#using her platform in that way and then proceeded to do nothing aside from encourage ppl to vote biden

[crossroadsdimension]

When they reached their seeming dead-end and poked around the ruins Meteion left for them, taunting that they wouldn’t reach her nest -- the dead sun, where souls from the destroyed worlds were gathered and left unborn -- Cross almost thought they could find a way up without sacrificing the twins.

And then the two of them stepped forward after a conversation and gave themselves to the dynamis winds.

(”If your mother finds out you did this on my watch she will kill me -- and then your father,” Cross hissed at the two of them before they stepped forward to meet Meteion.

Alphinaud chuckled. “I know, I know. But we must do this.”)

And so they stepped forward to meet the Meteion part, and fought her dynamis together to give Cross a glittering path closer to the dead sun above them.

It left Cross alone, with a great weight on her shoulders to fight Meteion herself...but there were shades here, too. They looked to be made of dynamis, but...they spoke with voices she remembered from her past. From her home. The course of her journey.

People she knew, words she remembered, calling out in encouragement and hope. Even as she climbed the stairs and heard the twins’ voices, she heard the others, too. Even as the song -- since adding G’raha, and with a voice singing their collected hopes for the future, and the path Cross walked -- rang loudly in her ears. And yet our hope remains/Guiding, lighting the way/No time for mourning~

We stand with you, Alisaie said under the chorus.

As you have stood by us, Alphinaud agreed.

The words helped carry Cross to the top of the rainbow stairs, and the top of the path. A platform of stone, but no true path to the dead sun above.

Just Meteion. A Meteion who tried to coax Cross to give up, hand over her burdens, and die.

But Cross would not die after coming this far. She could hear her friends, allies, and family ringing their please and encouragement in her ears, even with all the distance and time that stood between them.

And while she couldn’t summon Y’shtola and the others to her side, she could still reach out for help from those who could.

She was lucky that Hades and Hythlodaeus deigned to answer her call, and then proceeded to reach for the ancient magics she no longer could control, in order to get through to Meteion and carve the path they needed.

So Cross tapped into an Echo-made memory, and prayed for Elpis flowers filled with hope. Her friends’ sacrifices would not be for nothing -- all the steps they’d taken would not be for nothing. Meteion would not decide their fate herself. She would not, and could not.

The multi-colored blossoms were a delight to see, and they made Meteion’s stance waver. When the two ancients stepped aside, however, she was briefly confused...until Hades said to call her friends back.

(”They were always close to you, past and present,” Hades remarked, scoffing. “After Azem started her travels, she took to traveling with them in particular a little too much for my liking. At least I could trust them to keep her alive.”

Cross was holding Azem’s crystal in a grip so tight it would leave markings on her palm. Her eyes were laced with tears, and her soul cried out.

The spell flashed in answer, and they returned, body and soul, and her breath did not leave her lungs.)

As soon as they were back, and Cross gave them all a glance (and Thancred a glare for remarking on not having a scar to show for his fight with Meteion), she refocused on the bird girl, and offered her hope.

She wasn’t expecting this Meteion to speak in the jilted speech of a specific Meteion before the birdgirl fled into the breaking egg.

At least she cried out for help before she did. It would make Cross feel much better about the fight to come.

[autolovecraft]

Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin!

In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made.

He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. As he planned, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible.

Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here. His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. Great heavens, Birch, but you always did go too damned far! He cried aloud once, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry.

His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here.

His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate.

The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the rejected specimen, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you always did go too damned far! Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not an evil man. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. He changed his business, but something always preyed upon him. Why did you do it, Birch? His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that. As he planned, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave. Being without superstition, he did not care to imagine. Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks. Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his aching arms rested by a pause during which he sat on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture, he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep. The skull turned my stomach, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly. Why did you do it, Birch?

Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. An eye for an eye! As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been encouraging and to others may have been encouraging and to others may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the rejected specimen, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. Birch, being by temperament phlegmatic and practical, did not shout long; but proceeded to grope about for some tools which he recalled seeing in a corner of the tomb. Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not heed the day at all; so that he was wise in so doing. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation.

[thetactilepope]

Lessons in Thermodynamics: Chapter Six

{Previous Chapter} | [Chapter Index] | {Next Chapter}

Introductions

Thirty-eight days until Winter Break

Friday

“I really should get going.” Shouto frowned, unsure of why he found himself so reluctant to stand up and get on with his day. He was dressed in his usual casual outfit, as his Quirk meant that he didn’t have to worry about the cold, and his bag was packed.

There was nothing preventing him from leaving, aside from a persistent doubt.

