#us politics are manure

[igottatho]

Yesssss GET THEMMMMmmmmm

ETA: Nancy Pelosi is pressing charges against activists (I’m unclear if it’s the same people as above, tho in this case It’s Red paint and not manure) for $400 in damages to her property (that’s right a multi-billionaire is bringing felony charges against protestors).

[yuwigqi]

HC an actual real forensic psychologist interviews Joker, and realizes he does not meet the legal requirements for being mentally unfit to stand trial (TRUE), and the jury finds he does not meet the requirements for criminal insanity (TRUE) and he is sentenced to death and just like actually successfully executed by Belle Reve Penitentiary.

Batman's official statement "I do not kill. However, I do not give formal statements in political issues, such as the death penalty. If Joker escapes, I will send him back to Belle Reve, regardless of whatever sentencing he receives. I am a Vanguard. I am not a New Jersey Apex Court Justice. Sentencing is outside my jurisdiction or personal interests. Thank you."

Orphan's statement is "I believe wholeheartedly in the sanctity of life. However, I am not opposed to euthanasia."

Red Hood gets hired as a literal Seasonal Summer Worker for Belle Reve, and stands guard.

Barbara Gordon gets hired as Belle Reve Archivist.

Duke Thomas speaks publicly about the Justice System's constant ignorance of the realities of Mental Illness, and the pathologization of acts of violence as mental illness, as well as how white men are frequently given passes for violence by the justice system.

The Joker is executed on April 1st. He is cremated, and his ashes are used in compost alongside goat and pig manure.

Dr. Harleen Quinzel is tried as well, and actually found criminally insane, and after 1 year in psychiatric hospital, and triweekly therapy, she has shown proof of improvement and rehabilitation, 2 years after that, her licensure is reinstated. Instead of going into patient practice, she does psychiatric research, and publishes several papers on the interactions of PTSD and psychotic disorders, as well as developing counseling treatments for domestic abuse and cult survivors.

"Jokes on You Day" becomes a national holiday.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The FTC has Big Pharma’s number

On November 27, I'm appearing at the Toronto Metro Reference Library with Facebook whistleblower Frances Haugen.

On November 29, I'm at NYC's Strand Books with my novel The Lost Cause, a solarpunk tale of hope and danger that Rebecca Solnit called "completely delightful."

The most consistent bright spot in the dark swirl of US politics is the competence of the Biden Administration's progressive enforcers: people like Rohit Chopra, Jonathan Kanter and Lina Khan, who keep demonstrating just how far a good administrator can go. Anyone can have a vision, but knowing how to execute is the difference between hot air and real change:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/23/getting-stuff-done/#praxis

Take a minute to contrast Biden's administrators with Trump's: Trump's administrators had an ideological vision just as surely as Biden's do, and Trump himself had a much more pronounced and explicit ideology than Biden, whose governance style is much more about balancing the Democratic Party's blocs than bringing about a specific set of policies:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/06/personnel-are-policy/#janice-eberly

But whatever clarity of vision the Trump administration brought to DC was completely undermined by its incompetence (thankfully!). Apart from one gigantic tax break, Trump couldn't get stuff done. He couldn't deliver, because he'd lose his temper or speak out of turn:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/14/when-youve-lost-the-fedsoc/#anti-buster-buster

And his administrators followed his lead. Scott Pruitt was appointed to run the EPA after a career spent suing the agency. It could have been the realization of his life's dream to dismantle environmental law in America and open the floodgates for unlimited, wildly profitable corporate pollution and pillaging. But the dream died because he kept getting embroiled in absurd scandals – like the time he sent his staffers out to drive around all night looking for a good deal on a used mattress:

https://www.nbcnews.com/politics/politics-news/epa-s-pruitt-told-aide-obtain-old-mattress-trump-hotel-n879836

Or his insistence on installing a CIA-style "Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility" (SCIF) so he could play super-spy while reading memos:

https://www.cnn.com/2018/04/26/politics/epa-administrator-scott-pruitt-sound-proof-booth-scif/index.html

Or the time he sent his security detail to the Ritz-Carlton to demand that they supply him lots of little bottles of his favorite hand-cream:

https://www.vox.com/2018/6/7/17439044/scott-pruitt-ritz-carlton-moisturizing-lotion

There were other examples in the Trump administration, but Priutt is such a good case-study. He's like a guy who spent his whole life training to compete in the Olympics, and finally got a shot, only to be disqualified for ordering too much room-service in the Olympic Village. Priutt was wildly ambitious, but he was profoundly undisciplined – and wildly incompetent.

Compare that with Biden's progressive enforcers and agency heads, who showed up on the first day of work with an encyclopedic knowledge of their administrative powers, and detailed plans for using them to transform the lives of the American people for the better:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/18/administrative-competence/#i-know-stuff

The Biden administration's competence translates into action, getting stuff done. Maybe that shouldn't surprise us, given the difference between the stories that reactionaries and progressives tell about where change comes from.

In reactionary science fiction, we enter the realm of the "Competent Man" story. Think of a Heinlein hero, who is "able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyse a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly."

In Competent Man stories, a unitary hero steps into the breach and solves the problem – if not single-handedly, then as the leader of others, whose lesser competence is a base metal that the Competent Man hammers into a tempered blade:

https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Creator/RobertAHeinlein

Contrast this with a progressive tale, like, say, Kim Stanley Robinson's Ministry For the Future, where the Competent Man is replaced by the Competent Administration, in which people of goodwill and technical competence figure out how to join forces to create population-scale architectures of participation that allow every person to contribute their skills and perspective:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/03/ministry-for-the-future/#ksr

The right's whole ideology insists that the world can only be saved by Competent Men. As Corey Robin writes in The Reactionary Mind, the unifying factor that binds together conservative factions from monarchists to racists to Christian Dominionists is the belief that a few of us are born to rule, and the rest to be ruled over:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/25/mafia-logic/#mafia-logic

The Reaganite insistence that governments are, by their very nature, incompetent and malign ("The nine most terrifying words in the English language are, 'I’m from the government, and I’m here to help'"), means that conservatives deny the possibility of a Competent Administration.

When conservatives take office and proceed to bungle the most basic elements of administration, they're fulfilling their own campaign narrative, which starts with "We must dismantle the government because it is bad at everything." Conservatives who govern badly prove their own point, which explains a lot about the UK Tory Party's long run of governmental failure and electoral success:

https://apnews.com/article/uk-suella-braverman-fired-cabinet-shuffle-7ea6c89306a427cc70fba75bc386be79

There's a small mercy in the fact that so many of the most ideologically odious and extreme conservative governments are so technically incompetent in governing, and thus accomplish so little of their agendas.

But the inverse – the incredible competence of the best progressive administrators – is nothing short of a delight to witness. Here's the latest example to cross my path: the FTC has intervened in a lawsuit over generic insulin pricing, on an issue that is incredibly technically specific and also fantastically important:

https://www.fiercepharma.com/pharma/ftc-blasts-pharmas-abuse-fda-patent-system-sanofi-mylans-insulin-monopoly-lawsuit

The underlying case is before the FDA, and it concerns the dirty tricks that pharma giant Sanofi used to keep Mylan from making a generic version of Mylan's Lantus insulin after its patent expired.

There's an explicit bargain in patents: inventors can enlist the government to punish their rivals for copying their ideas, but in exchange, the government demands that the inventor has to describe how the invention works in a detailed patent filing, and when the patent expires, 20 years later, rivals can use the patent application as instructions for freely copying and selling the invention. In other words: you get 20 years of exclusive rights in return for facilitating your competitors' copying and selling your invention when the 20 years are up.

