#FUCK yo' SLAVE Church

[caplanbuckybarnes]

Songs4Caplan Challenge

(I located an older song fic challenge from a deleted blog I had that had this graphic on it. LOL)

Rules:

Tag me in the authors notes & send me a message with yuor fic once it's posted! (along with the hashtag so I know which Masterlist to place the fic when I post it)

Please tag the proper warnings before the fic

Can be ANY CHARACTER YOU'D LIKE!!

More than one person can write for the same prompts

RPFs are allowed

If you’d like to write for more than one song, please make them separate fics

the songs are randomly picked from my playlist, so don't judge lol.

Can be however long you’d like the fic to be, however, please be considerate to the folks using the app and place the 'keep reading' feature on your posts!!

PLEASE tag the fic as #songs4caplan so i can easily find your fics!!!

Addicted to you simple plan

Africa Toto 

All downhill from here new found glory 

All for you sister hazel 

All summer long kid Rock 

Alone together fall out boy

Amnesia 5 seconds of summer

Animals maroon 5

As it was Harry styles 

as the world caves in Sarah cothran

Ashes of Eden breaking Benjamin 

Attention Charlie put 

Bad guy Billie eillish 

Bad things jace Everett

Beautiful mistakes maroon 5

Beautiful soul Jesse McCartney 

Before he cheats carrie underwood 

Before you go Lewis capaldi 

Beggin maneskin 

Better than me hinder

Blue ain’t your color Keith urban 

Burn usher 

Car radio twenty one pilots 

Church fall out boy

Climax usher 

Come & get it Selena Gomez 

Count on me Bruno mars 

Criminal Fiona Apple 

Deja vu Olivia rodrigo 

Delicate Taylor swift 

Diary Tino Coury 

Dirty laundry Carrie underwood 

Dirty thoughts Chloe adams 

Don’t call me up Mabel 

Downtown lady a 

Drivers license Olivia rodrigo 

Easy on Adele 

End of me a day to remember 

Every breath you take the police 

Every morning sugar ray 

Everybody hurts r.e.m. 

Fall for you secondhand serenade

Fallin Alicia keys 

Fast car Tracy Chapman 

Flowers Miley Cyrus 

For the first time the script

Forever young alphaville

Forever and ever amen randy Travis

Fuck it Eamon 

Fuck you bitch wheeler walker jr

Ghost of you Justin beiber

Glimpse of us Joji

God gave me you Blake Shelton 

Hate (I really don’t like you) plain white tees

Havana Camilla cabello 

Heart attack Demi lovato 

Heartbreak anniversary giveon 

Heaven Kane brown 

Hello darlin Conway twitty 

Hold on, we’re going on drake 

How do you sleep Jesse McCartney 

Hurt Johnny cash 

I fall apart post Malone 

I miss you blink 182

I see red everybody loves an outlaw 

I wanna be your slave maneskin 

I’m not the only one Sam smith 

I’m the only one Melissa Ethridge 

I’m yours Alessia Cara 

In my blood Shawn Mendes 

It ain’t me baby me Johnny cash 

Jealous nick Jonas 

Just one yesterday fall out boy 

Just the way you are Bruno mars 

Keep Holding On Avril Lavigne 

Killer queen Queen 

The last of the real ones 

Leave  the door open Bruno mars 

Leavin’ Jesse McCartney 

Let her go passenger

Like I can Sam smith

Lips of an angel hinder

Little do you know Alex & sierra 

Little Talks Mumfords & sons

Mama's broken heart Miranda lambert

Man down Rihanna

Misery Maroon 5

My Boo usher & Alicia keys 

Needed Me Rihanna 

Never gonna be alone Nickelback

New Rules Dua Lipa 

Not Over You Gavin DeGraw

Obsessed Mariah Carey

One Call Away Charlie Puth

One More Night Maroon 5

Our Song Taylor Swift

Picture KidRock & Sherry Crow 

PillowTalk Zayn Malik 

Please Don’t Leave Me Pink

Red Taylor Swift 

Remember the time Michael Jackson

Rolling in the deep Adele 

Say My Name Destiny’s Child

Say So Doja Cat 

She’s Got You Patsy Cline

Shower Becky G

Smokin out the Window Bruno Mars 

Someone You Loved Lewis Capaldi

Stay With Me Sam Smith

Take a Bow Rihanna

Take Me to Church Hozier

Take You Dancing Jason Derulo

There’s Nothing Holdin Me Back Shawn Mendes

Title Meghan Trainor

Too Good at Goodbyes Sam Smith

Too Little Too LAte JoJo

Trip Ella Mae

Trouble P!Nk

True Love P!NK

Unfaithful RIhanna

Unholy Sam smith

Unsteady X Ambassadors

Uptown Girl Billy Joel

Wait For You Elliot Yamin

Walk Me Home P!NK

Walkin After Midnight Patsy Cline

Want U Back Cher Lloyd

What a Man Gotta Do Jonas Brothers

What Ifs Kane Brown

Wolves Selena Gomez

Would You Go With Me? Josh Turner

You Found Me The Fray

You Had Me @ Hello A Day to Remember

You Need to Calm Down, Taylor Swift

[harrelltut]

卍 abracadabra… abracadabra… abracadabra… I Now [NWO] Magically INVOKE [MI = MICHAEL] ALL [MA] Primitively Ancient [PA = SUPERNATURAL] Black SOULS of Magically INVISIBLE [MI = MICHAEL] Phantasmic Bodies of SIRIUS Black [B] Memory intEL [MELanin] from Inner Earth’s [HADES] HIDDEN Nubian Underworld States of Atlantis [USA = LEMURIA] since I BEE So SUPERCONSCIOUS of My Biblically Black [Ancient] Egyptian [BAE = COSMIC] ORIGINS from QUANTUM BLACK ATLANTIS [QBA = BABYLON] on HARRELLTV® 卍

[randomvarious]

Today’s compilation:

The Best of Metal Blade, Vol. 1 1987 Heavy Metal / Thrash Metal

OK, so first of all, rumors of my downfall have been greatly exaggerated. I'm here and I'm still posting and I'm planning on starting a Mixcloud account soon where you'll get a weekly peek into the total madness that is my wildly eclectic music collection 😎.

Second of all: Yo, I am by no means what anyone would consider to be a metalhead. I possess barely any depth of knowledge on the subject, simply because of the fact that I just really don't like metal all that much.

But I think I've really just been hearing the wrong shit my whole life because this comp really managed to bowl me all the way the fuck over, and, in metal parlance, it also not only melted my face off, but it waited for the remains of my melted face to congeal themselves back into a sort of putty and then it picked my putty-face up off the ground by impaling it with one of those garbage picker things and then it proceeded to run my impaled-putty-face through an industrial-sized shredder. RIP my face.

Anyways, I wasn't around for the 80s, but I've really never felt more of a desire to do a longhaired headbanging marathon in a wood-paneled basement instead of doing my algebra homework than I have while listening to this comp. Take me to that basement, please! 

This comp is from the Metal Blade label, which is still very much alive and kicking to this very day, but they were the first outfit to give names like Metallica, Slayer, Armored Saint, and even Ratt a chance. And while only one of those bands ends up gracing this comp (thrice no less), you'll find other established acts like Celtic Frost, Fates Warning, Lizzy Borden, Metal Church, and Voivod within these 22 tracks as well, along with bands that never made it as far as the aforementioned, but still managed to deliver some super top-quality metal nonetheless.

So now if someone for whatever reason ever asks me for some 80s metal, I'm not gonna give them the obvious shit like Ride the Lightning, Master of Puppets, etc. I'm simply gonna reach into my bag and pull out The Best of Metal Blade, Vol. 1 instead. Nearly every track is good and a solid handful of them are great. Like, really great. The speed, the power, the blisteringly furious hellishness, and the solos....my God, those fucking solos, man 🤯. Nutty. What a comp. What a trip 😈.

Highlights:

Slayer - "Chemical Warfare" Hallow's Eve - "Plunging To Megadeath" Bitch - "Be My Slave" Fates Warning - "The Apparition" Metal Church - "The Brave" Slayer - "Evil Has No Boundaries (Live)"

[adarlingwrites]

Absolution

Summary:

noun: formal release from guilt, obligation, or punishment

The Capital Wasteland lauded the Lone Wanderer as a hero, a Messiah, a savior who’s willing to give her life for the Good Fight. Beyond the legends, the propaganda, and the mythification that surrounded her legacy, there is only one person who knew her bare soul. She gave him his absolution, and now he will fight for hers.

XXIV

January 10, 2278.

Hannibal Hamlin just arrived a few moments ago, after Cross did. He sees me, smiles, and shakes my hand.

“Charon. Good to see you again, friend. How is Percy treating you? Has she found a solution to your contract yet?”

“Good,” I tell him. “We’re working on it.”

“That’s good to hear.”

The back door swings open, and DeLoria arrives with the dog. Dogmeat bounds towards me, and licks my hand after I ruffled his fur.

“Yo. I’m here. Where’s Percy at?”

“She’s retrieving a few things from the house. She’ll be here soon,” I tell him. “Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

“Yeah. I had the dog with me to keep watch.”

Just a few moments later, we heard the back door opening once again. Gob exclaims something I couldn’t hear, and Percy comes into view, dragging a missile launcher with her. It’s the one we found on the first day that I started serving her.

“Sorry I’m late. Had to double check a few things. Paladin Cross, this is for you.”

DeLoria’s jaw drops at the sight of the weapon. Cross carries it with ease, and thanks my partner.