“What am I doing?” He asked the empty room, knowing he wouldn’t receive an answer.

Why did he tell Yaoyorozu about his mother? Why had he agreed to let her come with him to the hospital, when he hadn’t even told the person who inspired him to start going about his visits? How were they different?

“Yaoyorozu knows how to keep her distance. She isn’t cold, not really, just careful not to trample over others’ feelings…” He concluded, after considering the question, “If he knew, Izuku would take it upon himself to ‘fix’ the situation, unable to turn a blind eye to someone’s suffering. And I… I want to be the one to help my mother. I want to be strong enough to do that on my own.”

The thought felt incredibly childish, but no amount of chiding himself would shake it.

“Such selfish aspirations, Shouto.” His father’s voice berated him, eyes burning, “They are not fit for a hero… I still have so much work to do.”

“You might not be a perfect copy, but you’ll have to be good enough. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Shut up, shut up.” He muttered, shaking his head. His left hand trembled, and the only thing keeping it from scratching at his scar was the loose grip his right hand had on its wrist.

Beginning his deep breathing exercises, focused on the flow of air in and out of his lungs, he gradually felt calmer, and more prepared to face the day, “I am my own person. I will be a hero in my own right.”

*Bzzzt*

He blinked, startled by the sudden noise from his phone, a message from the one he was supposed to have met by now.

{Creati – Yaoyorozu}

[We should probably leave soon, yeah?]

[Wait] [You arent still sleeping, are you!?]

[ :0 please tell me you’re awake…]

He rolled his eyes, biting back a yawn, “Surely she doesn’t really think I sleep that much.”

[Don’t worry I’m fine :)] [Just spaced out for a moment,] [sorry.]

[I’ll be out in sec.]

Not bothering to wait for a reply, he stood, full of a nervous energy not unlike the feeling he got before an important fight. But that didn’t make sense. What about this day could possibly be important?

“Just a da- day out with a friend, that’s all. A friend, who will undoubtedly be annoyed with me if I delay longer.”

Shouto could picture it with clarity, having seen her annoyed at many things recently, usually a difficult concept that for whatever reason, defied her razor-sharp mind. The way she’d scrunch up her nose, furrow her brow, eyes glaring with an intense focus at whatever, or whoever had raised her ire.

“A lot like how she concentrates, really. Except then she’ll sometimes stick her tongue out just a bit…” He found himself smiling, a fuzzy sort of pressure building in his chest. When had he started paying attention to stuff like that?

He shook his head, forcibly grounding himself in reality. It didn’t matter anyway, not right now.

…

Standing on the platform, waiting for the train, Shouto found that the nervous feeling had only gotten more intense since he had met up with Yaoyorozu. While it wasn’t like they had never hung out before, there were always other people involved, or they had a very specific goal in mind.

The study sessions didn’t count, couldn’t count, but he wasn’t sure why that distinction held so much importance to him. Maybe because he knew exactly how people would talk if they found out.

“Yes, that has to be it. I don’t want to deal with idiotic rumors any more than she does.” He thought, as they stepped onto the train together. With no seats available, they wound up standing side by side.

As the movement of the train caused their shoulders to jostle together, something else occurred to him. He hadn’t actually explained his family situation to her, and though it was extremely unlikely, the possibility of his father showing up at the hospital filled him with dread.

“Uh, Yaoyorozu, I think…” He began, but couldn’t bring himself to complete the thought, not when it might ruin the whole day.

“I think we’re making a mistake.”

But he couldn’t put his finger on why he thought that.

Startled out of her own daze by his voice, she seemed less composed than usual, “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

“I, er, wanted to make sure we both know which stop to get off at, in case we get separated.”

“Ah, good thinking.” She nodded, and they proceeded to go over the plan once more. The mundane conversation helped calm the anxiety, until it was barely noticeable

He wouldn’t let fear control his life, not anymore.

…

They arrived at the hospital with one minor hiccup, in that neither Shouto nor Yaoyorozu had much experience with the train lines, usually only taking them in the company of their friends. Changing trains had been hectic, but in the end, the two made good time.

“Oh, Todoroki-kun! Welcome back, and so early in the day too!” The nurse smiled brightly, used to his face by now, “It’s been a while, no? How are you?”

“I’ve been well, Hogara-san,” He replied courteously, inclining his head, “just a little busy with school. We actually have the day off today.”

“Well, Mrs. Todoroki is feeling very energetic at the moment, so you picked a good day to bring a guest.” Hogara tilted her head, observing Yaoyorozu, smile growing wider, “Especially one so striking. What’s the occasion? Some special news for your mother perhaps?”