Pharma doesn't like this, naturally: not content with 20 years of exclusivity, they want the government to step in and punish their competitors forever. In service to that end, pharma companies have perfected a process called evergreening, where they dribble out ancillary patents after their initial filing, covering minor reformulations, delivery systems, or new uses.

Evergreening got a moment in the public eye earlier this year, with John Green's viral campaign to shame Johnson & Johnson out of using evergreening to restrict poor countries' access to TB medication:

https://armandalegshow.com/episode/john-green-part-1/

The story of pharma is that it commands gigantic profits, but it invests those profits into medicines that save our lives. The reality is that most of the key underlying pharma research is publicly funded (by Competent Administrators who apportion funding to promising scientific inquiry). Pharma companies' most inventive genius is devoted to inventing new evergreening tactics:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/19/solid-tumors/#t-cell-receptors

That's where the FTC comes in, in this Sanofi-Mylan case. To facilitate the production of generic, off-patent drugs, the FDA maintains a database called the "Orange Book," where pharma companies are asked to enumerate all the ancillary patents associated with a product whose patent is expiring. That way, generics manufacturers who make their own version of these public domain drugs and therapeutics don't accidentally stumble over one of those later patents – say, by replicating a delivery system or special coating that is still in patent.

This is where the endless, satanic inventiveness of the pharma sector comes in. You see, US law provides for triple damages for "willful patent infringement." If you are a generics manufacturer eyeing up a drug whose patent is about to expire and you are notified that some other patents might be implicated in your plans, you must ensure that you don't accidentally infringe one of those patents, or face business-destroying statutory damages.

So pharma companies stuff the Orange Book full of irrelevant patent claims they say may be implicated in a generic manufacture program. Each of these claims has to be carefully evaluated, both by a scientific team and a legal team, because patents are deliberately obfuscated in the hopes of tricking an inattentive patent examiner into granting patents for unpatentable "inventions":

https://blueironip.com/patents-that-hide-the-ball/

What's more, when a pharma giant notifies the FDA that it has ancillary patents that are relevant to the Orange Book, this triggers a 30-month delay before a generic can be marketed – adding 2.5 years to the 20 year patent term. That delay is sometimes enough to cause a manufacturer to abandon plans to market a generic drug – so the delay isn't 2.5 years, it's infinite.

This is a highly technical, highly consequential form of evergreening. It's obscure as hell, and requires a deep understanding of patent obfuscation, ancillary patent filings, generic pharma industry practice, and the FDA's administrative procedures.

Sanofi's Orange Book entry for Lantus insulin listed 50 related patent claims. Of these, 48 were invalidated through "inter partes" review (basically the Patent Office decided they shouldn't have allowed these claims to be included on a patent). Neither of the remaining two claims were found to be relevant to the manufacture of generic Lantus.

This is where the FTC's filing comes in: their amicus brief doesn't take a position whether Sanofi's Orange Book entries were fraudulent, but they do ask the FDA to intervene to prevent Orange Book stuffing because "improper listings can cause significant harm to competition and consumers."

This is the kind of boring, technical, important stuff that excellent administrators can do. The FTC's brief is notice to the FDA that it should amend its procedures to ban (and punish) Orange Book abuse. That will make it possible for you, a person who needs medicine, to get that medicine more cheaply and quickly. In America's pay-for-use privatized healthcare hellscape, this could be a life-or-death matter.

There's plenty of things the Biden administration is getting very, very badly wrong, but we shouldn't lose sight of how its progressive wing is making real, lasting change for the better. Competent Administrations are the true peoples' champions. They beat Competent Men every time.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/23/everorangeing/#taste-the-rainbow

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Farmer's Daughter 5

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall

Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Walter’s presence grows routine, even if it still feels peculiar. Before, you saw him now and again when he dropped in to see your dad. He never seemed very social and that sense hasn’t changed. He comes, does his work, and politely accepts his dinner.

That day, a week since your father’s homecoming, you’re due to drive into town. You need to stop by the pharmacy for your mom and pick up a few staples from the grocer. You’re excited to get out, to distance yourself just for an hour or two from the sombre farmhouse.

You grab your purse, a wicker bag with a ribbon tied on the handle, and put a hat on to block out the beaming sunlight. The birds tweet in greeting as you fold your mother’s list into your pocket and head for the garage. The door is open already. Timothy always forgets to close it.

You jingle the keys and climb up into the old truck. You don’t drive it often, mostly traveling to town with your parents or brother. You prefer to walk most places, even if it is a bit far.

You put your bag on the passenger seat and turn the keys in the ignition. The engine putters then a loud bag makes you yelp. A plume of black smoke erupts from the slits on the hood of the truck and a rackety clunking churns in the motor. You let go of the key as you sit dumbfounded and watch the cloud grow.

You hear footsteps and suddenly the driver’s door swings open. You’re pulled out before you can react, put onto your feet and ushered back into the spring hue. You cough as you get a mouthful of smoke and turn to face the garage, Walter’s hand lingering on your back.

“Timothy,” he growls before he marches forward, “told that kid he was gonna start a fire.”

“I…”

“What’s going on?” Your brother dashes up as if he heard his name, “woah, holy cow.”

“What did you do?” Walter accuses.

“What? I fixed it,” Timothy shrugs.

“Damnit,” Walter growls and paces back and forth. “You’re lucky it didn’t catch fire,” he turns on your brother, “you’re lucky your sister didn’t get hurt.”

“Huh? What?” Timothy shakes his head, “I didn’t–”

“She was in there,” Walter’s voice rises tremulously.

“I’m okay,” you pipe up, “it’s fine, I just… can you fix it?”

Walter stops and faces you. His brow twitches in anger and he crosses his thick arms. He peeks over his shoulder then back at you.

“Not any time soon.”

“I can fix it.”

“Don’t touch it,” Walter snarls, “you leave better off alone.”

“Jeez, dad, calm down,” Timothy snipes dryly. He gets a dark glare in return and flinches visibly, “sorry, I–”

“Shouldn’t be joking about that,” Walter girds and pivots his attention back to you, “where were you going?”

“Just to town. I was gonna get some stuff from the store,” you explain.

“I’ll drive you,” Walter insists.

“Oh, uh, that’s fine. I can call Mr. Howland–”

“Don’t bother,” Walter waves you off, “running low on manure around here.”

“Oh,” you chew your lip, “right. Well, thanks, I’ll just grab my purse–”

You take a step towards the garage and Walter quickly blocks your path, “I’ll get it. You shouldn’t breathe that stuff in.”

You step back and nod. Walter rolls his shoulders and narrows his eyes at Timothy as he spins, “get back to planting. No time to waste.”

Walter stalks into the thinning smoke and you blink at your brother. He mopes and throws his hands up as he looks at you, “I was just trying to help.”

“I know, Tim,” you say, “better just get it done.”

“God, he’s a grumpy gus, isn’t he,” Timothy rolls his eyes, “sorry, sis.”

“I’m okay,” you assure him, “just go.”

“Hey,” he stops himself before he goes, “can you grab me smokes?”

“No,” Walter answers as he emerges, holding out your purse, “come on, better head out.”

Timothy huffs and tramps away. You take your purse from Walter with a sheepish smile. His anger makes you nervous. You’ve never seen him anything less than stoic. You follow him to his truck, parked just in front of the house and he opens the passenger door ahead of you.

The porch door swings open and shut. Before you can climb up into the truck, you mom rushes out, “everything okay?”

“Just some car troubles,” Walter calls back, “nothing I can’t fix.”