“Holy shit, Perce. Where’d you even get that?”

“Doesn’t matter. Anyway, these arrived just in time, Charon. Moira had a hard time procuring them, so let’s put them to good use,” Percy turns to me, handing me a package.

I look inside and smirk.

“As you command.”

Nodding, Percy sets the map Doc Church drew out for us on the bar top.

“Here’s the plan.”

It was near midnight when we finished our meeting.

“Let’s go home,” Percy tells me. I follow her.

After cleaning up, we went into Percy's bedroom, my bedroom now too, I suppose. I lay awake next to her that night, thinking back to the days we spent with the Abolitionists, and their influence on me.

Right after that incident with Harkness, Percy runs into an escaped slave in the city, Mei Wong. She gives Wong some caps so she can buy a weapon. Then, that’s when we learned about the Temple of the Union, and met Hamlin.

November 11, 2277.

Staying close to Percy, we walked on, accompanying Hamlin and the others to the Lincoln Memorial.

Nearly two centuries ago, my first mission occurred here. I think I was… fourteen. Or fifteen. Fuck, my memories from before the Great War are still hazy, but I know it happened. Under the orders of our contract holder then, our unit was tasked to suppress protesters gathering at the memorial.

I remember everyone’s actions.

Vanth, our sniper, did not hesitate to open fire, making rubber bullets rain on the crowd. She didn’t even aim it to the ground; she aimed at the people. Everyone followed suit, save for me who stood there, mortified. I only got moving when my electric collar went off.

Magwayen did the best she could to avoid casualties. I followed her. The others did not. At the end of the day, Mag treated the wounds on my back. Whip marks. Punishment for being too soft.

The next day, I went harder on the people. I remember the smell of tear gas. Mag became distant since then.

I’m certain that if hell exists, I would go there, regardless whether hurting all those people is my will, or not. My hands killed them. I’m a murderer.

I’d never thought I’d come back to that place and do something right for a change.

I watched as my mistress helped the Abolitionists return the statue’s head back where it belonged. Smiling, sweat pouring from her brow, Percy approaches me, and tells me to enjoy the rest of the day while she talks to Hamlin.

They talked for hours. Occasionally, Hamlin would look at me, a certain understanding in his gaze.

I brought my mind back to the present. I figured out earlier that Percy must’ve spoken to him about my contract. Heartbeat slow, Percy sleeps next to me, and I look at her unmarred face. As gently as possible, I brush a lock of stray hair from her face. This angel… she’s doing everything she can to free me from its hold, huh?

Maybe it’s time.

I think I can manage it.

If I survive tomorrow, I want to come out as a free man.

After planting a light kiss on her shoulder, I closed my eyes.

January 11, 2278.

Today’s the day.

The sun’s setting on the horizon. DeLoria walks in front of me, obviously nervous as hell. We approach Paradise Falls’ entrance, where a guard asks us to halt and state our business.

“Yo, is this a place where I can sell people? My friend gave me this piece of shit here and I don’t want anything to do with him.”

The guard looks at us with scrutiny. DeLoria looks like an absolute dick, wearing shades and a set of ill-fitting armor. Only an idiot would buy his disguise, but I guess the guard’s one after all.

Good for us.

Behind him, Percy emerges, and snaps his neck. He lands to the ground with a thud. The others approach; Hamlin and Simone from the Abolitionists, and Cross from the Brotherhood. The paladin hefts the rocket launcher, and as Simone kicks the gates open, all hell breaks loose.

Crouching, Percy disappears again, and the only thing giving her away’s the silver-white outline of her stealth field. The Abolitionists provide Cross some cover fire as she fires the missiles at the slavers.

Now, my turn.

DeLoria follows me close by, and we approach the slave pen.

“Remember the plan,” I tell him. “Watch my back as I get these gates open.”

“R-right,” DeLoria stammers, taking a steadying breath. “Shit, shit. What have I gotten myself into, man?”

“Hey. Do it for the kids.”

The younger man nods at me, bravado coming back. “Yeah! For the kids!”

As soon as I unlocked the gate, DeLoria tossed a bag at the adult slaves. “Here, protect yourselves. Run for it!” he yells.

I moved on to the next gate, where the children stayed. They huddled together, looking at me with fear. But when the gates swung open, they reluctantly approached. Next to me, Percy emerges from thin air. The kids looked at her with awe.

“Hey. Your friends from Lamplight asked us to help you. Follow the guy with the nice hair, kids. We’ll meet you outside.”

The children followed DeLoria, while the other slaves joined the fray, exacting retribution on their captors.

“Charon, you know what to do,” Percy tells me, squeezing my arm, and disappears once again.

I take out the contents of the package Percy gave me the night before.

C4 explosives.

Time to blow this place up.

I started at the clinic. An old slaver lies dead on the floor. The vault next to the cash register is already looted. Must be Percy’s doing. She’s still thorough. I placed one explosive under the desk.

After that, I went to the slaver barracks. The place is deserted, bottles lying about.

Then I heard a click of a gun behind my head.

“Hold it right there,” a familiar voice tells me. “Wait a minute, it’s you! Hah, the zombie- ugh!”

A shot resounded through the building, and the slaver’s body thumps against the floor. I look behind me, and Percy stands there, 10mm in her hand. Her stealth armor helmet pops open and she smiles at me.

“C’mon big guy, let’s get a move on.”

She watched my back as I installed another explosive, and we ran back out to face Paradise Falls’ leader.

Eulogy Jones.

I kick the door to his pad open, and he sits atop the bed, looking far too relaxed for someone whose base is being torn to shreds.

It’s almost as if he was expecting us.

Two female slaves jump at Percy and before I can save her, Eulogy Jones shoots my calf, and I kneel, groaning in pain. I can barely keep my eyes open as one of them searched Percy for my contract, and handed it to Eulogy.

No, no! Not this shit again!

“Good girl, Clover,” the slaver croons.

Then, he turns to us.

“Ah, I knew the two of you would show up here. Welcome.”

A look of horror crossed Percy’s face as she heard shouts outside. Bloodied slavers barged through the door, and one of them was grabbing DeLoria by the collar.

“Butch! Where are the others?!”

“They got away, don’t worry about- ow! That hurts!” One of them kicked the greaser.

“Not for long,” he tells the greaser. Then, he turns to my partner.

“Word travels fast in the wasteland, you know. It didn’t take long for us to figure out what you’re up to, my dear. The two of you haven’t really been subtle about it. Paradise Falls has contacts everywhere. It didn’t take much for one of them to strong-arm Church into telling us what you’re up to.”

“Bastard!” Percy spits. “What have you done with him?!”

The two women restraining her keep her down as she tries to wriggle free.

“Let’s just say that Jotun sent him into an early retirement.”

That dangerous look, the one that frightens me, is back on Percy’s face. Her mouth is pressed into a tight line, trembling in her fury.

“And you,” he turns to me. “Who would’ve thought that you’d be back here, fifteen years later, Charon? Or should I say, Artyom Volkov.”

In the corner of my eye, Percy is looking at me with uncertainty. “Artyom Volkov?”

“That’s right, Miss Zhou. That’s your bodyguard’s name, before he was brainwashed into submission. There are a lot of things that you don’t know about him. Did you know that aside from helping us acquire new merchandise in the past, he was a war criminal, before the bombs dropped 200 years ago?”

“Liar. Charon can’t even remember most of his life before that. How could you know such a thing?”

“You never bothered to learn his history? My dear, I simply asked him all those years ago. Artyom here probably locked those memories away when I sold him to Ahzrukhal. Fifteen years is a very long time and you’re bound to misplace some memories, but I suppose someone as young as you wouldn’t know.”

Percy is breathing hard, looking at me with those wet and wide eyes, and I couldn’t look at her. The entire ordeal felt like peeling gauze off a wound that didn’t quite heal, or my skin being charred by hellfire from an atom bomb.

“Charon, tell me he’s lying.”

I can’t answer her. She’s no longer holding my contract.

“Answer her, Charon,” Eulogy orders me, and I comply, bile rising to my throat.

“He’s not.”

My new master steps closer, and grabs my partner’s jaw.

“I could put you in the pen as breeding stock, like this boy here,” Eulogy said, motioning to Butch.

“But you know, you remind me of my Clover here,” he continues. “Crazy girl, and I’m an expert on crazy girls. I just know you’d be crazy in the sack too. You just need to be housebroken.”

“Fuck you,” Percy spits.

“Soon, babe, soon. Now, Charon, take Miss 101 and her friend here to their new quarters.”

I feel it, the ghost of an electric shock shooting upward to my brain again.

But I can withstand it now.

“No.”

Percy and Butch look up to me, and before the burn can incapacitate me again, I whip out my shotgun and shot Jones in the head, twice. One to kill him, another out of spite.

My shotgun clatters to the floor, and the shocked slave girls couldn’t do anything as Percy escapes their grasp and takes back my contract from Eulogy’s dead hands. 

“You disobeyed another order,” Percy gasps, looking at me with a soft look.

A piercing shriek filled the room as the girls lunged at me, but Percy shot one of them in the head. The other one who got too close, she whips with her pistol.

“Whoa! Whoa whoa whoa, Percy wait! These girls are slaves too! We can’t just shoot ‘em,” DeLoria exclaims, rushing over to the fallen girl. DeLoria attempts to help her up, but she scratches his chest, kicking and screaming, and she turns to me, manic.

