒱ ₊⊹. ꒰ chapter 7 ꒱

ᨳ♡₊➳ or read on archive of our own!

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: HELLOOOO BELOVEDS!!! first of all, thank you for all the kind comments and unhinged reactions, they are genuinely fueling me like a questionable energy drink. you have no idea how much it means to me to see people enjoying this ridiculous little fic. i had so much fun writing this chapter (probably too much fun honestly) and i would love to hear what you think!!! scream at me. leave your thoughts. tell me which character is making you lose your mind the most. i am here. i am listening. i am emotionally invested in your reactions. as always, thank you for reading!!! hope you enjoy this chapter! 🫶

The morning had been relatively uneventful, meaning that the espresso machine had only threatened violence twice, Greg had not yet committed a fireable offense (debatable), and Muffin Guy was, as always, engaged in his thousand-yard stare into the abyss of his pastry.

And then Gojo burst into the café.

"Barista," Gojo declared, striding up to the counter with the urgency of a man reporting a crime. "We have a Code Red."

You blinked. You had not emotionally prepared yourself for this.

"Gojo," you said slowly, already exhausted. "What?"

He slammed his hands onto the counter, leaning in like he was about to deliver classified government intel. He removed his sunglasses for dramatic effect, which always meant whatever he was about to say was extra stupid.

"My punch card. It’s missing."

Silence.

Gojo stared at you. You stared back. Somewhere in the corner, Muffin Guy continued to stare at his muffin like it contained the meaning of life.

"...Why did you even have one?" you asked, already regretting engaging with this conversation.

"For fun," Gojo said earnestly. "But now it’s not fun. It’s personal."

You sighed and crossed your arms over your chest, feeling a headache starting to come on. "Gojo, you made the punch cards. You wrote the ‘rewards’ yourself. You even give out the rewards yourself. You know they’re literally useless to you, right?"

"I support small businesses." Gojo simply said, as if that explained everything. It didn't.

You exhaled. "I can just give you another one."

Gojo gasped. "You would just replace it? Just like that? Without even trying to find the original?"

"Yes."

"Barista," he whined, looking deeply wounded. "You are everything wrong with modern society."

"Because I refuse to track down your own punch card? That you did not need?"

"Justice must be served!" Gojo declared, slamming his hands onto the counter once more. You swear you start to see it crack a little.

"Fine," you surrendered. "Where did you last see it?"

"It was last seen right here," he asserted, spinning around to dramatically point to the table he was sitting at a while ago like it was a crime scene. "Someone took it. And I will find out who. Last time I saw it, I had exactly four punches. And it even has 'The Strongest' on it with a doodle of me!"

You glanced down at the rewards.

Buy 5 coffees, Get a Pat on the Head from Gojo!

"You—" You inhaled sharply. "Gojo, you cannot give yourself head pats."

Gojo looked appalled. "Why not?"

"Because that defeats the entire purpose!"

Gojo pouted. "So you're saying self-care is illegal now?"

"I am saying you're an idiot."

Gojo pointedly ignores you in favor for straightening up, adjusting his sunglasses with the solemn air of a detective on the brink of uncovering a grand conspiracy. He pivoted on his heel and surveyed the café like a man on a mission—because he was, in fact, a man on a mission.

A very, very stupid mission.

Gojo, self-appointed detective of this entirely unnecessary case, wasted no time causing problems. He began his investigation in the most Gojo way possible: by harassing every single person in the café, and dragging you along with him as his unwilling accomplice.

"Alright, one of you took my punch card," he announced loudly, pointing to the entire café. "I’m giving you a chance to come clean before I unleash my full investigative abilities."

No one reacted. It was dead silent other than some old guy doing one of those gnarly old man coughs.

"Okay. Hard way it is."

He leaned over a table and pointed directly at a college student buried under their laptop. “You. Where were you approximately forty seven minutes ago?"

The student, looking up with the dead eyes of someone who had seen too many midterms, just blinked. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Gojo said, crossing his arms. “I know a criminal when I see one.”

“I—” They looked at you in distress.

You sighed. “Gojo, leave the customers alone.”