“Right, oh,” she looks over at the wisps escaping the garage, “fire?”

“Just smoke,” Walter returns, “I’m gonna take her to town, I’ll have a proper look when I get back.”

“I can call Vol,” your mother offers.

He grumbles and offers his hand. You let him help you up into the truck, the lift even higher than your dad’s. He waits for you to settle in before he shuts the door.

“All good, Maddie,” he shows his palm, “won’t be long at all.”

“Thank you, Walter,” your mother preens, “you’re too good to us.”

He nods and goes around the front of the truck. He hops in the driver’s seat with no effort at all and shuts the door. He buckles his seat belt, glancing over at you and you do the same. You clutch your purse and swing your feet over the floor.

“You alright?” He asks as he starts the engine and shifts.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Must’ve been scary,” he comments.

“Just a bit of a surprise,” you chirp, “but I’m okay. Er, thanks for… for saving me.”

“Saving you?” He scoffs.

“Yeah, I didn't really know what to do,” you laugh at yourself, “I'd still be sitting there staring like a deer.”

“Hmph,” the noise is close to a chuckle.

“What are we getting in town?” He asks.

“Oh, uh, pharmacy first,” you answer, “then I wanted to see if the market's selling honeydew.”

He hums and backs out. You hold onto the door as the truck rolls over the bumpy ground. It's not what you planned but it's still a break.

[mytheoristavenue]

Dude I know you don't have any requests but if you ever feel up to it I would absolutely eat up a continuation of your creature x reader fic...perhaps they slowly fall for each other.

Hes just...he's so sweet and the way you write him makes me feral. I'm definitely going to check out your other works.

This is me letting you know that your target audience had been reached

Normally, I would politely decline or ignore requests, as I just don't enjoy doing them anymore for multiple reasons, but I wanted to address this one specifically. Hopefully this isn't too short!

For the sake of this story, let's pretend that the time between the events of the movie span over a longer period.

LF Creature x Reader - Compost

Summary: Creature helps you out in your garden.

Warnings: mentions of rot, bugs, worms, and dung, creature x reader, bisexual reader, reader has a crush on Lisa, continuation of Mutual Comfort, plot holes, not proofread, spelling/gramatical errors, calling Creature Ein

"You look different today," you noticed allowed, squatted over the flower bed, carefully dropping a marigold from your trowel and covering the roots with soil. "Little more alive."

The man behind you grunted in response, prompting you to glance at him over your shoulder. He seemed to have more color in his face, and his hair seemed less stringy. He lifted a discolored hand, and waved it around as if it were an explaination. You simply shrugged, not understanding the meaning, and went back to what you were doing.

"Regaurdless, I appreciate you helping me." you smiled, standing up and admiring your newly replanted marigolds. Another grunt in responce. "Now I need to mix up the compost pile. Mind pushing that wheel barrow over there?" you aske pointing to the object and then to the destination. Nodding, Creature made his way over.

Once he got behind the wheel barrow, however, he scrunched his face in disgust. "What?" you laughed, slumping your shoulders. "Too good for hard labor? He shook his head, letting go of thehandles and covering his nose. Finally, it clicked for you.

"Oh, come on, you big baby. It doesn't stink tha bad." you rolled your eyes, walking over to simply wheel it over yourself. Seeing you prepared to take matters into your own hands, Creature finally pulled himself up by the bootstraps, taking hold of the handles again and pushing it forward. "Its cow dung, if you were curious," you giggled, following him. "My dad has a friend that owns a far and he hooks me up with free manure for the garden."

Once again, Creature grimaced, turning up his nose. "Hey, Zomboy," you scolded playfully. "Your half rotted flest doesn't smell all that much better." He flashed you a hurt expression coupled with a somber groan, making you back peddle. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry."

Finally in front of the compost pile, you grabbed a nearby shovel and began to heave the dung onto the top, the smell never once bothering you. When you were finished, you stuck the shovel in the ground and rested a foot on it, hiking your knee up, and glued your hands to your hips, tired from a hard day's work.

"I don't know about you, but I think today is a good day for some lemonade." You sighed, beginning to walk back toward the house, Creature trailing behind you. "You like lemonade?" He nodded when you glanced back, prompting you to smile. "Go ahead and take a seat," you said, motioning to the patio set to his right. "I'll go get us some."

After a few minutes, you returned, slipping out the back door and into the yard, a glass in each hand, but your eyes lit up before you couven step off the patio. You quickly scurried over to set the glasses down, gushing over what he had. It was a lovely little hand picked bouquet, mostly consisting of wildflowers and weeds. In the short time you were gone, Creature had taken it upon himself to currate you a gift. "Ein..." you breathed, taking it from him and examining it. "You did this for me...?" you asked, oblivious to how silly the question was. He nodded with a timid smile, inviting you to sit with him.

After a moment, your heart dropped, realizing what you'd called him by. "Oh my gosh, I'm sorry I called you that!" you fretted. "Lisa told me that was the last little bit of your name, I sholdv'e asked if you'd be kay with being called that."

He seemed to wave your worries off, shaking his head, signalling tha he wasn't bothered. He then bowed his head, something that confused you. "So you are okay with me calling you Ein?" He bowed again, and you were unable to keep the grin from spreading across your face. "Okay, Ein it is then. I suppose we couldn't have just called you 'Creature' forever, right?" He shrugged, as if he truly didn't care what his name ended up being. "Regardless, thank you for the flowers, they're beautiful."

The man couldn't help but stare as you admired the little nosegay, noting how eyes eyes lit up when you smiled and your nose scrunched when you laughed. He actually found himself so invested in observing you while sipping his lemonade that he choked a little when your eyes flitted back to him.

"Oh my gosh, are you okay?" you suddenly jumped up, patting his back as he coughed, hunched over. "Ein? Ein! Are you okay?" you panicked, patting a bit harder, and wondering if the heimlick would even work on a corpse. Luckily, that deemed to be unnessisary as he finally spat up whatever was clogging his airway.There on the table, squirmed a very long, slimy earthworm.

"I-Is...is that a worm?" you grimaced, entirely freaked out as you stared at it, eyes flickering back to his every few seconds. Creature was frozen in place, terrified he'd ruined a lovely moment between the two of you, and slapped his hand over the thing, shaking his head no. "You're telling me I didn't just watch you spit up a worm onto my dad's patio table? You're telling me if I move your hand, there's not gonna be a worm?"

Hesitantly, he shook his head with a nervous smile, resisting as hard as possible when you grabbed his hand to move it. Though you had no time to think about it then, you couldn't help but notice the way the stitches holding his hand on felt under your finger tips- definately an interesting sensation.

Finally, you managed to lift his hand up, still holding it, and proved yourself right, once again staring at the wiggly little thing on the table. With a sigh, and ignoring his protests, you reached down and lifted it into your palm. "Got anymore?"

Creature sheepishly shook his head and got up to follow you as you walked away. "Well, this little guy is going in my compost pile." you decided, pinching the worm out of your palm and setting it on top of the pile. "And if it has any buddies in there, they're welcome to the pile too." you smiled, grabbing his hand again.

"I like you," you confessed with a giggle. "A few little bugs aren't gonna scare me away."

I hope this was along the lines of what you were looking for! Sorry it was so rushed, it probably has a million errors, as my gramarly is suddenly not working!

[a-staphaios]

Oliver Fog - The Representation of Trade Unions Post-War

When most people talk about Oliver Fog, it’s never through an analytical lens. He is mostly used for the sake of shipping and sibling headcanons. And if his backstory is ever addressed, it’s normally taken wrong. Oliver isn’t a character who just hates work. In fact it could be argued that he is a microcosm of trade union representatives in his time period.