“You son of a bitch! You killed daddy! You killed Mr. Eulogy, you killed him, you killed him! I hate you, you fucking shuffler!” she shrieks, like a petulant child. A deranged, petulant child.

Percy knocks her out cold. “You’re welcome to carry her, Butch, if you care so much.”

“Percy…”

Limping, I place the last C4 explosive while Percy loots the place clean. Then, she comes and wraps her arm around my waist, supporting me, holding me like she did the first time I ever got injured in her employ.

We hear heavy footsteps, and Cross comes into view, offering us a helping hand. Behind us, DeLoria carries the unconscious slave girl in his arms. I’d never thought I’d see the day when he’ll care for anyone other than himself.

I’d never thought I’d see the day that I would be free from my contract either, but here we are.

“Percy, I think I’m ready.”

My partner looks up to me, her eyes glistening in the moonlight.

“You guys go on ahead,” she tells Cross and the others. “We just have some unfinished business to attend to.”

We sit outside Eulogy’s pad, her back against my chest, and Percy fishes my contract out of her PipBoy glove. Her glasses are fogging up as it starts snowing again. I dug in my pockets, and after palming through crushed cigarette boxes, I found a lighter.

“Charon, are you sure about this?”

I nod, trembling as I hand her the lighter.

“Do it.”

I expected my skin to be set ablaze as the fire ate the edges of my contract, or for agonizing pain to shoot up my spine and kill me in an instant, but instead, I stared as my paper soul went up in flames without eliciting a single reaction.

As the paper turned to ashes, I sat with my partner in silence.

“It’s done. Charon, your contract is gone- Charon, no!”

I never noticed my hand reaching for Percy’s pistol involuntarily, aiming it to my temple, and firing.

When I opened my eyes, Percy was on top of me, breathing hard, her small hand restraining my arm in a surprising show of strength. She wrenches the pistol from me and throws it a few feet away from us, then she looks me in the eyes, her glasses slipping off of her face and landing on my chest.

I can feel her breath on my lips.

Burying her face in my chest, a sob wracked her body. I held her as tight as I could.

“C’mon, let’s send this place to hell.”

Reunited with our companions, I hand Percy the detonator.

Paradise Falls is no more.

[namemeagainivebeenlost]

@ people who point to the use of traditional European fantasy creatures who may have, at one point in the maybe not so distant past (lookin @ you Tolkien, and btw, why ain’t y’all going after LOTR and The Hobbit? Oh,right, because Tolkien was just a “product of his times”), been used as a way to promote certain negative stereotypes to decry the Harry Potter series and who claim the continued demoralization and selling out of its original author is grounds to “cancel” the entire original series despite the vital overarching messages on the imperfection of everyone, even “good” people and their ability to be redeemed (James/Sirius- “good” guys, childhood bulllies. Harry- tempermental, short sighted, can be cruel. Ron- fickle, angry, jealous. Snape- total dick, still technically working for the greater good (technically. Still an ass tho, Lily done dodged a bullet but girl you deserved better than either of them hun.) Dumbledore- a whole shit show on his own, even ignoring the shit show that is FBaWtFT. Manipulative, liar, sees such a big picture he forgets it’s made of actual people) the horrors of genocide, wars, and prejudice, the need for acceptance, the liberation of slaves (and now that I’m older, a horrifying look into the psychology of slavery, the absolute fear of freedom instilled since birth by those in power is terrifying to think about, yet that’s the exact manipulation tactic used for literally hundreds of years to keep people subjected), and the power of love and peace over violence and hatred (y’all Harry dead ass wins because he knows selflessness is the true victory, he realizes he will never truly have won if he wins through violence) and the fact that there have been studies which suggest adults who were exposed to HP as kids have higher empathy levels, more tolerance, and better reading and writing skills than those who weren’t: good sir, that is my emotional support series.

(Dead ass, I did not live through my entire church whispering about my mom and me behind our backs, claiming she was putting the devil in me by reading w/ me, sit through a CPS questioning because my step-mom said my mom was performing black magic on me and get banned from talking to my closest childhood friend because I doodled the deathly hallows on my arm for this bullshit. We don’t cancel Star Wars for Lucus Films selling out to Disney or even talk about how fucked and actually super racist the original Grimm’s fairy tails were and their influence on Disney movies. Ignoring the weird publicity bs JK has pulled in the last few years and the obvious fact she’s either being pushed by a marketing team to stay “hip” or whatever and is instead coming off as mislead and cringey. Ignoring the absolute destruction of major characterizations and vital story arches present in Fantastic Beasts and Cursed Child (because ~*money*~)can we not just let the originals lie? I know she’s being a fuck fest and a half, but you can like the art and not the artist. Poe married a 13 yo, but The Cask of Amontillado still fascinates and horrifies me. Van Gogh sent his ear to some poor chick. But Starry Night is still fucking beautiful.)

[hymnsofheresy]

Preliminaries: I am a 20 yo woman. I’m new to the church. Simply and quickly stated: I understood that women can’t be priests because since the mass represents the last supper, then priests represent Jesus. Thus, as Jesus was a human male, his representations in the ceremony of the mass are to be human males. Am I grossly misunderstanding something? Thanks (: Also, I had not heard about nuns being subjugated to “sexual slaves” and this is devastating news. Praying for everybody involved...

For a long time, it was apostolic descent that defended the all-male priesthood. But since the idea of Mary Magdalene being the Apostolorum apostola as well as more information about female leadership in the early church began to reveal itself… things got a little more complicated.The idea that priests having to be male to be a “proper” conduit of the physical Eucharist, from my understanding, is a fairly recent development in apologetics.

To counter that particular argument I ask: should all priests be required to be brown and Jewish as well? That would be the most accurate representation of Christ. Why is it that Jesus calls himself a “mother hen” (Matthew 23:27) if he was so concerned about his gender? I sense that this has less to do with transubstantiation and more to do with sexism.

About the nun thing… I mean yeah. It’s pretty fucking awful. I am glad Pope Francis is making an effort to rectify the situation. We’ll just have to see how it goes. 

[novacorps]

let’s talk about the REAL origin of the KKK and how it mirrors the birth of the alt-right

The KKK probably didn’t actually start as a racist thing but became a vehicle for it.

It basically started because this group of young professionals who probably never owned slaves (think the college educated alt-right of today) and basically got bored and decided to make a secret fraternity for shits and giggles. “It would be secret, to heighten the amusement of the thing, and the titles for the various offices were to have names as preposterous-sounding as possible, partly for the fun of it and partly to avoid any military or political implications.” And they recruited people to join and hazed them just like a fraternity. 

For fun, they disguised themselves in sheets on horses and road through the streets. It caused such a stir, they were like YO?? This is fucking awesome we’re causing so much shit trolling everybody

So, they started adding weird shit to the costume.

They’d wear animal horns, fake facial hair, polka dots, reflective material, satin, sacks over their head (think Victorian Halloween costumes), black/red face (which was commonly used to hide your face at the time and make it seem like they were black and native americans were the ones committing crimes), and often colorful robes and women's dress. Basically these guys were literally just out here straight up looking like something straight out of The Purge meets someone’s Mardi Gras fursona. like they went either went HARD or they had a fucking sack over their head going yo i’m TOTALLY in the kkk

fun fact: there was so much crossdressing that in accounts of people describing them, they were sometimes like I THOUGHT THEY WERE A BAND OF WOMEN??? and a lot of times their victims recognized them because they were wearing their wives dresses

At some point, they decide to scare blacks for shits and giggles because they thought they were easy targets and afraid of ghosts. "Much of the Klan’s early reputation may have been based on almost frivolous mischief and tomfoolery. At first, a favorite Klan tactic had been for a white-sheeted Klansman wearing a ghoulish mask to ride up to a black family’s home at night and demand water. When the well bucket was offered, the Klansman would gulp it down and demand more, having actually poured the water through a rubber tube that flowed into a leather bottle concealed beneath his robe. After draining several buckets, the rider would exclaim that he had not had a drink since he died on the battlefield at Shiloh. He then galloped into the night, leaving the impression that ghosts of confederate dead were riding the countryside.” 

some quick history: “Back in those days planation owners had little log cabins built around in a circle, around for the slaves. And the log cabins, they dabbed between two logs, they dabbed it with some mortar. And of course when that falls out, you could look out and see. But every, most every night along about eight or nine o’clock, this overseer would get on his white horse and put a sheet over him, and put tin cans to a rope and drag it around. And they told all the slaves, ‘now if you poke your head out doors after a certain time, monster of a ghost will get you.’ they peeped through and see that and never go out. They didn’t have to have any guards.” Fry said such disguises meant to scare slaves were common and that the first Klansmen, knowing this, naturally chose similar uniforms, often embellishing them with fake horns and paint around the lips and eyes.

black people were like........ lmao bruh. we don't actually believe in ghosts?? but we believe white people can be fucken crazy. because who the fuck wouldn’t be unsettled by a bunch of weirdos riding up in masks looking like the pre-war slave patrols riding around on horses who would literally fucken shoot you if you left ur cabin. let’s just take a moment to appreciate that white slave owners’ solution for making sure slaves didn’t run away during the night was the same logic as adults trying to scare their kids into staying in bed so they can go get nasty: stay in bed or the GHOSTS will get you