“Never.” He turned, zeroing in on the next suspect: Muffin Guy.

Muffin Guy, as always, was sitting at his usual table in the corner farthest from the door, staring at his usual muffin.

Gojo approached the man like he was in an interrogation scene of a cop drama. You trudged along behind him, silently screaming inside your head at the fact that you have to babysit a fully grown man. He pulled up a chair, turned it around, and sat on it backward like an absolute menace.

"Alright, pal," Gojo said, pulling out a notebook that he absolutely did not need. "You wanna tell me where you were when my punch card went missing forty nine minutes ago?"

Muffin Guy did not even acknowledge Gojo’s existence. His eyes remained locked on his muffin, like he was waiting for something.

Gojo narrowed his eyes. "Suspicious."

Silence.

"Listen, I get it. You don’t wanna snitch. You’ve got a reputation to uphold," Gojo said, nodding like he totally understood Muffin Guy’s plight. "But I need you to talk. Where. Is. My. Punch. Card?"

Nothing. Muffin Guy did not move. Muffin Guy did not blink. Did not acknowledge him. Did not react in any way whatsoever.

Gojo narrowed his eyes. “Ohhh, you’re good.”

You massaged your temples. “Gojo, he hasn’t moved in like, four weeks. I doubt he even knows what a punch card is.”

“That’s exactly what he WANTS us to think.”

Gojo tapped a finger against the table like he was waiting for a confession. Muffin Guy continued his unwavering, soul-searching gaze into his muffin.

“…Fine,” Gojo said finally, standing up. “We’ll be watching you, muffin man.”

Muffin Guy did not respond.

Muffin Guy never responded.

Gojo jotted something down in his notebook anyway.

You sighed. "Are you done?"

"Not even close," Gojo said. "We have another suspect."

Gojo’s next suspect? The espresso machine.

Yes. The espresso machine.

Gojo stormed back to the counter, which was for employees only mind you, heading behind it with all of the confidence of a man who owned the place despite him very much not even working there. His energy was even more unhinged now, which you hadn’t thought was possible.

"It knows something." Gojo said seriously, surveying the espresso machine.

You glanced at the espresso machine, which had been through a lot. Its buttons were worn down, its exterior was dented from years of abuse, and it did act like it was on the verge of achieving sentience and declaring war.

But it was just a machine.

"You’re losing it," you said flatly.

Gojo did not respond. The espresso machine let out a deep, unnatural groan. The lights flickered. A faint screeching noise echoed from within its depths.

Gojo nodded. "Hm... I see, thank you for your time."

Was he... talking to the espresso machine?

You took a step back. "Okay, I think we’re done here—"

"No," Gojo interrupted, eyes snapping open. "We are not done."

"Listen up!" he announced. "Since no one wants to confess, I have no choice but to conduct a full-scale investigation."

Oh no.

Gojo was determined. He took things to their logical, insane conclusion.

That was how the café ended up with a full conspiracy board pinned to the back wall, complete with string, random photos, and several unhinged notes like "Muffin Guy = SUSPECT 1????" and "Greg = Wild Card. Cannot be trusted."

Nanami walked in, took one look at the board, and immediately turned around and left.

“Smart man,” you muttered.

Gojo jabbed a finger at the board. “We’re close, Barista. I can feel it.”

You glanced at his so-called evidence, which consisted mostly of:

A blurry photo of Muffin Guy.

A napkin with "Who benefits from this crime???" scrawled across it.

A drawing Gojo made of himself shirtless.

“Uh-huh.”

After approximately an hour of complete nonsense, the truth was finally revealed.

Toge walked in.

The second Gojo saw him, his eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute."

Toge tilted his head, then casually reached into his pocket.

And pulled out Gojo’s punch card.

There was silence.

Toge smirked. "Salmon roe."

Gojo gasped dramatically. "You little fiend."

Toge shrugged, completely unbothered.

"Okay, listen, we can work this out," Gojo said, already shifting into negotiation mode. "What do you want? Money? Power? Name your price."

Toge tapped the menu.

He wanted a free drink.

Gojo immediately caved.