First I must discuss the importance of trade unions on Oliver’s character especially of 1953. I say 1953 because Oliver mentions that he has not worked overtime for 211 days in his anecdote. Trade unions at the time were much more powerful than they were today, and had much heavy tight links to the UK Labour Party, which was undoubtably much more left wing than it is today. The leader of Labour at the time was Clement Attlee who, while no longer Prime Minister, was one of the most influential socialists in UK history and helped to set up the NHS. I bring this up due to Attlee’s influence on the country and left wing politics as a whole, and as a civil servant, Oliver would have been aware of him.

Let’s now take a look at Arsenal. Oliver says he was a fan of them as a child since they were a popular team, but for that we must look at Arsenal’s history to find out how old Oliver would have been. Seeing how Oliver turns 15 in 1952, he would have been born in 1937, just before the outbreak of WW2. Highbury Stadium was build in 1939 and the Football League was suspended for the duration of the wartime period, meaning that it was impossible for Oliver to have seen them at a young age. The earliest he could have seen the team by walking out on his own was at the age of 10. At this point in his life, Oliver would have lived through the death, devastation and brutality of a wartime period and how it left Britain bankrupt. 

Arsenal’s red colour palette is also telling due to it being his favourite team - red is a colour that politically means left wing ideologies, and in the UK is a reference to the Labour Party, as well as its anthem The Red Flag, a socialist song about the labour movement. It’s possible that the fact Oliver’s favourite team being Arsenal was picked especially for this comparison, but at the same time it might just be me leaning in too far.

Oliver has a persistent want of an eight hour work day in reference to the social movement prevalent after the Industrial Revolution, where working hours were long and children were exploited for labour. While the UK to this day doesn’t have an eight hour limit to the work day, there have been major strides, and it was first accomplished in 1889 by the founders of the modern day GMB union. The fact Oliver specifically becomes part of this social movement is telling of his feelings about rights. There’s also his hatred of overtime, which adds onto this.

Oliver’s rant to A Knight could also be alternatively read as a rant on a predatory structure or system.

I’m not even supposed to be here! I’m just a boy, but because of your dreamed-up notions of purpose and responsibility, I was forced to become a Fogwalker. I never wanted to walk amongst the fog. I’m terrified of it… I just want to… I just want to stay alive.

Oliver is without hope at the beginning of his anecdote, lost in not knowing why he so readily took up the position of the Fogwalker. By the end of it he’s become aware of his true beliefs.

The Fogwalker is one who steps into the fog and brings light to others. Fundamentally, it’s a joke like any other, mundane as tightening screws or scooping manure. But that’s not all it is. My father once walked through the fog to bring me hope. On that day, he did the same. “This is my responsibility, and it is our responsibility.” […] On that day in 1952, he also brought hope to the people of London. The hope of survival.

Personally there are a few hints that Oliver falls along left wing ideology such as socialism. This could be especially true of his beliefs in social activism of his attitudes towards labour rights. Let’s take a look at his new garment. 

Version 1.8’s location is Russia, presumably in the 1910s before the Russian Revolution that would later set up the groundworks for the Soviet Union, so already the fact the garment comes out in this version specifically is telling. This garment set as a whole is called ‘Constructivism in Concept’. Constructivism is a theory where people acquire knowledge through experience and conversations, not through just seeing things, which could be reflective of Oliver’s anecdote. The garment itself is ‘See You At The Workers Club’. Workers’ clubs were something set up in the USSR and was a place for workers and their families to relax and also a place for propaganda. It was also sponsored by trade unions. I had to use Google Translate for the writing on the sheet metal, and the text reads, roughly, “let’s protect the eight hour working day”.

It’s easy to interpret Oliver as a microcosm through what he does and what he says. As a whole, he is a complex individual, a traumatised overworked teenager.

[quotesfrommyreading]

In the terrible winter of 1932–33, brigades of Communist Party activists went house to house in the Ukrainian countryside, looking for food. The brigades were from Moscow, Kyiv, and Kharkiv, as well as villages down the road. They dug up gardens, broke open walls, and used long rods to poke up chimneys, searching for hidden grain. They watched for smoke coming from chimneys, because that might mean a family had hidden flour and was baking bread. They led away farm animals and confiscated tomato seedlings. After they left, Ukrainian peasants, deprived of food, ate rats, frogs, and boiled grass. They gnawed on tree bark and leather. Many resorted to cannibalism to stay alive. Some 4 million died of starvation.

At the time, the activists felt no guilt. Soviet propaganda had repeatedly told them that supposedly wealthy peasants, whom they called kulaks, were saboteurs and enemies—rich, stubborn landowners who were preventing the Soviet proletariat from achieving the utopia that its leaders had promised. The kulaks should be swept away, crushed like parasites or flies. Their food should be given to the workers in the cities, who deserved it more than they did. Years later, the Ukrainian-born Soviet defector Viktor Kravchenko wrote about what it was like to be part of one of those brigades. “To spare yourself mental agony you veil unpleasant truths from view by half-closing your eyes—and your mind,” he explained. “You make panicky excuses and shrug off knowledge with words like exaggeration and hysteria.”

He also described how political jargon and euphemisms helped camouflage the reality of what they were doing. His team spoke of the “peasant front” and the “kulak menace,” “village socialism” and “class resistance,” to avoid giving humanity to the people whose food they were stealing. Lev Kopelev, another Soviet writer who as a young man had served in an activist brigade in the countryside (later he spent years in the Gulag), had very similar reflections. He too had found that clichés and ideological language helped him hide what he was doing, even from himself:

I persuaded myself, explained to myself. I mustn’t give in to debilitating pity. We were realizing historical necessity. We were performing our revolutionary duty. We were obtaining grain for the socialist fatherland. For the five-year plan.

There was no need to feel sympathy for the peasants. They did not deserve to exist. Their rural riches would soon be the property of all.

But the kulaks were not rich; they were starving. The countryside was not wealthy; it was a wasteland. This is how Kravchenko described it in his memoirs, written many years later:

Large quantities of implements and machinery, which had once been cared for like so many jewels by their private owners, now lay scattered under the open skies, dirty, rusting and out of repair. Emaciated cows and horses, crusted with manure, wandered through the yard. Chickens, geese and ducks were digging in flocks in the unthreshed grain.

That reality, a reality he had seen with his own eyes, was strong enough to remain in his memory. But at the time he experienced it, he was able to convince himself of the opposite. Vasily Grossman, another Soviet writer, gives these words to a character in his novel Everything Flows:

I’m no longer under a spell, I can see now that the kulaks were human beings. But why was my heart so frozen at the time? When such terrible things were being done, when such suffering was going on all around me? And the truth is that I truly didn’t think of them as human beings. “They’re not human beings, they’re kulak trash”—that’s what I heard again and again, that’s what everyone kept repeating.

  —  Ukraine and the Words That Lead to Mass Murder

[possumcollege]

These dingbats are a real thorn in my teeth. I'm not an architect, not a student of ethnography, but I do know enough about the history of art and racism to know they're using art as an excuse to fling classic fascist talking points, white supremacist propaganda, and great replacement conspiracy theories like a manure spreader full of Klan hoods.

I'll save you the trouble of reading any of them: They're saying white people are behind every major cultural accomplishment since humans stood upright. That other races are so jealous of white success that they conspire to destroy everything beautiful in the world out of spite. They're the ones saying castles weren't political, that art is anti-white because it isn't just pretty pictures of Jesus and prefectly smooth women anymore, and that trains are Communism but O WE HAD SUCH WONDROUS TRAIN STATIONS! 😭

They completely ignore the entire nonwhite world of human achievements and when they can't, they shoehorn in any white "innovator" they can dig up to say that's when math/science/buildings/farming/war really got good. It's desperately craven bullshit.