“The whole rationale for psychological control based on a fear of the supernatural was that whites were sure that they knew black people. They were not only firmly convinced that black people were gullible and would literally believe anything, but they were equally sure that blacks were an extremely superstitious people who had a fantastic belief in the supernatural interwoven into their life, folklore, and religion. Such thinking had obvious flaws: the underestimation of black intelligence and the overvaluation of existing superstitious beliefs. Blacks were frightened, no doubt, but not of ghosts. They were terrified of living, well-armed men who were extremely capable of making black people ghosts before their time.’

alright so. at the time (reconstruction, or just post-civil war), the southern states are passing these new laws (black codes) that basically went: go fuck yourself poor whites and blacks, you’re not getting any of our power and WHILE WE’RE AT IT let’s just virtually re-enslave blacks (e.g. blacks can't assemble in groups, have guns, learn to read and write, testify against white people, etc. and forreal spouting a lot of the same white nationalist ideas as the alt-right today. they were like: “we hold this to be a Government of White People, made and to be perpetuated for the exclusive benefit of the White race" and driving a wedge between poor whites and blacks. 

which begs the question of like bro. why weren’t poor whites and blacks out there looking like that handshake meme hating rich whites in power?? and that’s because poor whites and blacks were usually poor in very different ways so that they were at best tentative allies. Poor whites typically owned land but usually not the other resources that would have allowed them to exploit their land intensively. blacks needed social services because like they were out there like drake starting from the bottom. so, the rich white dudes in power were like heeeey poor white people you know if we give blacks these programs... we gotta tax ur land that you’re already struggling to hold onto and reap benefits from. there’s clearly NO OTHER OPTIONS. so you’re at this point in time where not only do you have this racism where a lot of white people think they’re better than black people, the north going guys can u please play nice and let the black people have some rights?? and the south being like U CAN’T TELL ME WHAT TO FUCKEN DO, but ALSO a lot of growing resentment from poor whites about black people making their lives harder. and if we’re learned anything from history, this is the PERFECT environment for white, racist extremists to THRIVE (e.g. illegal immigrants are taking our jobs! we need a muslim ban!). 

SO. back to the kkk. Everyone thought the KKK was SO. FUCKING. WEIRD. they talked about it constantly locally. and it got outta control.

stuff like the night riding QUICKLY started getting out of hand. “Anyone could put on a sheet and a mask and ride into the night to commit assault, robbery, rape, arson or murder. The Klan was increasingly used as a cover for common crime or for personal revenge.” 

so suddenly all these racist extremists and people with who could become extreme (same logic as liam neeson who who said he wanted to kill some black bastard after hearing his friend was raped by a black man) ... like there’s a growing place for them to meet and exchange ideas and make each other worse. so all these people and groups on the fringe start associating themselves with the kkk and using the kkk as a way to connect with people who also wanted to do terrible things. 

the klan has, perhaps unwittingly, just accidentally organized extremists who might never have otherwise been able to organize like that

“Describing the actions of Ku Kluxers who marched in a Mardi Gras parade in Memphis in 1872, after conservative Democrats regained power, a newspaper writer reported that some of the marchers carried ropes. “It was a favorite bit of pleasantry to lasso a negro,” the writer noted. “No violence was offered but the contortions and grimaces of the captives were highly amusing.” The public pain and fear of these victims of Klan “pleasantries” offered visual confirmation that order had been restored in the South. Besides being fun for the perpetrators, performance also had a cloaking quality. As Parsons writes, “Klansmen used performance for reasons that lay far beyond any hopes of obscuring their identities or cowing their victims.” By making their violence appear theatrical, Klansmen could essentially confuse authorities, who would take time to decide whether the perpetrators were joking. Performances also misdirected outside audiences (like Northerners), who might have trouble figuring out what the Klan was all about. “The Klan was conceived in a tableau vivant, nurtured by minstrels and serenaders, housed by circuses and masquerades, and given an afterlife in Mardi Gras processions,” Parsons writes. All of that playing with current forms of popular culture meant that Klan violence confused observers—especially white Northerners, who were fans of minstrelsy, too, and quite ready to laugh at a black person who was the butt of a joke.”

but like?? it’s just for lols right? it doesn’t necessarily mean those guys were RACIST or they were ALL racist. that’s just the kind of edgy humor everyone was DOING at the time. “In a painful irony, circuses and minstrel shows, which had provided the theatrical vocabulary for acts of Klan violence, included Klan-themed skits in their programs; these representations then provided cover for the Klan, who could continue to claim to Northern observers horrified at the violence that the Klan was an imagined entity.”

and then like. it really fucking starts going fucking down. you start having a “few bad apples” doing shit like burning black churches and schools (exactly like what’s happened with dylann roof, attacks on synagogues, shooter in new zealand). 

journalists in the north are losing their goddamn mind and reporting on it because the kkk is just SO. FUCKING. WEIRD. and how can you not? people are dying and saying they’re associated with the kkk which are doing... what again? these weird dudes dressed up like they’re going to mardi gras??? c’mon. THOSE guys? that’s a bit of a stretch to blame the KLAN for that. 

in fact, the north was so obsessed, the klan became TRENDY in the north. northerners would dress up as them at costume parties and have KLAN APPRECIATION GROUPS. sometimes ironically, sometimes not.

so the klan becomes a recruitment tool for those people. just like geek culture and youtube became a tool for radicalizing and recruiting white men.

"By making their violence appear theatrical, Klansmen could essentially confuse authorities, who would take time to decide whether the perpetrators were joking. Performances also misdirected outside audiences (like Northerners), who might have trouble figuring out what the Klan was all about."

SO. There’s a website online called Stormfront which is a is a white nationalist, white supremacist, antisemitic, Holocaust denial, neo-Nazi Internet forum, and the Web's first major racial hate site.  In addition to its promotion of Holocaust denial, Stormfront has increasingly become active in the propagation of Islamophobia. They use controversies like GameGate, places like 4Chan, Reddit, and YouTube to convert people. Often, people will meet and interact with neo-nazis without even knowing it. 

“I think one of the real things that made it so difficult to get out and realize how radicalized I’d become in certain areas was the fact that in a lot of ways, far-right people make themselves sound less far-right; more moderate or more left-wing,” Sherratt said.

Sherratt wasn’t alone. YouTube has become a quiet powerhouse of political radicalization in recent years, powered by an algorithm that a former employee says suggests increasingly fringe content. And far-right YouTubers have learned to exploit that algorithm and land their videos high in the recommendations on less extreme videos. The Daily Beast spoke to three men whose YouTube habits pushed them down a far-right path and who have since logged out of hate.

Here’s a couple highlights from Stormfront:

[ivarandersen]

Anger

“Wait you didn’t say goodnight to her? What is she was dead in the morning and the words between you were those of a dispute?”

“Well first of all she was gripin at me about some fuckin salt on the goddamn stove so fuck off mate. Second, I’ll see her in Hell eventually. I mean she’ll die first, obviously, and when I get down there she’ll be my footstool in my throne room because yo bitch is gonna be the motherfuckin Queen.”

“All you tumblr posters say that and yet none of you will be.”

“Ah now see here, sweetheart. Most of those other ‘tumblr posters’ coincide with my beliefs. I’m actually Christian. I believe in God, I believe he loves me, I go to church and all that jazz, but when my day comes, when I go to Heaven, I’m jumping off that cloud and into Hell and taking over the throne. Because no damned soul will be upon, no, I will. I’m the bitch that will rule over Hell while Luci is on earth pre-rapture and when his earthly mortal self is killed and sent back to Hell, I’ll be the one to stand before him, on that throne, while he’s on his knees at the base of the steps while the demons I have damned further coware away at my standing. And that bitch I call a footstool will realize that bitching at me about salt on a stove and treating me like I was the biggest fucking piece of shit since slave owners was the biggest fucking mistake of her life. Because guess what. She’s now my slave.”

*claps hands* *pitch black*

End scene.

[buzzygist]

 Lyrics: Vector – Crown Of Clay ft. MI Abaga, Pheelz

LYRICS

Rii! Rii!! Riidiimakulayo

[Intro: M.I Abaga] My father told me when I was around, the day He took me to the river sat me down to pray Right there in the water to the sound of pain From the mud he fashioned me a crown of clay It’s why no one can ever take this sound away Took me to the water sat me down to pray And right there by the river to the sound of pain Form the mud he fashioned…

[Verse 1: Vector] Welcome to the bloodline of the black kings Real life, black sins The black church, black thoughts, black sins Uganda, Bobby Win?, magazines Newsflash but old news, lik? sins We can’t speak, judge me, my genes Ann Soro Soke, shey won gbo loke?, quite mean But you can’t hold the voices, some of them go burst out We have way to many voices, this is clubhouse

I’m African and blessed I hold it down even when I face distress The kind of punches wey fit make your face depress I mean if life is a bitch then this is sex It’s big dick energy when I flex I think them scared of me, it’s my guess But what’s beef to a man from the west Cowboy, power to man with the chest How boy? treasure wey I carry deep within But society is getting in between The thing long like many Limousines But I dey dey dey, King no dey japa People of Opobo, this king is Jaja Story of a slave to a king Na barrack boy wey dey relate many things No be ashawo if I fuck many queens You see this crown of clay is really a thing, king

[Hook: Pheelz] For instance, only got the grind in my system Many water pass wey for drown me Nothing shake the strength of a black man, (black man) in in me Blood of my forefathers in me Steady chasing that paper daily Orisirisi many dey be trying But odeshi dey for my black skin

Rii!