You handed Toge his iced vanilla latte. He took one sip, gave an approving thumbs-up, and walked out with Gojo’s punch card still in hand—because, apparently, Toge was not only a mastermind but also a scammer.

Gojo stared after him, stunned.

"Did I… did I just get played by a kid?"

"Yes," you nodded, not surprised in the slightest.

Gojo groaned and ran a hand through his hair. "Man, this is not my day."

You rolled your eyes before grabbing one of the punch cards, wrote Gojo’s New Punch Card on it in thick marker, and slid it across the counter.

Gojo picked it up like it was a sacred artifact.

“This is why you’re my favorite,” he said solemnly.

You ignored him and went back to work.

And then, somehow, in less than thirty minutes, he lost the punch card again.

This time, Muffin Guy had it. (It had somehow accidentally fell into his lap, but Gojo isn't convinced.)

And thus, an eternal rivalry was born.

Gojo was a man of many talents. He was the strongest sorcerer alive. He was an esteemed mentor, an agent of chaos, and a connoisseur of sweets. He had faced many formidable opponents in his life. Powerful curses. Dangerous sorcerers. Nanami’s disappointed stare.

But nothing—nothing—compared to the enigma that was Muffin Guy.

And the worst part? Muffin Guy had no idea they were rivals.

And now? Now, he had Gojo’s punch card.

A customer who had never spoken a word. Never made an order. Never blinked (as far as anyone could tell).

The betrayal was immeasurable.

It all started when Gojo realized his brand new punch card was missing.

And then he saw it, sitting in the lap of Muffin Guy.

Now, here’s the thing: Muffin Guy had not moved in approximately four weeks. You had once joked that he was actually a statue, and frankly, the evidence was compelling.

It was unclear if he was contemplating the meaning of life or if the muffin had personally wronged him in a past life.

He simply sat at the same table, day after day, with an untouched muffin in front of him. Staring at it. Unwavering. Unmoving. A man and his pastry, locked in some kind of profound, spiritual journey that no one else could understand.

But today—today—Muffin Guy had unknowingly committed a crime.

Gojo marched over, stopping just short of Muffin Guy’s table. His expression was grim. His sunglasses reflected the dull café lighting like he was in some sort of low-budget action movie.

"Alright, muffin boy," he said. "Hand it over."

Muffin Guy did not react.

The punch card remained where it had fallen, untouched in his lap. Muffin Guy himself continued his muffin-induced trance, oblivious to the war he had just ignited.

Gojo narrowed his eyes. "Oh, so that’s how it is."

He placed his hands on the table and leaned in slightly. "Listen. I don’t know what kind of mind games you’re playing here, but I’m not leaving without my card."

Muffin Guy did not move.

The muffin remained uneaten.

Gojo squinted. "You’re good," he admitted. "Too good. But I’m better."

Still, no reaction.

At this point, you were 100% certain that Muffin Guy did not even know Gojo was talking to him.

But Gojo was not deterred. No—if anything, the complete lack of response only fueled him further.

"I see," Gojo murmured. "So this is psychological warfare."

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Gojo. He did not steal your punch card on purpose. That man is completely checked out. He has no idea what’s happening right now."

Gojo ignored you. A slow, confident smirk spread across his face.

"Okay, buddy," he continued, "if you wanna play dirty, then so can I. You want to make this a battle of endurance?" he mused. "A test of willpower? Oh, you poor, poor fool."

He leaned in.

"I could sit here for hours."

The café collectively turned to look at you, silently asking Are you going to stop this?

You did not intervene.

Because, honestly? You kind of wanted to see where this was going.

Gojo and Muffin Guy remained locked in a tense, one-sided standoff.

Gojo leaned on the table like he was interrogating an international spy. Muffin Guy continued his usual thousand-yard stare into the muffin’s nonexistent soul. The café was caught in the crossfire, helpless witnesses to a battle that absolutely did not need to happen.

The customers were starting to look uncomfortable. Even Greg, who had an impressive tolerance for nonsense, peeked out from behind the counter with an expression that said, "Is this my problem? No? Cool."