They're whiners at best, and at worse they're reading Goebels word-for-word.

[bullet-prooflove]

The Half Way Point Part Two: Blessing: Angel Reyes x Reader (feat: Felipe Reyes)

Tagging: @witches-unruly-heart @keyweegirlie @annetje @infinity-mars @danzer8705 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @appreciatelove @the-wandering-lunatic @weiwei0210 @anime-weeb-4-life @multifandomloversworld @harperdoodle @est1887 @briefpersonenemy @creativitybeware @mortal--soul @buddinglinguist @spookyboogyuniverse @spaghettificationandpretzels @nu1freakshow @thebaileybugle @legally-a-bastard @oureternalbond @bonsaijoons

Felipe says the bare minimum when you come over to plant the rose bush and to be honest that’s the way you prefer it. You know that Angel’s father doesn’t like you. Parents want their children to marry successful people until it involves a kush farm. You are clearly not what he envisioned for his son.

For Angel’s sake you don’t want to get into a fight with his father, so you keep to yourself as you dig out the soil with your trowel. You pick up a handful of dirt before letting it crumble through your fingers and sighing.

“What?” Felipe prompts from his perch on the steps of the porch.

“The soil.” You tell him, holding it up and letting it drop through the space in your fist. “There’s no nutrients. I can’t plant this here.”

He knows what you’re not saying. The earth hasn’t been cared for, that it’s become a barren, desolate space in the aftermath of Marisol’s death. The truth is he’s barely been able to take care of himself and the house, the front garden wasn’t even a consideration before he’d seen what you’d done with Angel’s.

“I’ve got to head up to the farm, I’ve got some compost up there that’ll help and manure from Riz’s horses. I’ll get that down and then I can plant it.” You tell him, raising to your feet with a groan before tucking your gardening gloves into the back pocket of your Levi’s.

“We'll take my truck.” Felipe says as he stands up and removes his keys from his trouser pocket. You can't imagine anything worse than being trapped for the next twenty minutes in a confined space with Angel's surly father, but you can’t think of a polite reason to say no.

The first five minutes are oppressive. You reach for the radio before Felipe gives you a stern look. For a moment you seriously debate turning it on anyway, but you don't. His truck his rules. Instead, your elbow comes to rest on the open window, your hand lingering by your mouth.

“I read your interview.” He says into the silence between you.

“Which one?” You ask, your eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“All of them.” He admits.

He saw the first one in a magazine at the convenience store. The ‘kush queen' they had branded you. He'd walked past it with the full intention of ignoring it but then he'd doubled back. The truth is he wanted to learn more about the woman who had been inspiring all of these changes in Angel. His son obviously sees something in you. Felipe had wanted to know what it was. After reading the article, he'd gone to community centre and got one the volunteers to help him Google you.

Deep dives used to require some finesse in his day, the internet makes it almost too easy. He’s slow though in his fact-finding mission, typing with only two fingers and calling the volunteer over when he can't make the computer do what he wants. He leaves the community centre a few hours later with a handful of print outs to read over his evening meal.

It's only on the way out he notices that the planters on either side of the doors have been donated by Rose Kush. He thinks he suddenly understands why Angel's been so interested in helping out in that community.

“I want to see the rose garden.” Felipe tells you as he pulls up in front of your farm.

You tilt your head towards him, your eyebrows furrowing into a frown.

“I didn't bring up the rose garden in any of my interviews.”

“I know.” Felipe says as he turns off the engine and shoves open the driver's door.

It dawns on you that Angel must have mentioned it to him. He's the only person who has ever seen the space, it's you who looks after the roses, who nurtures them, uses specialised food to help keep them healthy and bring the colour out.

“I don't usually show anyone this.” You tell him as you take the keys out of your pocket and select the one for the gate.

“It needs oiling.” He remarks as you jiggle the key in the lock and throw your weight behind it. It creaks as it opens, setting his teeth on edge.

“It's one of those things I've not got around to yet.” You inform him as you step through into the rose garden.

“The bench too?” He gestures at the decrepit seating that looks like it's about to fall apart.

You roll your eyes skyward, your teeth biting down on your lower lip, because Lord give you strength with this man, he does not make it easy.

“You got something to say?” he asks you, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I get it.” You tell him. “You don't like me; you don't like the work I do.”

Felipe tilts his head from side to side as if deliberating.

“Do you love him?” Felipe asks you abruptly. “Do you love my son?”

The question is so far out of left field that it takes you a moment to register it.

“It's a simple question.” He informs you. “Do you love my son?”

You’ve loved Angel since the moment you met him. He’s the only man who has ever been able to give you a run for your money, who has showcased his vulnerabilities and embraced yours. There’s a wildness in that man that matches your own. You say none of this to Felipe.

“Yes.” You tell him.

He nods his head, before looking around at the roses. He sees the care that goes into maintaining them, they're thriving underneath your touch the same way Angel is. That's all he wants for his son, to be happy, to be healthy. You seem to be making him both.

“I’ll come over and fix the bench tomorrow.” He tells you before jerking his head towards the gate. “You can leave me the key after we get back to the house.”

“So, this was what?” You ask him, gesturing at the roses surrounding you. “Some sort of test?”

Felipe shrugs his shoulders before heading back towards the gate.

“If you can look after these things, you'll have no problem with Angel.”

“Is that you giving me your blessing?” You say half seriously as you lock the gate up behind you.

“I have a feeling you wouldn't give a damn either way.”

“I don't you.” You tell him honestly. “But your approval means the world to Angel.”

“I didn’t say I approve.” He says as he looks across the field of kush, watching as the crop sways in the breeze. “But I have a better understanding of why you do what you do, how it helps people, how you try to pay it forward.”

“You did read my interviews.” You remark, nudging him lightly with your shoulder.

He huffs in response before rolling up his sleeves.

“Come on.” He mutters, heading towards the manure pile on the opposite side of the farmhouse. “You said we need to shovel some shit.”

Love Angel? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[thejediandthemandalorian]

might i request cowboy codywan by any chance

🐎 they would be the best cowboys honestly

A wonderful request. Here is a scene for cowboy codywan!! I will admit I started writing this one then got super obsessed with my idea and got kinda carried away. But I also had so much fun writing this! Thank you for the ask 💜💜

“You can’t just waltz your way onto any property you please.” Cody folded his arms over his chest and frowned down at Obi-Wan.

He was busy tying up his horse, which he’d only learned to properly ride within the past month or so, to a post of the fence. Cody couldn’t help a small smirk as he watched him fumble his way through a quick-release knot, taking him several tries until he finally gave it a tug and was satisfied.

“You didn’t seem to have a problem when I accidentally ended up on the Fett Ranch. Seems to have worked in favor of the both of us.” Obi-Wan looked up at him with a bright smile and squinting eyes to try and see Cody through the sun.

It was a hot one today, and even Cody had to admit this sounded fun, but it would be wrong. Old Man Jabba didn’t like anyone on his property, especially near his pond. Last time someone snuck on his property to swim Cody had heard they’d been chased off the property with a sawed off shotgun. Then there was the time he’d heard Old Man Jabba had chased someone off with his plow, trying to run them over. And also the time he’d made some trespassers clean up old cattle manure from his rundown barn that wasn’t in use anymore. 

“The Hutts aren’t as generous to trespassers as my father and brothers.” Cody could feel the sweat trailing down his back.