[Verse 2: M.I Abaga] Yo, M.I Welcome to the blood line of black queens Who birth the black dream, from their black hips And covered us with black wings Women with heart of a king, like drag queens My mother told me wash your hands in the black stream For the soil on which you toil has gasoline Boil in the water the fire that steam By the riverside where niggers dey high, grass green If they mess with you dey get one eye, like black beans

The ancestors are starting to speak more loudly Proudly I listen to what they’re saying about me We all sinners but God was in us Before they sent us on Slaveships And consecrated Israel and Saudi That means our village is our holy grounds Our traditions and our names they all are holy sounds The wealth that’s in our continent was stolen up But what they gon do with me now They can’t control me now When I rap is like the sun go dark I discovered hidden flows tell me who the fuck is mungo park?! White supremacist shht, uncle park You talking to a black king with a disgruntled heart My nigga king!

[Hook: Pheelz] For instance, only got the grind in my system Many water pass wey for drown me Nothing shake the strength of a black man, (black man) in in me Blood of my forefathers in me Steady chasing that paper daily Orisirisi many dey be trying But odeshi dey for my black skin

You see the young King, odeshi dey for my black skin, You see the young Queen, odeshi dey for my black skin

Vector – “Crown Of Clay LYRICS” ft. MI Abaga, Pheelz

[babyawacs]

#qanon #q @all @world @potus @gop @thedemocrats @bbc_whys @france24 @q @qanon the world the civillian s are organised and ruled with secretive intel control methods. these are organised in decentralised com peting networks which are higly synchronised. inthis brutal ruthless monstrous realtimelayer somany w orse things happen than fucking up kids. the perverts organise as the homos as the criminals and anyone els e. think of it as a jungle or the sea with allkinds of creatures in it. in this one of the creature would be a crab. and that wouldbe besides porning also doing what all do_ use a secretive supermedicine ba sed on leecheries inthis case to torture little morty s (rickandmorty metaphore) for horrid reasons yo uwouldhave spirituals churches that porn anything so minors  soyouwouldhave t heir counter spirituals youwouldhave government networks and civillian network s youwouldhave good brave trading fleets trying todothe right thing and youwouldhave grumpy rebellious supergirls and allkinds of networks selling you underhumans a phone wouldbe an alibi to leech lifetime forinstance that wouldbe called then redgold and wouldget lets say a letter R thisis the world youlive in controlled with the realdeal security layer for decades with intelcoma drugs and immunisation against it friends of mankind the normal clueless civi l populations maybe pedos and perverts too as they can exploit them but noot necessarily harm them more th an many other monsters do all is relative its fullof parents that set em up bad and early for bad  an d fullof serious harms of alltypes theremaybe currently an uprising of the humiliated slaves inthat laaye r and getting all rebellious to obey  so a bioweapon is used a pathogen a virus itis real and it ki lls  wear a mask reshuffled air inclosed rooms is doom allthebest ///  #this #is #how #we #repai r #the #world @all .@all .@odnigov .@nsagov .@gchq  @bbcr4 @bbc_whys @bbcworld #prepper #report #theffff f?!?!?  brains are associationmachines. things rem inds you of things but it does not make it so. thismeans if a security system fsxcktup for waytoolong inst ead reform, tries to reform or reboot the control and get all to obey with badthings, the right thing tod o is ahve a say how moral youwanttherules how fffffffriggin balanceof powers checks andbalances and damns ure limited timeperiods power justifies to who and then you compensatevictims all do and focus on what youp aythepopulationfor tobe cutting edge leading the competiive economies constantly efforting selfactualsiat ion e a c h and so thatthey can makeit and dontget frauded w h a t t t h e y d o i t for.  aaaaaaandtheri ch ifthey want a society back they puillalong thattttttttt  instead underhuman statuses. all starts in a horror pit. whichyou made. thereis a l o t of brink frenchrevolutionmess likely hmm t h a t youdonot want to go youant a hard grip on power checks and balances and that serious make em sweat for it and justify th emselves but elt em do things you all chose to actually do  a f t e r each light spotlight highlgihted ea ch issue aspect  @all @world I am Christian KISS Baby AWACS – Raw Independent Sophistication #THINKTANK + #INTEL #HELLHOLE #BLOG https://www.BabyAWACS.com/ In quiry@BabyAWACS.com PHONE / FAX +493212 611 34 64 Helpful? Pay. Support. Donnate. paypal.me/ChristianKiss

#qanon #q @all @world @potus @gop @thedemocrats @bbc_whys @france24 @q @qanon

the world the civillians are organised and ruled with secretive intel control methods. these are organised in decentralised competing networks which are higly synchronised.

inthis brutal ruthless monstrous realtimelayer somany worse things happen than fucking up kids. the perverts organise as the homos as the criminals…

[harrelltut]

卍 abracadabra… abracadabra… abracadabra… I Now [NWO] Magically INVOKE [MI = MICHAEL] My Triple 666 [ROYAL] Black African Voodoo Spirits of Yoruba IFÁ II SOULFULLY RESURRECT My Primitively Ancient [PA = SUPERNATURAL] Black Apparition Spirit [BAS = ORISHA] Body of Astronomical Black Christ [ABC = OSIRIAN] Memory intEL [MELanin] on Earth [ME = U.S. Michael Harrell = TUT = JAH] 卍

[hiphopandtheirishquestion]

The Birth of Def Road

It all started sometime around 1985. As a music journalist and chancer, my brother Johnny rarely paid for anything. I grew accustomed over the years to standing by the entrance while he negotiated free passage into whatever gig we were at.

- ‘I’m on the guest list  

- You’re name’s not down

- I rang ahead. I spoke to the manager. I’m doing a write up for Hot Press.

- No one told me’

... and so the drama would unfold, me standing there like a lemon (the +1) thinking ‘can we not just pay the fiver in?’ But inevitably they crumbled and in we went, journalist +1.

The experience would stand him in good stead as he set about liberating the music companies of New York of their choicest cuts. Zip, Buck, Artie and the boys were no match and he returned with a veritable treasure chest of records, none of which he'd paid for. The vast majority belonged to a genre called hip hop, or sometimes rap. Wasn’t that just talking?

By 1985, the Irish Republic had been in existence for nearly 50 years. The Brits, may God’s curses, shit, piss and jizz rain down on them, had long since been kicked out. Ireland was now, finally, in the hands of the Gaels - who immediately palmed it off to the church.

And New York was in my hands. The city, it seemed, consisted mainly of black lads in tracksuits and gold chains. Their ‘music’ involved a DJ stealing the best parts from other people’s records while a rapper bragged in rhyming couplets about, amongst other things, how great he was. The other things could be anything from the size of his cock to how much weed he smoked and on to race, crime, politics, cars, shopping malls, guns, hookers, snot, STDs, cars, watches...the list is long.  

Introspective it wasn’t. Feelings and inadequacies rarely entered the lexicon of that first wave of MCs. They spoke with absolute certainty and iron resolve. Self-doubt was an ailment the rapper didn’t appear to suffer from. It was all fierce confusing.

‘No one understands me’, went the lament of angsty teenagers like me. ‘I’m gonna lock myself in my room and listen to The Smiths. Girls are so pretty – if only I could talk to them. Who am I? What’s it all about?’

‘Yo! Everyone look at me, screamed his black NY counterpart. ‘I got the best clothes, I even got jewellery. Girls? Fuck, man. Dime a dozen. Life is so damn straightforward. I’m the coolest, smartest best looking bastard going’.

At first glance, Tramore, Co Waterford seems quite different to the ghettos of New York. People from our neighbouring estates did not spend their time ‘dissing’ each other. Sweetbriar residents did not wish to ‘take out’ motherfuckers from Moon Laun. And gunshots were almost never heard at the Friday night GAA Discos. This could not stand. The ‘boroughs’ of Waterford would have to be re-classified, starting with my hometown.

What is Tramore? Upwardly mobile Gardaí and Secondary School teachers were by now colonizing it's burgeoning estates. A beautiful beach, amusements for the kiddies, pubs, pissed up jackeens in the summer, and now lots and lots of new homes, from where people set off for the bright lights of Waterford City every day if they were fortunate enough to have jobs in 80s Ireland.

We were a bit wussy – just didn’t have that hard edge that came so naturally to people from the barrios of places like Lisduggan and Ballybeg. We weren’t the Bronx. Long Island was seen as being a bit ‘soft and country ’ by New Yorkers. Culchieville, or at least suburban. But it was also where Public Enemy came from, along with De La Soul, EPMD, and Eric B & Rakim to name a handful. They didn't like the name, so they changed it. Long Island became Strong Island.

Tramore, or Tra Mhor as Gaeilge, meaning 'big beach', would now be Strong Beach. Kinda shit, but still better than Tramore. My home address of Cliff Road was renamed  Def Road – considerably better. The newly-drawn boroughs of  Waterford began to take shape.

It was an era that came to be known as hip hop’s Golden Age. Ireland had once had a golden age of it's own. The Island of Saints and Scholars we had been called, as the Christian Brothers were quick to remind us. Alas that time had long since passed. When darkness prevailed in Medieval Europe, Ireland had been a beacon of light, home to the dopest lyricists and flyest artwork. And as recessionary 80s Ireland trundled on hopelessly, we could at least pat ourselves on the back in the knowledge of our glorious past.

Through the lyrics of the likes of Chuck D and Krs-One I discovered black America was prone to leaning on a similar crutch. The extremist Nation of Islam claimed that the great kingdoms of Africa had thrived when we Europeans, or cave dwellers as they called us, were still running around on all fours. Take that whitey!