You folded your arms and sighed. "Gojo. Just take the damn punch card."

"I can’t," Gojo whispered dramatically. "That would mean he wins."

You deadpanned. "I don’t think he even knows he’s playing."

Gojo shook his head. "No, no. This is a power move. He’s asserting dominance. Look at him."

You did.

Muffin Guy had not moved a millimeter. His posture was slightly slumped, the kind of relaxed yet oddly rigid stance of a man who had fully merged with his chair. His hands rested in his lap, motionless. His expression was blank, unreadable.

"You’re reading way too much into this," you muttered.

Gojo scoffed. "Barista. Sweet, naïve, simple barista. You don’t understand the art of psychological combat."

"Please stop talking."

"This is a game of patience. And unfortunately for Muffin Man over here, I have the patience of a god."

You stared at him. "You literally don’t."

Gojo grinned, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. "Don’t I?"

Thirty minutes passed.

Thirty.

Agonizing.

Minutes.

Gojo had not moved. He remained seated across from Muffin Guy, chin resting in his hand, staring intensely.

Muffin Guy? Unbothered. A picture of serenity. He had reached a state of enlightenment that Gojo could never hope to attain.

You were nearly impressed.

"Gojo," you finally called from behind the counter. "Are you actually going to do anything or…?"

Gojo, without looking away, reached for his drink, took a slow sip, and set it back down with exaggerated precision.

"This is deeper than just a punch card now, Barista," he said solemnly. "This is a battle of souls."

You rolled your eyes and went back to work.

By the one-hour mark, the other customers had started placing bets.

Nanami, who had returned to the café during this mess, stood near the counter with his arms crossed, observing the situation like it personally offended him. He scowled. "This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen."

You nodded. "Yeah."

"…I put 500 yen on Muffin Guy winning."

You blinked. "Oh my god."

At another table, Yuji sat with a wide-eyed look of concern. "Uh… should we stop him?"

Nanami, looking unimpressed as ever, just sighed. "No. Let him suffer the consequences of his own actions."

"Okay, but like—what if he never gives up?" Yuji asked. "Like, what if this is it? What if Gojo-sensei just lives here now?"

Your expression darkened. "I don’t want to think about that."

Meanwhile, Gojo was starting to crack.

The problem was… Muffin Guy was too powerful.

Gojo shifted slightly in his seat. He flexed his fingers. His leg bounced a little. His energy was starting to get restless. He was like a dog that had been told to "stay" for longer than his attention span allowed.

Muffin Guy remained perfectly still.

Gojo exhaled sharply, then abruptly straightened up. "Alright," he announced. "I’m initiating Plan B."

Plan B, apparently, was Gojo very dramatically standing up, taking a deep breath, and—

"HEY, LOOK! A DISTRACTION!"

Gojo threw his arms out and gestured wildly toward the window.

Muffin Guy did not look.

Muffin Guy did not acknowledge this in any way.

Muffin Guy simply continued to stare at his muffin.

It was an incredible display of indifference.

Gojo groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Why won’t he break?!"

"He doesn’t care," you pointed out.

"No one is this unbothered," Gojo muttered in despair. "He has to be suppressing some deep, hidden rage. A darkness within him."

You eyed Muffin Guy, who had not reacted to literally anything this entire time. "Yeah, sure."

Gojo sighed and slumped back into his seat. He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling like he was questioning every life choice that led him here.

And then.

Then.

It happened.

The door opened and a breeze moved the punch card off of Muffin Guy's lap, onto the floor. It lay there. In the open. Right at his feet.

And then.

Muffin Guy… moved.

Barely. But he did.

His shoe—slowly, deliberately—rose up.

With an almost absentminded motion, he stepped on the punch card then kicked it away.

Gojo, eyes wide behind his sunglasses, slowly looked down at the fallen punch card.

Gojo’s hands clenched into fists. He looked back up at Muffin Guy, mouth slightly open in betrayal.

"You—" he whispered. "You absolute bastard."

Muffin Guy blinked once. And then, finally—finally—he moved his gaze away from the muffin.

And looked Gojo dead in the eye.

For the first time ever.