Obi-Wan really needed to find a shadier spot to keep Boga; she was going to overheat out here and then she wouldn’t be very useful in his getting back to the ranch.

The sun beating down on them was harsh, even with the protective clothing. Even his hat didn’t seem to be doing much, his scalp drenched with sweat underneath the rim. It was a surprise that Obi-Wan’s skin wasn’t brighter than a tomato with how pale he was. The only real protection he had from the sun was Cody’s old hat.

Going for a dip did sound quite refreshing. Not to mention the opportunity to finally see Obi-Wan without that prim little button up, vest, tie, and fancy coat he always wore was quite an enticing prospect. He also looked pretty good in Cody’s hat and it would be a shame to take it off. The hat was white in color with a black weaved leather band around it, held together by a little clasp that had three orange sun rays on it.

Seeing Obi-Wan in it made him really notice the sun heating his own neck around the collar. He couldn’t even imagine having the opportunity to take it off of him in order to--

That wasn’t a very polite thought and Obi-Wan had been nothing but respectful to him. He was simply going to take that inappropriate thought and tie it to a post and leave it out to shrivel up in the sun.

No more thinking like that.

He looked down at Obi-Wan who had removed his jacket and was in the process of loosening his tie.

“What are you doing?” Cody frowned, his view shifting a bit as his horse, Tooka, adjusted her footing.

“I’m preparing myself to go for a swim. Don’t mind me, you can be a buzzkill and go back to your chores if you’re so worried about it.” Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow at him.

Cody wanted nothing more than to grab that beard and kiss that snarky little attitude right out of his mouth.

They could skip swimming altogether and just find a nice little place under a tree in the meadow and--

“Are you coming or are you just going to keep gawking at me?” Obi-Wan removed his tie now and began unbuttoning his vest. 

“Who taught you to talk to strangers like that, and break into other peoples’ property?” Cody looked away now, feeling he was invading something private now.

A melodic sound came from Obi-Wan and Cody could feel his heart pounding in his chest. Obi-Wan had the sweetest laugh he’d ever heard, more relaxing than the singing of the crickets and frogs whenever evening fell.

“What can I say, Cody? You have this weird effect on me.” The other man sent him a wink. 

Cody really wanted to go swimming with him, badly enough that he couldn’t bring himself to care if this was something that would get his hide tanned. The well-learned city-boy before him wanted to get the real experience of living in the country, so he would provide.

“Come on.” He heaved a sigh and tightened his grip on the reins. 

“I didn’t mean it, you don’t actually have to leave.” Obi-Wan’s voice was soft and it made Cody look over. 

“No, city-boy. I’m not leaving. You can’t just tie your horse up in the sun like that.” Lightly kicking his heels into Tooka’s sides, he pointed with his head. “There’s some trees a short ride that way. Then we can get in the pond.”

Obi-Wan’s whole face lit up with a smile and he quickly clambered back onto his horse, forgetting he still had to untie it. His jacket and tie were shoved haphazardly in the saddle bags and his vest remained half unbuttoned. The man who claimed to have a schooling degree in English and was here on a journaling assignment suddenly seemed a whole lot less put together than he originally appeared.

Cody decided at that moment that he not only wanted to go swimming in that pond with Obi-Wan and maybe get chased off the property by Old Man Jabba, but he also really wanted to get to know him more before he had to leave and probably never return. What he really wanted was to start officially courting him, but knew Jango would probably never approve. So for the time being he was simply going to have to be okay with tying the horses up in the shade and going for a swim.

[dasha-aibo]

Witcher still hurts my fucking soul. You know, Cavil at least cared, he's not Slavic, but for the love of God, he fucking tried to keep the story on track with the books. He fucking cared. He constantly fought to keep the story more in line with the books, even managing to have Geralt mourn Roach, when they tried to just pave over Roach dying.

But everything else? It was a fucking insult to everything. Slavic history. Slavic story telling. Slavic culture. POLISH CULTURE. POLISH POLISH POLISH. THIS WAS A POLISH STORY. I don't even think you need to read the books or play the games to see how little the producers cared about Witcher or what the story meant to people. Don't get me started on the fucking adaption, what the shit was that "Blood origins" bullshit? You come into this house, and spit on the soil of our history.

They just wanted to do a pisspoor adaption to try and get the ex-GOT fans hooked. Which didn't even fucking work, congrats you fuckers.

The world was a mess. No distinction, no soul no heart, every place looked the same. Obnoxious US politics. Ugly designs. Story telling was ass.

Sorry that people OUTSIDE the Anglosphere exist, but they fucking doooooo. In fact, people outside the Anglosphere and the Western European sphere actually do have fucking flourishing cultures that aren't all built on the manure of US culture. They actually do have stories that are told and written about, and they do not match up with what the US experiences, because it isn't the fucking US.

If you want another fucking US-centric fantasy world, then go find a US author who's just as stuck up about putting US politics into everything, but don't ruin the heart blood of all the cultures that don't align with the US.

I mean, geez, they did the same with Rings of Power, exact same bullshit US politics shoved in, and that's based on works that did come from the Anglosphere. So I guess anything not US conscious is going to fall victim to this bullshit.

But it just hurts ten times more when it's something that already comes from Eastern Europe, that constantly gets depicted as being uncultured, and filled with brainless violent drunks. Because so little is even able to reach the Western mainstream to fight against that stereotype.

Fucking preach it, man

[licncourt]

what are your most favorite caesar facts :-) (<- for brain distraction)

POV you asked an overexcited little boy to show you his favorite hot wheels

Despite the common English pronunciation, Caesar would have said his name something like "kai-oos you-lee-us kay-zhar". This pronunciation is the origin of the king's titles kaiser (German/Prussian) and czar/tsar (Russian)

On that note, his famous quote "veni, vidi, vici" would have been said "whey-nee wee-dee whee-key" which is less cool for gym bros to get tattooed. And while he probably didn't have any "last words" besides an exclamation of initial shock, the other most likely is the Greek "kai su teknon", meaning "you too, child", directed at Brutus. This is often assumed to be an expression of hurt and betrayal, but the wording is actually the same as known curse tablets and was probably more along the lines of a snide "and the same to you, boy"

He shaved his dick and balls and it made Cicero really mad

Had his co-consul thrown in animal manure in front of a crowd he'd gathered to watch. Later he had the guy jumped which scared him so much that he didn't leave his house for the rest of their term. This led to the common saying at the time that Rome was "under the consulship of Julius and Caesar"

His number one political rival Cato accused him of being part of a conspiracy when he got a letter covertly delivered to him in a senate meeting, but it was read aloud and was actually an ancient sext from Brutus' mom

He was probably part of the conspiracy too tbh but no one can for sure prove it

Helped his friend Clodius (noted crossdresser for pussy) get adopted by a guy younger than him to run a political scam

People called him the Queen of Bithynia because everyone liked to say he fucked Mithridates II of Bosporus, and he was often called "every woman's man and every man's woman". The poet Catiline also wrote a little ditty about how Caesar is a flaming gay who takes it up the ass

Not really a fun fact, but Caesar managed to kill off 1/3 of the Gallic population (about a million people) in eight years, putting him only a couple spots below the top ten most prolific killers in history

Caesar did not conquer Britain. They kicked his ass all the way back to Rome

Despite his reputation as the first emperor, Caesar never held the title of princeps. The first emperor was his adopted son and successor, Augustus. The only non-standard military titles he ever held were consul and dictator (not the current meaning of the term).