Ireland’s time as the foremost creator and preserver of the written word ran from about the sixth to ninth centuries. Missionaries from Christian monastic schools went forth from the motherland into the wild lands of Western Europe; writing, learning and being generally noble as they went. The Roman Empire was falling and the barbarians were ransacking the once civilized and ordered cities of Europe. It was left to a previously unheralded wee island to preserve the written word. Which, miraculously, it did. But no one outside Ireland seemed to care.

It’s a state of affairs that many pan-African movements would empathise with. They often claim history is written by the white man, cynically removing their own people’s contributions from the record books. We break it down a step further. White Anglo-Saxons and Protestants decree what is history – the achievements of the paddy man and the black man just don’t make the cut. And so we glory in our past deeds, with a healthy balance of chips on either shoulder.

The pinnacle of Ireland’s Golden Age would come to be seen as The Book Of Kells, a kind of Three Feet High And Rising of its time. There for all to see in Trinity College - proof of our glorious past. Suck it up, ye bastards!

Hip hop travelled a fair old road to reach its Golden Age, if not quite as far back as the Vikings. But just like the Irish scholars of medieval Ireland, in that second Dark Age of the mid-eighties, hip hop was a beacon of light. As mediocrity thrived all around them, the ghettoes of New York became the ultimate seat of motherfucking learning.

The New York we saw on our 80s TV screens pre-Giuliani and zero tolerance seems barely believable now. Apolcalytic, Mad Max style urban wastelands. Anything went, or so the schoolyards of Tramore CBS would have it. There was never any graffiti on the Tramore-Waterford bus route, aside from the odd ‘Paul is gay’ or ‘Sharon Loves Browner’, but New York?

-‘Sure the whole feckin’ subway is full of it! Can’t even see out de windows.  Me uncle works there and he says there do be gay lads stalling the heads off each other on the street. Full of black lads too but they love the Irish so you’re alright there’.

Mental, like. And it was into this environment that one Clive Campbell, soon to be better known as Kool Herc, rocked up on the streets of the Bronx in the early 70s with his quare Jamaican ways.

Quare Jamaican ways that included sound systems – very, very big sound systems – which he used to rock parties all over the neighbourhood. He occasionally employed a rapper, but more importantly began cutting up records.  He played the funky, instrumental bit of the tune and then played it again, and again and again if the vibe was right. The break. The two turntables were now an instrument.  This was the cue for the b (for break) - boys to do their thing on the dance floor. Or breakdance. The big eejit from the Caribbean had only gone and invented hip hop.

A boyo called Patricius had a gameplan of his own when he rocked up in Ireland with his big Welsh head on him around 432 AD. This was his second trip. First time round he had come as a slave, and spent his days working his hole off high in the mountains, tending sheep and the like. Fuck this for a lark, he thought. And like so many convicts down the years, he turned to God for help.

And he was rewarded with a vision, enabling his escape. Six years swotting up in a French monastery, a brief trip home to check in with the folks, and back to Ireland. ‘ Right. I’m gonna Christianize these chumps’, he vowed to the man above as he returned and set to work.

Patricius was a good egg, albeit one with a bit of ‘previous’. As a former slave, he empathised with their plight, a borderline pinko stance unheard of in those brutal days. The Black Panthers had MLK and Malcolm X, we had Saint Patrick.  And he was a hard bastard. Slavery, the monastery and then 30-odd years trundling across the wild lands of Eireann spreading the word. No choirboy either. Some unexplained sin, committed at the age of 15 and later confessed to, racked him with guilt. At least one historian hints at murder. Ireland, denied the ‘civilizing’ influence of the Roman Empire, was no place for the faint-hearted.

The original Paddy may not have driven any snakes out, but if he’d wanted to those slimy fucks wouldn’t have stood a chance. And neither did the pagans. With the bold Patricius at its helm Christianity stomped all over them. Like Ray Houghton a couple of centuries later he had earned his spurs. He was now one of us – an Irishman, and a proud one

Kool Herc was good, but he was no Saint Patrick. He needed help. And two others would rise from the East (Coast) to create a glorious triumvirate. Hip hop now set about crushing the faggoty, silk-shirt and gold-medallioned world of disco.

Afrika Bambaata (or Kevin Donovan as he was then) hadn’t required enslavement to have his eyes opened. He won a motherfucking essay writing contest, motherfucker, first prize being a trip to Africa. Bam’s eyes were opened and he returned with a new vision. No more gang banging – it was peace, love, unity and having fun from here on in.

St. Patrick may have passed on the ‘having fun’ aspect of Bambaata’s message. There was already far too much of that in early 5th century pagan Ireland. But otherwise he surely would have concurred with the mission statement. Patrick had come to enlighten and Christianize, Bam enlighten and Africanize. Peas in a pod. Kind of. Patrick wanted less of that kind of thing, Bambaata probably a bit more. He formed The Universal Zulu Nation, a broad church of hip hop, spirituality and all things Africa.  

Joseph Sadler was a wiry little bollocks. Like Herc, he was originally from Jamaica, and was good with his hands. Not only could he spin records, he was a qualified electrician. So it should come as no surprise that it was he who first succeeded in wiring two turntables to a mixer.

-‘Janey Mac’, he said to the waitress at his local cafe , ‘I’ve only gone and opened the door to sampling, changing the face of contemporary popular music, perhaps forever. Not bad for a wiry little bollox from de Bronx, wha’?’

-‘Fuck you on about? she replied.

And he was no mere DJ, either. Herc played his records, Bambaata enlightened, but Grandmaster Flash was a showman. He span the records with his feet, pirouetted, spliced, diced and generally acted like a prize chimp in the DJ’s booth.

- ‘Tell ye what, dat’s savage’, noted Walter ‘the bomb’ MacKenzie to his fellow Bronxian Rashid Washington Jr at one of Flash’s jams.

- ‘Ye not wrong there, so you’re not’, replied his pal. ‘Dem Jamaican lads are at it again. Must be something in the air out there – or maybe the grass, if ye know what I mean. Ay? Ay?

- ‘Ha ha. Ah will ye stop. Tell ye what, though. I predict this will change the face of music as we know it. It won’t be long before it’s threatening the higher echelons of the charts. DJs will now be limited only by their imaginations and the size of their record collections’.

- ‘It will and its bollocks’, replied the less-effusive Washington Jr.

But history shows Mr McKenzie's statement wasn’t a ‘will and its bollocks’ at all. Far from it. Flash, Bam and Herc – the holy trinity, as hip hop lore would have it. The disaffected youth of New York now had a voice, and its name was hip hop.

There would be others. Run DMC duetted with Aerosmith and got heavy rotation on MTV. They even played Live Aid, not that you were likely to see it.

- ‘Run DMC? You fuckin’ kiddin’ me’? We’re trying to raise money for staving Ethiopians. Last thing we need is people ringing in kicking up shit about two black lads in Adidas tops grabbing their balls’. They were the only Live Aid act not shown live on TV, the risk of bollock-grabbing too high.

But it couldn’t stop the juggernaut. And it would culminate in a spotty teenager in the arse end of Ireland being beholden to the sound of black men in sportswear and gold chains rhyming over pre-programmed beats.Watching The Sunday Game one summer’s evening in the late 80s, he realized why.

-Michael, I’ll tell ye now why hurling is the greatest sport in the world. Are ye listening now? I’ve watched some desperate games over the years. Brutal, only brutal. But I’ll tell ye this. No matter how bad it got, there’d always be something. Some lad would crack over a point from 65 metres, or cut one over the bar. Something to have you saying, ‘Holy God, that was savage good.

‘Compare that now to foreign rubbish like soccer. No goals at all in some games. Sure they all have long hair and they wear shinpads. Bunch of Nancy boys. I’ll tell ye know, if I got my hands on....

-‘Thanks Ger/Ogie/Denis/Micheal/Mossie (can't remember who), the point is well made though. Hurling is clearly the world’s greatest game because even the most boring game can be enlivened by a bit of trickery or magic. Ireland and the Irish are great!’

- ‘That’s exactly it Michael’.

This got me thinking. Krs One had a track called ‘Part-time Suckers’.  It consisted mainly of a serious of dictionary definitions, intended presumably to illustrate the superiority of his vocabulary over that of his less educated contemporaries. It sounded a bit like the speak-and-spell gizmo that Elliot gave ET to help him phone home. It was pretty shit, in all fairness.

But the last minute or so made it all worthwhile – a DJ workout, scratching the bejaysus out of a line from an old Smokey Robinson song. The half-way line cut over the bar, the point from the impossibly tight angle – the otherwise ‘brutal, only brutal’ track enlivened by a bit of DJ tomfoolery. It all made sense!

Hip hop was the hurling of the ghetto – the black man and the paddy man once more inextricably linked. Def Road would bear witness.

[the-right-her]

So listen,

All my life I have dealt with identity issues. Big lips, fear of sweating out my edges -- before I went natural --, my loud voice and trying to refrain from sounding “ghetto.” I mean breathing would even become laborious whenever I entered a space where the only thing that was darker than me was someone’s rusty brown sweater they bought on clearance at Nordstrom.  

All these insecurities about my blackness stem from the long and continuing trend within mainstream culture, that dark skin being beautiful is taboo. For a long time I thought that if you weren't lighter skinned with long flowy straight hair and light eyes, you would be #ForeverAlone.

When I was younger, it never dawned on me that the images fed to me through television and within my family/black community were white-washed beauty standards. It still kills me when I hear black people talking about how darker skin is “ugly.” People are on that house slave, field slave shit, but supposedly we’re years removed from slavery. We shouldn’t be complaining about the ramifications of slavery because we’s free now…. Anyway….