It lasted only a second. Maybe two.

But it was enough.

It was enough to shake Satoru Gojo to his very core.

And then, Muffin Guy returned his gaze to the muffin, as if nothing had happened.

Gojo staggered back. "Oh my god."

He turned to you, expression shell-shocked. "Did you see that?"

You glanced up, having been working on an order. "See what?"

Gojo clutched his chest. "The raw intimidation. The absolute menace of it all."

You looked at Muffin Guy.

He was back to staring blankly at his muffin.

"You’re making this up," you said.

"No, Barista. No." Gojo shook his head solemnly. "That was real."

He bent down, picked up the punch card, and held it in his hands like he had just recovered a stolen artifact.

"I have won," he declared. "But at what cost?"

And with that, he turned and walked away.

And Muffin Guy? Muffin Guy continued to sit there, unmoving, as if none of this had ever happened. As if he had already ascended beyond human concerns. As if this was all just a blip in his long, unbothered existence.

Gojo, shaken but victorious, walked up to the counter and carefully placed his now-returned punch card in his pocket.

"I have faced many things in my life, Barista," he said, shaking his head. "But nothing—nothing—compares to him."

You did not care. "Are you gonna buy something or not?"

Gojo blinked. "Oh. Right." He grinned. "One Death By Sugar, please!”

After the whole Gojo and Muffin Guy fiasco, it had been a long week. A really long week.

Longer than usual. And that was saying something, considering your usual weeks included existential crises, cryptic nonsense from regulars who seemed vaguely cult-adjacent, and whatever the hell Greg did instead of actual work.

Just this morning, a man had thrown his coffee at the wall and shouted that it had “too many molecules.”

You had simply stared at him, dead inside, until he shuffled out of the café like a scolded dog. Greg the Manager, who had watched the whole thing, just shrugged and said, “You know, sometimes science, like, gets to people.” Then he went back to his very important task of playing Candy Crush in the back.

Another customer demanded a “non-liquid latte,” which led to a long and painful conversation about what a latte actually was.

So yeah. The bar was low, but somehow, this week had still found a way to dig beneath it.

In short: You were done. Completely, utterly, cosmically done.

So there you were, leaning against the counter, staring blankly at nothing, dark circles under your eyes so deep they could have been considered voids of the abyss, when Choso entered.

Choso was—how to put this?—an experience.

It wasn’t that he was bad. He was just… weird. The kind of weird that made you wonder if he was raised in a cave by a wise old hermit who only spoke in riddles. Or wolves. Possibly both.

He took one look at you—slouched, dark circles under your eyes, contemplating whether you could get away with faking your own death to escape this job—and immediately panicked.

"Barista."

"Choso."

"You are unwell," he declared, voice heavy with alarm.

You blinked slowly. “I’m tired.”

“Dying,” Choso corrected gravely.

“No.”

“Yes.”

This was going nowhere.

“What do you need? Please, tell me. I will get it.”

You, in a moment of sheer exhaustion-fueled stupidity, decided to mess with him. “I need a million dollars and a nap.”

Choso didn’t even hesitate.

He just nodded. Then vanished.

Literally.

One second he was there, the next? Gone. Like a cryptid retreating into the woods. You didn’t think much of it. Maybe he had finally reached his weird quota for the day.

Five minutes later, Yuji Itadori sprinted into the café, looking like he’d just witnessed a national emergency.

"CHO’S TRYING TO ROB A BANK," he wheezed.

Your brain short-circuited.

“What.”

Yuji, barely holding it together, flailed his arms in the air. "HE SAID YOU NEEDED MONEY AND REST, AND I TRIED TO STOP HIM, BUT HE JUST SAID ‘IT MUST BE DONE’ AND LEFT."

You stared at him. "You’re joking."

"I’M NOT JOKING."

That was all you needed to hear.

Without another word, you threw your apron onto the counter, ignored Greg’s halfhearted “Hey, where are you going?”, marched past a shocked line of customers (who had given up on understanding anything that happened in this café), and stormed out of the café, because apparently, preventing your customers from committing felonies was now part of your job description.

