flashiefloo

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Great and now there's this. Theres truly no room for an ounce of complacency this is a direct attack on queer creatives.

Here's a link to the whole thread for more context

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To be fair, I like sleeping on the top bunk so I have an advantage if someone comes into my room to kill me and I think L would too

I have the high ground, Light.

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I saw a sign at a nearby village advertising a "veillée", a storytelling evening, which sounded intriguing, so I went out of curiosity—it turned out to be an old lady who had arranged a circle of chairs in her garden and prepared drinks, and who wanted to tell folk tales and stories from her youth. Apparently she was telling someone at the market the other day that she missed the ritual of the "veillée" from pre-television days, when people would gather in the evening and tell stories, and the people she was talking to were like, well let's do a veillée! And then she put up the sign.

About 15 people came, and she sat down and started telling us stories—I loved the way she made everything sound like it had happened just yesterday and she was there, even tales she'd got from her grandmother, and the way she continually assumed we knew all the people she mentioned, and everyone spontaneously played along; she'd be like "And Martin, the bonesetter—you know Martin," (everyone nods—of course, Martin) "We never liked him much" and everyone nodded harder, our collective distaste for Martin now a shared cultural heritage of our tiny microcosm. She started with telling us the story of the communal bread oven in the village. The original oven was destroyed during the Revolution; people used to pay to use the local aristocrat's oven, but of course around 1789 both the aristocrat and his oven were disposed of in a glorious blaze of liberty, equality, and complete lack of foresight.

Then the villagers felt really daft for having destroyed a perfectly serviceable oven that they could have now started using for free. "But you know what things were like during the revolution." (Everyone nodded sagely—who among us hasn't demolished our one and only source of bread-baking equipment in a fit of revolutionary zeal?)

The village didn't have a bread oven for decades, people travelled to another village to make bread; and then in the 19th century the village council finally voted to build a new oven. It was a communal endeavour, everyone pitched in with some stones or tools or labour, and the oven was built—but it collapsed immediately after the construction was finished. Consternation. Not to be deterred, people re-built the oven, with even more effort and care—and the second one also collapsed.

People realised that something was amiss, and the village council convened. After a lot of serious discussion, during which no one so much as mentioned the possibility of a structural flaw, people reached the only logical conclusion: the drac had sabotaged their oven. Twice. (The drac, in these parts, is the son of the devil.) The logic here, I suppose, was that no one but the devil's own child would dare to stand between French people and their bread.

The next step was even more obvious: they passed around a hat to raise money, assuming the devil’s son was after a cash donation. But (and I'm skipping a few twists and turns of the story here) the son of the devil did not want money, he wanted half of every batch of bread, for as long as the village oven stood. Consternation.

People simply could not afford to give away half of their bread, and were about to abandon the idea of having their own oven altogether—but then Saint Peter came to the rescue. (In case you didn't know, Saint Peter happens to regularly visit this one tiny village in the French countryside to check that its inhabitants are doing okay and are not encountering oven issues.) Saint Peter reminded them of one precious piece of information they had overlooked: holy water burns the devil.

People re-built the oven, for the third time. The son of the devil returned, to destroy it and/or claim his half of the first batch—but on that day, the villagers had organised a grand communal spring cleaning, dousing every street and alley in the village with copious amounts of holy water. The poor drac simply could not access the oven; every possible path scorched his feet for reasons he couldn't quite explain. So he was standing there, smouldering gently and wondering what was going on, when some passing tramp seemed to take pity on him, pointed at his satchel and told him to turn himself into a rat and jump in there, and the tramp would carry him where he wished to go. The devil's son, probably a bit frazzled at this point, agreed without much thought, became a rat and jumped in the satchel, and of course that's the point when everyone in the village sprang from the shadows, wielding sticks, shovels, pans, and started beating the devil's son senseless. (Old lady, calmly: "You could hear his bones crack.") So the son of Satan slithered back to Hell and never returned to destroy the village oven again—and the spring cleaning tradition endured; the streets were washed with holy water once a year after that, both to commemorate this glorious day of civic resistance when the village absolutely bodied the devil's offspring and to maintain basic oven safety standards. (Old lady: "But we don't bother anymore… That's too bad.")

She told us five stories, most of them artfully blending actual local events or anecdotes from her youth with folk tale elements, it was so delightful. She thanked us for coming and said she'd love to do this again sometime. I went home reflecting that listening to an old lady happily tell stories of dubious historical veracity involving the Revolution, property damage, demonic mischief and baffling municipal decision-making is literally my ideal Saturday night activity.

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This 'impossible' crane shot from Mikhail Kalatozov's SOY CUBA (1964) ...

IS the greatest and quite remarkable one shot scene of them all.

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From German magazine Lustige Blätter, 1932.

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Dick teaches a self-defense class for kindergarteners at the Gotham YMCA. Why? Because Cass dared him. Insufferable brat. He loved her.

“Rule one!” he says cheerfully, kneeling to eye level with twenty-three wobbly children in dinosaur sweaters. “Always go for the kneecaps!”

One of them raises a hand. “What if they don’t got knees?”

“Then you climb them like a tree and bite.”

Cassandra watches from the observation window, deeply horrified and slightly impressed. This reminds her of her childhood. Slightly.

An hour later, one of the toddlers flips a mugger into the sidewalk like a sack of potatoes.

“Where did you learn that?” the cops ask.

“My friend Dickie says bite crime.”

They nod, like that explains everything.

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one of my friends just got a mug that connects to the internet and let's you upload pixel art and text to it remotely. he gave all of us access and

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YOUR EMAIL FINDS ME ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE

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huh it is weird how purple is so often used in video games for stuff like corruption or dark magic or whatever

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Based off two real customers I had lol

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Too bad the prophet Cassandra never met Odysseus

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i love hearing about the declining birth rate like yesss that is a major problem considering our dominant economic model. a problem i plan on contributing to 👍 joining the war on declining birth rates on the side of declining birth rates

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Day 1 & 2 for Codywan week! Purge Trooper Cody/ Badass couple

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It’s so infuriating that teen smoking rates were at an all time low in the US and we were on track to basically eradicate smoking and nicotine addiction in teens like it was flat out uncool to smoke and then They came out with nicotine injector flash drives that light up and taste like cotton candy. And have lead in them.

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The best photo I took at Dashcon 2

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“You think every citizen should have access to free and accessible healthcare?”

Wrong!!!

I think that Asylum seekers and Migrant workers and The Undocumented and Everyone Else should get free healthcare too

I love immigration

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donald trump will die on july 20th 2025 at 1pm pacific standard time