Just the other day someone told me I was "gorgeous" for a dark-skinned girl as if by default all dark skinned women walk around looking like offspring of Beavis and Butthead. Growing up my grandma applied bleaching cream to her skin more than she went to church. (Mind you that woman stayed in the church. Like lived there.) She's what people like to call brown skin nowadays? I was the darkest of my three sisters, and my grandma and kids at school always reminded me. For them, calling me dark served as an insult. They'd tell me I was dark as if I never stood in the mirror crying asking the heavens to help a sista out. What was I supposed to do with my skin? Someone recommended scrubbing it off, and all that gave me was a rug burn. So nope, that doesn't worth either.

I wanted them to call me anything but dark. At that time I was young and believed that because a Hershey's bar and I shared the same pigment, I was destined to be a failure. I was living the modern day Scarlet Letter, but my dark skin was my A, and I could never be seen in a different light. I even used to think to have long hair would save me. Like, “Look at me! My 4C hair when straightened goes past my shoulders! Is that enough to fit in with the Eurocentric standards of beauty? Does this make my dark skin go away?” Sometimes it did, but then when those people would get upset with me, they’d go right back to calling me an African booty scratcher.

I remember when I first cut my hair. I was regularly being misgendered, and some people who knew I was a woman asked if I was trying to be a man because I identify as queer. I cut it because, from years of heat damage, my hair was shit. It didn’t matter that it went past my shoulders. I needed a do-over. I cut it and decided to go completely natural because all my life I had been running away from my natural hair. And sometimes I wonder if that’s because I was dark. Is it possible that if I were lighter skin with my hair, I wouldn’t have cared about the texture?

When I saw the coils sprout from my scalp, bouncy and nappy that’s when I had this big ass epiphany. That’s when I understood the glory of my hair. It was a crown. A crown that enthusiastically rebelled against the societal views of beauty. It grew and reached for the sun, and I fell in love.

I’ve been riding this thin line for a while of having deep dark brown skin and kinky hair but also being attractive. Men and women look at me are amazed. It’s like they’re visiting the zoo for the first time and are walking past a rare bird. They’re both afraid and mesmerized. I too have these manic feelings when I am being stared at by these folks. I’m like, “Yes. I’m giving you life!” Then in seconds, I’m like, “But do you really love me? DO YOU!” Speaking of animals...

Sunday I was walking down Broadway with one of my good friends Mikey, we were bar hopping and talking about what's next after college besides debt. I walked past a group of white guys, who did not strike me as intimidating. One of them walked up and slurred, “Yo, your hair is the shiiiiiet. Let me touch it!? Please?” Slightly tipsy I lean in grinning and shaking my head in agreement like “Yes my hair is the shiiiiet!” At that moment, his remark did not strike me as harmful. The next day, no longer in a happy state but instead hungover and grumpy because I have work, I go to the bathroom to fix my hair, I would shout out SM however they practice colorism in their advertising, and the night before replays in my head. I realized I was turned into a Double Doodle for that guy's entertainment. He even rubbed his entire hand over my hair laughing! I don’t like shaking people’s hands. My hair is far from a joke! I let him fucking pet me. Yes, my hair is a combination of curly, kinky and nappy but that gives him no right to ask me to touch my hair. He in that very moment reduced me to a fucking animal. I felt so disgusted with myself for having let that incident occur. It was simply inexcusable. And it would never happen again.

In the end, I am always going to be battling the demons of mainstream culture, but I will do so in my true skin and natural hair. Flawlessly beautiful. #BlackGirlMagic #BlackHairMatters #BlackSkin

[helloiamace]

This video is pretty much a classic in the Swedish Harry Potter fandom, and I think it’s a shame that it’s not accessible in English. 

So I wrote down all the dialouge and translated it. I plan to also translate the equally legendary sequels, but that will have to wait until at least tomorrow.

The translated script is below, so without further ado, enjoy Harry Potter And The Hairy Potter 1.

arry Potter and the Hairy Potter 1

-Boats floating through the water, a view of Hogwarts-

Ron: Harry! Harry! We’re here now! Wake up! We’re at the castle! We’re here now! We’re here now! Harry! Harry: Okay. Ron: Hey! Harry! We’re here now!

-The students are walking up the stairs-

Harry: Now we’re in the castle, Ron. Ron: Yeah. McGonagall: Welcome! Yes, like I said, welcome to Hogwarts school for unwanted children! Becuase you’re unwanted, you should know that. Hehehe… Keeping our budget in mind, half of you will probably starve to death in the first semester.

-They enter the Great Hall, McGonagall in the lead-

McGonagall: And here we go. Hermione: This will be so fun. I’ve heard that it was slaves who hung those candles. McGonagall: Not another step, you orphaned beasts! And now our Headmaster will touch our souls with his famous welcome-speech. Dumbledore: Hi! McGonagall: Well, I know I was touched by that beautiful speech. Thanks Dumbledore. Now it’s time to sort the smart students out from the dumb ones. Harry: Ouch! McGonagall: Get on the stage, Harry. Students: Gryffindor! Gryffindor! Sorting hat: Slytherin! Students: Yaayyy! Gryffindor! *applause and whooping* Students: Did you see that? Sorting hat: Slytherin! Slytherin! Students: Yeah! Gryffindor!! Fred/George: Let’s go Harry, greatest mood! Percy: Yes. Hello hello. Seamus: ‘Sup? Student: Welcome to Gryffindor! Harry: ouch! McGonagall: Silence! Dumbledore: Get out of my hall.

-students walk up the stairs-

Harry: *singing* What a fucking party! Oh yeaaah! Right, Ron? Ron: Yeah, it was okay I suppose. Fat lady: Give me the boy. Percy: You will get the boy. Harry: Well damn, welcome to the sixties Ron Weasley. Ron: Thanks Harry Percy: You live over there and over there, and I live in here.

-Ron and Harry run into McGonagall’s classroom-

Harry: Hurry Ron! Hurry up, dammit! Hurry! Ron: But! This is just a gross old cat! *McGonagall transforms* *Ron and Harry run*

-Snape’s classroom-

Snape: Sorry I’m late everyone, I was doing some digging in the graveyard. Welcome to your first lesson in domestic science. Domesticity and science, in two, in one. Today we will learn the dark art of baking… *long pause* pie-buns. This recipe contains both… bun dough… and… pie dough.

YES HARRY! TAKE NOTES! YEEEEEESSSS!!!

-Breakfast in the great hall-

Seamus: Die Neville! Die! Harry: What the hell is he doing, Ron Weasley? Ron: Call me Ron. He’s trying to blow Neville up. But… *explosion* Ron: It smells like

*Owls enter to piano music and voices singing about pie-buns* Harry: This is mine now. Bitch. Bitch, bitch, you are my bitch Ron. Dean: Yo! Bling-bling, yo! Hermione: That’s a hand grenade! Neville: Yeah, a magic one! When the smoke goes red, it goes boom! Right, Sn- *BOOM* Harry: Hey Ron, that was a mild end for Neville. Heh. Check this out Ron. The Latest News from the owl world! Seven goblins horribly assaulted by an old man and a little girl. The old man apparently had a long white beard and crescent moon-shaped glasses, and the girl had incredibly puffy hair.   That almost sounds like Hermione.

Ron: Hey Harry, that Hermione, she seems totally insane. Harry: Yes. Ron: Like, how can you do something like that to a goblin? Harry: Exactly! I agree. Fred/George: Are you Harry? Harry: Yes Ron: Harry, this is Fred and George. They’re really fucking annoying. Fred/George: That’s not what you were saying last Friday when dad was beating the shit out of you! Fuck, how you screamed. I got tinnitus, dammit. Fred/George: Tonight I’m gonna drench my hand in gasoline, light it up, and fist a goat. Are you coming? Harry: Yeah. Ron: Are you really gonna go there? Harry: Yeah, I think so. Ron: How can you even consider anything that insane Harry? Harry: Listen Ron, if you want to be cool, you sometimes have to do things you don’t want to do. Hermione: I heard you were assaulting a goat. Can I come? *Harry and Ron shrug*

-The Hogwarts Library-

Hermione: *slams a book on the table* Here it is! Harry: Ah! Hermione: Hey Harry, this is probably the best book that’s ever been written. Ron: The Bible? Ron: What? Hermione: Listen up now guys. “And then God told Abraham: you shall beat your only son to death.” Harry and Ron: What?? Hermione: He’s killing his son, Ron. “So Abraham brought Isak up to the high mountains. And then a burning bush came by, and then Isak caught on fire, and all of this took place in the high mountains of Moria. Ron: What did you say? Hermione: The high mountains of Moria. Ron: That’s not true! Harry: Sssh! It’s exciting! (On screen text: "real bible quote”) Hermione: “nobody who’s had their testicles crushed or their penis cut off can enter the Lord’s church.” Do you understand what this means? None of you can get to heaven!

-Walking through the halls-

Harry: By the way guys, have you thought about how Snape is like, emo? He’s dyed his hair black, and the question is whether he cuts himself as well. Hermione: I think he’s actually blond. Snape: Am I blond? Is that what you think? You little dipshits…

-Walking down the common room stairs-

Harry: Hurry up now Hermione and Ron! We’re going somewhere! Ron: Where are we going? Harry: You’ll see. Frog: Ribbit. Ron: It’s the first boss! Neville: No, I’m the first boss! The frog is the second boss. Harry: So the frog is ranked higher than you, that’s what you’re saying? Neville: Yeah! Or no, but if you mess with the frog, you mess with me! Time to die! Hermione: Nobody threatens me! Now you’ll die, Neville! *Neville dies* Ron: We’ll… We’ll go to jail for this. Harry: Yeah, that was a mild end for Neville. Heh. Ron: Maybe we should…. Hide the body. Harry: Go ahead and do that, Ron.