Outside the bank, you spotted Choso standing by the entrance, looking deeply contemplative.

His expression was tense, brows furrowed in serious thought, like he was weighing the logistics of a full-scale heist.

You marched up to him. "Choso. What the hell are you doing?"

Choso turned to you with the heavy sincerity of a man about to make a life-altering decision. "I have realized I do not know how to rob a bank."

"Good," you said. "Fantastic. Let’s go."

He looked vaguely disappointed, like he had really been hoping for a step-by-step guide. He hesitated. “But you need the money.”

"I do not need bank robbery money, Choso."

“…Are you certain?"

You grabbed his sleeve and started dragging him away. “Very certain."

He did not resist. Just nodded solemnly as if he was allowing you to stop him.

Yuji, breathless from running after you, skidded to a halt. “Oh thank god.”

Choso turned to his brother. “You should have more faith in me, brother. I would not have gotten caught.”

“THAT’S NOT THE POINT."

Back at the café, you reclaimed your position behind the counter, mentally adding Prevented a Felony to your resume.

Unfortunately, that was not the end of it.

Because Choso still believed you were dying.

Which is why, for the rest of the shift, he kept handing you random things to “help.”

First, a protein bar.

Then a full meal from some restaurant down the street (you had no idea how he got it so fast, and frankly, you were scared to ask).

Then vitamins.

Then—at one point—a whole ass bucket of water.

“Hydration is important,” Choso said solemnly.

You stared at the bucket. Then at him. Then back at the bucket.

"...Where did you even get this?"

Choso simply nodded, as if that was an answer.

You groaned. “Choso—”

“I will not let you perish,” Choso said, his tone eerily similar to when he’d considered robbing a bank on your behalf.

This was getting out of hand.

At some point, Gojo had walked in, witnessed Choso wordlessly draping a blanket over your shoulders like a solemn warrior, and nearly died laughing.

Choso, unfazed, simply turned to him and said, “They are unwell.”

Gojo whistled. "Aw, Choso, you’re such a gentleman."

Choso looked pleased. "It is important that they do not perish."

Gojo, whispered to you with a teasing grin. "I think he just confessed."

You refused to acknowledge this.

But it didn’t stop. For the entire shift, Choso kept appearing out of nowhere to hand you various life-sustaining items. A banana. A juice box. An entire bag of rice.

By the end of the day, you had somehow acquired a small mountain of food and drinks, and Choso was still watching you like he expected you to keel over at any second.

Greg the Manager, walking by, looked at the pile and nodded approvingly. "Nice. Free snacks."

Before you could stop him, he reached for a rice ball—

And Choso slapped his hand away.

Greg froze.

Choso glared at him.

Gojo, somewhere in the background muttered a "Holy shit."

Greg backed away.

Choso nodded to himself, victorious.

You put your head in your hands. "I need a vacation."

"I will acquire you one."

"No."

₊⊹. tag list: @alpha-mommy69 @luluminati @amortsukii-writes @inthedarkshadows000 @isomehowexist @not-aya @emochosoluvr

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denkithunder · 4 months ago

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A Crash Course to Kendrick's Super Bowl Performance, from a Black Woman

Note: this does NOT go in depth into all of the song's lyrics. I don't have time to recount two decades of his discography. This is just a summary of the performance itself.

Let's start with the first visual we get:

UNCLE SAM - most notably recognized from WWII American wartime propaganda, Uncle Sam is the personification of American patriotism and freedom. The term "uncle" is also evocative of Uncle Tom from Uncle Tom's Cabin, an abolitionist book that aided in inciting the Civil War. Uncle is also a very common term (both endearment and derogatory) towards Black men (eg. "unc"). Samuel L Jackson was fantastic.

Uncle Sam also resembles a circus ringleader, notable for my next point:

THE GREAT AMERICAN GAME - no, not Super Bowl. The GAG is us the people being pitted against each other: through late-stage capitalism, through the culture war, through class warfare, through being built of the backs of slaves. We are all players in the GAG because none of us on this site were the oligarchs seated at the inauguration.