If you're interested in knowing what Caesar looked like, the Tusculum Portrait is the only image of him that can be confidently dated to his lifetime and was probably sculpted from life as well. Don't believe the later George Clooney looking busts

[imsparky2002]

The Announcement - A Prequel to Adrien's First Day

(Principal Owlcles has gathered two of his school's classes and their teachers for an announcement.)

Owlcles: I won't beat around the bush. We have decided to let a human attend this school. 

(He expects, and secretly hopes for cries of protest and outrage, but it's silent, people mostly just look confused. Maridoll raises her hand.)

Maridoll: Um, not that that’s a problem, sir, but can we ask why?

Owlcles: Well, Gabriel Agreste wants to bring positive awareness to monster and human living together in harmony. So he decided to send his son here to get a taste of what it's like at DuPont!

FrankenNino: Wait, doesn't his Dad REALLY hate monsters? Like he led hunting groups! He tried to make his son see us as evil!

Owlcles: Well, it seems Mr. Agreste has recently had a change of heart, and wants to correct his past mistakes. And Adrien is quite excited for the opportunity, it seems he has no ill will towards monsters!

IsmaCat: Yeah, because his psycho of a dad sheltered him from the outside world, and kept him from finding out about his hunting years. 

Astrarore: No offense, Mr. Owlcles. But this is what in my planet, sounds like a load of garthwop, or in your planet’s case, a load of cow manure.

Owlcles: Now now, students, we mustn’t be quick to judge! But I understand that some of you may be angry about this choice, and you are free to air your grievances!

WereKim: Uh... we're not angry? Why would you want us to do that, man? 

Chloepatra: Ridiculous! Utterly ridiculous! 

Max Steam: It sounds quite wonderous to invite this homosapien to our academy.

Nath Goyle: Seems after he learns the school rules, I won't have to worry much about seeing him on the job.

OperJean: Just b’cause a lotta humans can be pretty anti-monster don’t mean all’a them are! Least we can do is suspend judgement!

DenisQuatch: Yeah, this could be a good step towards establishing a more peaceful relationship. In theory, it’s a good idea.

Draculeka: Call me batty, but it sounds like you WANT us to be judgy. 

Dracogami: Indeed, I sense a desire for such a scenario from his voice.

Owlcles: N-now, don’t be absurd! It’s perfectly reasonable for there to be a fear of humans, but I am…most pleased that you all seem open to this change!

Dracogami: He is lying once again.

(He hoots in shock.)

Flamecey: What's the deal, sir? Why would you not want us to accept them?

Zombustier: Rrrggghh. (Translation: He wanted you to all be upset so he could slowly change your minds over time. That way, he'd be recognized as a great principal, and win an award.) 

Headless Olga: Very pathetic, honestly.

(Owlcles glares at them. If only he could fire these two) 

Owlcles: Students, I assure you that-

(They all start laughing at him.)

Ivan Bumble: Principal prefers award over students! Garbage! 

(His laughter gets louder and he pounds the desk.)

FrankenNino: Dude, just give it up! You’re not gonna look like a hero here!

(SkeleRose's bones rattle as she laughs) 

SkeleRose: You think I could EVER be angry at a human?

Spider Resh: (Wiping tears out of her eyes) Just for that, I'm making Adrien the best shirt out of spidersilk possible.

(The principal is flustered and humiliated. He walks off the stage.)

Zombustier: Graaggh. (Translation: Ok, enough guffawing.)

Headless Olga: Now kids, this will be a new experience for Adrien. He’s never been to an actual school before! 

Zombustier: Urrrrrggggh. (Translation: So we want to make him feel as welcome as possible!)

Zombrina: Rrrggh? (Translation: Should we just be our normal selves? We don't want to come off as being overly polite and fake.) 

SliMireille: Yeah, we can be nice, but not fake nice.

Headless Olga: Of course! Show him that we’re just regular people with a few quirks, nothing scary about it. 

Zombustier: Grrrrarrrrgggh. (Translation: We don’t expect you kids to act like people you’re not, just show him he’s safe in his new environment.)

Chloepatra: I suppose that it'll be nice to have a new peasant to bow down in my presence. 

(They all stare at her, frowning.) 

Chloepatra: Kidding! Kidding!

Alix Gorgon: We’ll make sure he’sss all ssset here, teach! Don’t worry!

MothMarc: (Whispering to Nath Goyle) I hope he brings a light with him.

Astrarore: It will be interesting to learn more about humans!

Zombustier: Graaggh! (Translation: We're so glad to hear your enthusiasm!)

Harpy Lila: (Scoffs) A human? Well, at least he’ll be fun to mess with…

Here's a prequel to Adrien's first day that me and Weeby made awhile back. It was a blast to create, and I can't wait to do more stuff with them for her awesome AU! Make sure to reblog, reply, post and ask for more. @artzychic27 @msweebyness

[climatecalling]

About a third of global public agricultural subsidies, which totaled $233 billion in 2017, are for the production of meat, milk, or dairy—even though the livestock that feeds us is also responsible for around 15 percent of global greenhouse gas emissions. In the United States, labor and environmental scholars speak of “agricultural exceptionalism” due to the sector’s exemption from most environmental regulations. ... There aren’t many governments working to explicitly downsize the number of animal machines as part of their climate plans. Three small European countries—Ireland, Belgium, and the Netherlands—are working to directly reduce their livestock numbers for climate reasons. ... In the Netherlands, the backlash against livestock reduction goals has been fierce. Protesting farmers have been blocking roads with tractors, spraying manure around the agriculture minister’s neighborhood. ... Given the success the right wing in the U.S. has had fearmongering about nonexistent meat restrictions, it’s clear that claiming the government’s going to take away people’s burgers is an effective political strategy that climate-minded policymakers will have to contend with. Nevertheless, as the world keeps warming, it will become clear that political leaders’ climate pledges require that we phase down all sorts of polluting machines: not just the metal ones that burn fossil fuels but also the ones that have brains, and hearts, and use up three-quarters of the world’s agricultural land, and overheat the planet.

No paywall: https://web.archive.org/web/20231004015637/https://newrepublic.com/article/175875/no-government-isnt-coming-burgerbut-maybe

[dragons-clause]

The Dragon's Clause

Sabo x Fem Reader CW: Forced marriage, intrigue, character death, fantasy violence, blood, magic, language, smut, 18+ mdni

Tag List: @mfreedomstuff

Chapter 2: Word About Town

Approaching the capital city of the Goa Kingdom was a relief for several reasons. It was good to be done with your long journey, but also the state of the infrastructure leading up to the city was remarkably well cared for.

Some kingdoms didn’t have the capacity to maintain their roadways, and some kingdoms let them rot unless they were paths commonly traveled by nobility or the Empire. Oftentimes the maintenance of such farm roads and trade routes fell to the people who needed them the most.

Between merchant-maintained and farmer-maintained, you found you preferred the latter over the former. Merchants would often opt to set up informal checkpoints, and while the fees could be manageable, sometimes the enforcers were not. Farmer maintained roads were often of better quality, since farmers would simply walk their livestock over the roads.

Repeatedly.

This made for remarkably smooth and wide roadways. The only downside being that these paths often reeked. But the stench of manure tended to be less headache than dealing with those who were full of it.

You hadn’t traveled all the roads between Lulusia and Goa, but the roads between any two kingdoms were rarely traveled by nobility. As a rule, anything more than three days was worth the cost of magic, so any nobles who traveled by carriage further than that were either poor, miserly, or trying to win the favor of the masses.

Technically, you fell into none of the three categories, because you were neither important enough, nor powerful enough, to command the wealth that was associated with your name. But more to the point, a good infrastructure was a good sign.