[creature-enjoyer29]

Yo MY dude I'm back and I'm here to help I'm Christian and gay and I'm here to stay. Wow that was a dumb but for real all the words in the Bible that say homosexuality explicitly is wrong are ones that have been translated from other languages and assumed by the straight white men who run the church and don't care about gay people to mean gay when in reality when it is mentioned in the Bible it is almost always really about the patriarchy because having sex with a man was making him

As low as a woman which was of course insulting in such sexist times. It also often occurs when people are simply having sex with everyone so instead of respecting their commitment to their wives they are just fucking their slaves because they have so much lust and no self control and that is the real sin. It's important to take historical context into perspective because sexism and slavery are also prevalent in the Bible but much more important is loving and accepting and helping each other. (2/2)

EXACTLY and im not religious but i have massive respect for people who are (as long as they’re not ugly about it) and like….religion can be interpreted in so many different ways.. plus, the bible was written many, many years ago, and things have changed so much since then.the world changes over-time and you either evolve with it or you die off.

[othercat2]

fic: two for mirth 29/?

So the joke goes like this: Gamzee has Dave around, telling stories about when he was a gladiator. He has him talking about his “retirement.” Azurad Nimrod, the indigo who was so incensed that Dave killed an indigo then went and killed another indigo is present as a brother in good humor.  He is a celebrant but not a dedicated member of the Church of the Two Messiahs. He sits at the table and tries not to glare at the sight of Gamzee showing favor, and even pouring drinks for both Dave and Karkat. (It would be Karkat’s job to pour drinks and otherwise attend his moirail, but Gamzee always flips it around, citing scripture. And there is, surprisingly scripture somewhere in the bloody rainbow-spattered tomes of Gamzee’s religion stating that attendance of one’s morail went both ways, whether low or high.)

This goes on for a few nights. Dave seems to enjoy making fun of Karkat’s lack of sartorial elegance and “complete failure to brush his hair ever.” A few wiseacres warn Gamzee that the human slave is waxing pale for Karkat. Dave says, “Nah, it’s embarrassing as hell, being seen with someone who isn’t even trying to look good.” The way he says it, it could mean anything.

Gamzee says in a conspiratorial stage whisper, “our brother Karkat says he disapproves of fancy things, but really he’s just shy about showing off like he should; look at him being all flustered!” There is nothing to say to this commentary that makes the wide grins (or the hoots of laughter) fade.

Gamzee’s closest advisors, friends and mentors are apparently approving of Dave, and that irritates Azurad Nimrod to no end. Karkat is not sure if that’s part of the joke or not. They had been less approving of him. (Living with Gamzee on the Iron Castigation had been a very long battle, from beginning to end.)  

Dave dances at Gamzee’s request. The dances usually take place after dinner, in one of the ships recreation areas. There are sharp, fast-paced displays with high kicks and leaps, and slower, more controlled dances with a sword that is absolutely not a stage prop. The audience is usually a mixed group of “siblings in good humor,” church elders, members of Gamzee’s entourage, and newly-ascended kids.

And Nimrod.

Nimrod gets invited to every exhibition.  

Nimrod plainly does not like this. Nimrod also does not like the praise Gamzee heaps on Dave. He does not like the way, after a dance performance, Dave spars with the kids. Or the way a grizzled sword instructor corrects and critiques Dave’s swordkind technique. It is all very amicable, and steam practically comes out of Nimrod’s ears.

No one says a word about it. There isn’t so much as a glance in Nimrod’s direction. Not as far as Karkat can tell. (He knows that those present are ready, but they don’t look ready, and he doesn’t know them like he knows Gamzee, even if Karkat has gotten along with a few of them in the past. So he’s worried.) Karkat can’t not pay attention though, because this “joke” is actually dangerous.  

Dave is...Karkat isn’t sure of how to describe it. He’s tense, focused and strangely eager, as if he’s waiting for the moment to let loose. (Karkat realizes that this is exactly the moment he’s waiting for and is even more worried, and also unnerved.) Karkat doesn’t want Dave to get hurt, and is beginning to regret allowing Gamzee to “bring Dave in.” (Well, beginning to regret more.)  

The punchline goes like this: Azurad Nimrod loses it at some point, equips clubkind and charges at Dave while he’s sparring with a baby clown. Dave immediately shoves the kid out of the sparring area and goes for Nimrod. Nimrod swings, Dave darts out of the way, comes back with a slash up under Nimrod’s guard. The fight is short and ugly, and Karkat almost equips sickle kind and goes after Nimrod when a club connects with Dave’s ribs, but Gamzee catches him by the arm, and sits him back down.

The fight ends with Nimrod on his knees, held there by the sword instructor and one of the church elders. Dave standing, on arm wrapped around his torso as he pants, glaring at Nimrod. “What the hell? What the hell did you even think you were doing?” he asks.

“You’ve no right to be standing proud over your betters, freak,” Nimrod snarls.

Dave tells him to fuck himself, in English. Gamzee chuckles, which brings everyone’s attention to him; he lets Karkat go, and Karkat immediately goes to support Dave. “If our blood’s good, hadn’t we better prove it?” Gamzee asks. “Got all this bowing shit going on, you never see the look in a motherfucker’s eyes. Like right now.” Gamzee walks over to where Nimrod is, and tilts his chin. “Motherfucker, you think you can direct me on who to cull and who to spare?”

“It isn’t right, letting dirtbloods and slaves, fucking mutants come up out of their places. The old Grand Highblood wouldn’t have stood for this bullshit,” Nimrod shouts. “How can you fuckers--” Gamzee cuts him off with a hand around his throat, squeezing.

“The Old Man would have gutted you for presuming to direct him, no matter how much you wiped your face on the floor, motherfucker,” Gamzee said, almost kindly. The air was almost vibrating with chucklevoodoos though, strong enough to make even other high bloods edgy.  Strong enough to make the asshole he was directing them at go wall-eyed with terror.

Karkat could feel the muscles in Dave’s arm bunch and tense under his hand. “It’s okay,” Karkat murmured to Dave. “Just breath.”

“Kinda hard, rib,” Dave says.

“I know, we’ll get you to a mediculler soon,” Karkat murmurs.

“--See, if we’re good. If we’re righteous and strong, and the dirtbloods are meant to serve, hadn’t we best be strong in all ways? Be worthy of service, and how is some fucker, how are two stupid fuckers, two criminals who barely earned their place in the ring worthy of shit? Should a fucker back down when faced with a battle just because the other fucker is supposed to be his better?” Gamzee asks. “I don’t think so. I don’t motherfucking think so. I know most of my sibs don’t feel like I do, so I went along with brother Nimrod telling me about how I should be angry and insulted and how I should punish some slave for being better than some other fucker. I bought that slave, and sent him to my good and kindly bro, who is the best out of any motherfuckers I know, though I don’t think he appreciated the joke.” He slides a sly glance toward Karkat, who demonstrates how unfunny the joke was with a gesture. (There’s some laughter, even under the oppressive force of the chucklevoodoos.) “But the joke, sibs younger and elder, is on this fucker,” Gamzee says and shakes Nimrod. “He didn’t get what he wanted, and he ain’t never gonna get what he wanted where Dave motherfucking Strider is concerned.” Gamzee drops Nimrod. “I’ll deal with you later, motherfucker, take him to a penitent’s seat, bro,” he says to two members of his entourage.  “Get the medicullers and a stretcher, this fucker needs to lie down. You okay bro?” Gamzee asks Dave.

“I’m good,” Dave grits out. “Master Makara.”

Karkat really, really wants to yell at Gamzee about this, but Gamzee is too busy being pleased. He follows Karkat, the medicullers and Dave to the infirmary. Dave, despite the injuries is also very pleased and even jokes, tentatively, with Gamzee. (A second reason Karkat can’t really yell at Gamzee.) “I can’t believe I did this. I can’t believe I agreed to let this happen,” Karkat says fuming. “Why.” (He is not yelling.)

“Deep down in the heart of you, you knew it would be funny as fuck,” Gamzee says solemnly.

“No, no I didn’t,” Karkat says, his voice rising.

“Yo, it was my choice, master,” Dave says. “I’m not even hurt that bad.”

“He’s all embarrassed because Sister Nona will think he beats his slaves,” Gamzee explains to Dave. “But I’ll be telling her you went and beat up some highblood fucker and she’ll be appeased right down to her toes.”

“Fuck you in the ear with an ice chipping tool,” Karkat says. “I’m justifiably angry Dave, not my concubine, not my slave, Dave got hurt because you wanted a goddamn morality play, and I listened to you.”

Dave stares. Gamzee smirks, and for some reason, Karkat feels his face heat.

“Now see little bro?” Gamzee ask Dave. “You see how sweet this mother fucker is on you?”

“I had an idea, Master Makara,” Dave says, his voice sounding a little odd. A little flustered, and obviously trying not to be.

Karkat, just as flustered and trying not to be, buries his face in his hands. “God. Why.”

“Because you’re an adorable motherfucker?” Gamzee asks.

==>

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