This is also seen as Kendrick's stage was a Play Station controller. Not only did it remind of circus rings visually, but it was a game battle stage. The Great American Game is a battle royale of the commoners for the amusement of the rich whites.

Remember the foods / Them color was tin and brown / But now they 100 and blue - For this I'll just say, look what the last election said about lowering the price of eggs... and look at the prices now.

The revolution about to be televised / You picked the right time / But the wrong guy - Election 2024 once more.

THE FLAG DANCERS - yes, the dancers formed the US flag... off of the backs of Black people. Not a single white person in sight, and that's true of the cotton pickers in the fields. Plantations are part of how the US came to economic prominence after being a "backwater" colony. Remember tobacco? Cotton? Our bloodlines do.

The red and blue dancers are also notable for representing the Crips and Bloods, two infamous street gangs. The dance in Not Like Us is the Crip Walk. I recommend researching more on your own time about them, but just know they are a large part of the stereotype of Black people being "ghetto."

TOO LOUD, TOO RECKLESS, TOO GHETTO. Do you really know how to play the game? - This is exactly what Black people, especially Black men, get told all the time. It's why we change our names on resumes if they sound "too Black." It's why we codeswitch in non-Black company. This is especially rich considering how non-Black people love our culture and love to make money off of us, as the latter part of the quote points to. And it's even more profound during the Super Bowl-- the NFL is majority Black players.

STREET LIGHT A CAPELLA -- "thug" stereotype dancers to counteract the a capella connotations, with Uncle Sam then saying that Kendrick figured out "bringing other street guys around being a culture cheat code." Yes, this is a direct hit at Drake (listen to "Not Like Us") but also politically. Look up "model minority". Notably I would point to Candace Owens, or the Miami Venezuelan political group that's been in the news recently, especially as this directly led to Kendrick being surrounded by...

DANCERS IN WHITE -- it's white America. That's... that's the allegory.

NOT LIKE US TEASER -- Kendrick says "Not Like Us" is "their favorite song." -> he means white people specifically here. It comes after he's surrounded by all white dancers, the women around him who are his call and response are also in white (my opinion, they represent the industry). He's saying "Not Like Us" is the favorite of yts because it is about BLACK MEN FIGHTING. This again is reflected in the video game stage and ringleader Uncle Sam.

SZA -- instead of giving what they want, we see SZA. She's one of Drake's exes and Kendrick has always supported her.

ALL THE STARS -- This was in the first Black Panther movie, which I recommend you watch. Rest in Power Chadwick. Notably, this movie was incredibly mainstream as a major Marvel movie, and then we have Uncle Sam say...

"THAT'S WHAT AMERICA WANTS: NICE AND CALM. DON'T MESS THIS UP" -- translation: Marvel (the industry, America, etc.) wanted a safe, semi-pop song because white American likes safe pop songs, not Kendrick's usual heavy rap style about his life as a Black man! Don't mess up what you've got going mainstream for having this "Black rap feud" with Drake, who is an R&B model minority to white people because he's safe.

So what does Kendrick say?

IT'S A CULTURAL DIVIDE / IMMA GET IT ON THE FLOOR -- He was warned not to be political or apologetically Black for this Super Bowl performance, but he is using this big stage opportunity to speak out.

40 ACRES AND A MULE / THIS IS BIGGER THAN THE MUSIC -- 40 acres and a mule are what the freed slaves were promised. Instead, this land went to white sharecroppers. Research Jim Crow laws.

THEY TRIED TO RIG THE GAME / BUT YOU CAN'T FAKE INFLUENCE -- rig the election, rig the industry like with model minority Drake, rig the Great American Game with culture war to distract from active class warfare.

NOT LIKE US -- the only thing I'll mention because it made me holler is Serena Williams crip walking on Drake's metaphorical grave. She's another one of his exes.

TURN THE TV OFF -- exactly like he said! The TV is a distraction, the Super Bowl is a distraction, the mainstream news is often a distraction. Turn it off and get with your people!

GAME OVER — could not see this on my stream but at the end of the performance, the lights in the stadium spelled this out. The world is watching, America…

In conclusion, Kendrick Lamar is a visionary and thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

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