You had no care for useless opulence, and no desire to deal with vapid royals. A functional kingdom was the sign of functional royalty, and that was the bare minimum you had hoped for. Most nobility married for politics, so you’d long since set aside the ideal of love, even more so when your father died. Your Uncle might not have loved you as warmly as your father had, but if this was how you could repay him then so be it.

None of this sat in your heart as malcontent. It was what it was, and you had only to make the best of what you could within those lines. It was far easier to find joy when those around you were competent.

Just inside the main city proper you found an inn. You had funds enough to put yourself and your small retinue up for a month of days, so it wasn’t an issue to get everyone rooms and get them settled. Everyone was road-weary, your coachman and knights more so than yourself, you were sure. You provide each with ample funds to eat as they pleased, and to drink with consideration toward your destination the next day.

Small in number, but your Uncle did not send you to a new country with fools, and you were grateful for their collective competence. Something you would miss after tomorrow, since all four would take the long journey back to Lulusia. Another kingdom’s knights would not be provided entry into Goa’s castle, unless they were your own personal guards, and even then the King could deny them if he so desired.

Such an action would cause strain between the two lands, but as you did not have personal knights, it wasn’t something for you to be worried about right now.

You paid handsomely for a hot bath to be brought up to your room and prepared. It wasn’t an easy process, and an inn just inside the city gates wouldn’t have many who would request it, but it was worth the cost. You cleaned most of the muck and grime of the last week off before even getting in the bath, making use of it to soak for a long while until you caved in and washed your hair.

Basic cantrips had kept you and your small entourage mostly clean during the long travel between Capital cities, but they had limits. Cantrips couldn’t clean as well as proper baths, and the longer you went between one the harder it was to get accumulated grit and grim free. The week and change wasn’t too terribly long, but you were used to bathing far more regularly, and could

With a bath at your disposal there was no reason to delve into anything more advanced. Another draw of cantrips was that they didn’t leave any marks and were almost impossible to track, unlike advanced magic, which could draw unwanted attention. The restrictions upon it could also come back to bite you, so it was better to avoid even considering it until you were properly settled.

Simple clothing was your choice for the evening, and you went down into the inn’s common areas to eat and relax. The best part about your upbringing was how you could easily fit into two very different worlds.

Life on the road wasn’t about etiquette, and until you’d gone to your Uncle’s castle, all you had learned about socializing was from fighters and rowdy tavern keeps and campfire gatherings. As long as you dressed down you weren’t anything more than a young lady enjoying a meal after having traveled. It was unlikely someone would match you up with the noble who came in earlier - the very idea of nobility dressing down was taboo. Besides, all you wanted to do was eavesdrop for a couple hours while nursing some ale and a hot bowl or two of stew.

Most of it was expected. News about an expedition to the Northern border to cull the monsters. Those happened about once a month, depending on the ferocity of the beasts, and how much their bones were worth. There was some scattered chatter about how the Crown Prince’s fiancée was due to arrive any day now from the kingdom of Lulusia, but no one seemed to say much beyond that.

It was good that there weren’t any rumors about you or your cousin, but it was a little interesting how little the people were talking about the royal family of Goa at all. Some kingdoms barred commoners from speaking to nobles first, but no one barred them from speaking about nobles as far as you knew.

You weren’t even sure how such a thing could be enforced. People would just start talking in code anyway, but there wasn’t even a sense of that in the idle chatter of the inn.

Even if they weren’t going to talk about concerns or joys or praise, commoners still gossiped the same as anyone else. You didn’t hear them mention any other noble households, at least not directly. People mentioned some when they were talking about the expedition, but they were merely listing who was going and who wasn’t.

Maybe the people were tense for some reason, related to the nobility or not, and it had trimmed down their desire to gossip. You drained the rest of your drink and were about to step away when a shout caught your attention. A small gesture from you kept the guards away - you weren’t trying to draw attention to yourself.

“Say that again, you rat!” One man bellows, standing up, and over, the one who had raised his voice first.

The smaller man seems unbothered by the other’s size, finishing off his drink before responding.

“I said yer a fool.” He repeats, standing up and squaring off despite barely coming up to the first man’s chest. “How could you think the Grand Duke would only take ‘alf as many knights as usual fer any other reason ‘dan the prince forced ‘im?”

The taller man visibly bristles. “You’ll call him the Crown Prince, as is proper!” He bellows. “An’ he wouldn’t put his brother in harm’s way like that! The Duke’s just too arrogant to ask fer extra help!”

Ah, that explains a lot, you muse to yourself.

There was a deep divide in the kingdom, at least among the commoners. People didn’t gossip cause it was easy for it to turn into a squabble over the smallest things. Usually this sort of divide only happened when there was an impending war of succession on the horizon, but there were no other signs of it. The Grand Duke had no desire for the throne, and the Crown Prince would be solidified in his position the second he was officially engaged.

But these people were really passionate about their stances. Already the rumors you were aware of were proving to be at least slightly wrong. There wasn’t any true malice in their bickerings, and they weren’t referring to either party as cruel or unjust; whatever the cause for the divide was, it wasn’t some sort of “good vs evil” situation.

That probably just made it more complicated, and drove the dividing lines deeper. Nebulous concepts often caused people to dig their heels in even deeper than objectively clear-cut ones.

“Yer precious lil’ Prince can’t even-.”

“OI!” Someone else bellows over him, smacking the smaller man across the back of his head. “You mind yer tongue, or you’re gonna lose it.” He admonishes.

You knew the Crown Prince was adopted. It wasn’t a secret, and maybe there was a point of contention among the people that made small concerns larger in their minds. Commoners could get more bull-headed about bloodlines than even some nobles. If you believed in the Divine Clause as something more divine and less legal, then a little fanaticism wasn’t surprising.

Turning away and heading to your room, you wondered what it was that the Prince couldn’t do.

[princessmadafu]

Unconfirmed news is no news

But on the other hand, no news is good news, right?

World politics aside, of course. Love to Ukraine.

We've had weeks of Harry demanding this and that before he condescends to go to his dad's Coronation; Meghan's upset at not being consulted, not to mention being ridiculed by South Park (ye gods, it was a brilliant episode!). No no no, wait, they're going to the Coronation, no wait, they're not going to the Coronation. He demands an apology for not being born first. He's only a Spare. Waaagh!

Bit of an insult to all the second-born babies who've succeeded in life without whinging all over the place.

So their popularity has plummeted in the US, but their Netflix thing is 3rd most streamed, and Samantha's suing but Meghan has lawyers who wear Big Boy Panties, oh and the Big Boy Panty Lawyers are checking out South Park for symptoms of being mean to Meghan because Meghan doesn't wear Big Girl Panties and cries on cue when Jeremy Clarkson says he loathes her and wants to see her pelted Game of Thrones-style with big handfuls of poop-bombs.

Poop-bombs work best if they're nice and runny, by the way; add a teaspoon of baking soda and a squirt of lemon juice if you want extra splatteriness. Though to be honest, it'd be a waste of good poop. Useful stuff, poop; plants love it. I'm woffling again, amn't I?

I mean, their PR is all so ridiculous now.

So predictable. So boring. So uninspiring.

Talking of poop, I've been spending the past couple of weeks prepping the garden for spring, insulating my cold-frames and planting my earlies. One of the sons came home with Covid, so I was keeping away from my vulnerable neighbours and spending my time outdoors in the fresh healthy country air. I've always found fresh air and exercise are my friends. I'd hate to be stuck in a stuffy office with closed windows and the central heating on full blast. Total germfest.

Give me a shovel and a wheelbarrow full of manure any day!