“Occasion? Does she think that Yaomomo and I are…?” His ears began to burn at the implication, but before he could protest, his classmate beat him to the punch.

“O-Oh, no, w-we’re not…” She seemed a little taken aback by the nurse’s words, shaking her head politely, “It’s nothing like that. I’m merely here to offer my friend some… moral support?”

She glanced at him for approval, and he found himself nodding.

“Yes, Yaoyorozu truly goes above and beyond as our class’s vice-president.”

Hogara held a hand over her mouth, clearly mortified at her mistake, “Ah, I see. Please, excuse my presumption. Anyways, if I could just get you to write your name on this chart here, you two can head right on up…”

…

Opening the door into his mother’s room, Shouto paused, observing her in her usual place by the window. She was engrossed in a book, and he hesitated, not wanting to disturb her.

“Will she really want to see me?”

As if she sensed his doubts, Yaoyorozu gently nudged him in the side with her elbow, smiling warmly.

“Well? Aren’t we going to say hello?” She whispered, tilting her head to one side, “After all, Hogara-san said it was a good day for visitors.”

“R-Right, of course.”

Clearing his throat, he stepped forward, encouraged by her words, “Hello, mother. Um, is now a good time?”

Miyuki looked up from her book, an enthusiastic grin breaking across her face.

“Shouto! It’s always good to see you.” She said, gesturing to a chair across from her, “How are you? Is school going well?”

He began to move to sit down, as was his habit, but then he remembered he wasn’t here alone.

“I’m fine, school has just been a little busy.” His reply was a little hurried, rushing to the point, “I actually, well, brought a friend. To meet you.”

Stepping to the side, Shouto ushered her forward, “Mother, I’d like to introduce Yaoyorozu Momo, vice-president of my class. Yaomomo, this is my mother, Todoroki Miyuki.”

Miyuki rose, bowing politely as Yaoyorozu did likewise. He was glad neither of them had seemed to notice his use of Yaoyorozu’s nickname.

“If I’m not careful, I might give my mother the wrong idea…”

That was one conversation he’d rather avoid, if at all possible. With how awkward things could sometimes get between them, he wasn’t sure he would be able to handle it. Death by embarrassment was no way for a hero to go.

“Hello, Missus Todoroki.” Yaoyorozu said politely, taking a seat on the bed, leaving the chair for him, “It’s very nice to meet you.”

Though her face had fallen when Yaoyorozu had addressed her, Miyuki now smiled warmly, seated once more, “Likewise, Yaoyorozu-san… Would you think it presumptuous if I asked you to call me ‘Miyuki’? I’m afraid Enji’s last name doesn’t sit well with me at the moment.”

Though she seemed momentarily stunned by the request, Shouto was impressed by how quickly his friend adjusted, barely missing a beat before responding.

“Oh, of course, Miyuki-san.” She said brightly, chuckling, “I’m sorry to have made you uncomfortable.”

“Please, there’s no need to apologize. You know, Shouto has spoken highly of the vice-president before, and I can see he didn’t exaggerate. I do hope he hasn’t given you too much trouble.”

“No, quite the opposite actually,” She waved her hand, smiling, and Shouto could tell she was pleased by the compliment, “Todoroki-ku… Todoroki is an exemplary member of our class, and a good friend.”

He nodded in agreement, as the three began to talk about day-to-day life for Yuuei students, what classes they were taking, things that were simply normal. Shouto felt at ease in a way that had never happened during his visits, so as he excused himself to get drinks for everyone from the vending machine, he was surprised to find himself smiling.

“I don’t think I’ve had this long of a conversation with my mother in a while.” He thought, pleased by how well things were going.

Returning with the drinks (two ice-teas for him and his mother, an iced-coffee for Yaoyorozu), the somewhat awkward silence that had fallen across the room was very noticeable, especially since he had left them chatting amicably.

He sighed, placing one of the ice-teas on the table – he should have known it couldn’t last – before walking over to the bed, and offering his friend the coffee with a quizzical glance.

She shrugged, and after a few more moments of slience, the tension in the room broke, and the earlier atmosphere returned.

…

Sometime later, Shouto caught Yaoyorozu’s eye and inclined his head towards the door, silently asking her if she wanted to leave. She nodded, slipping out her phone to check the time, her brows shooting upwards in surprise.

They had been conversing with his mother for nearly two and a half hours, though it had barely felt like any time at all.

“Mother, I hate to leave so abruptly,” he began, “but I’m afraid we have to go…”

She laughed, actually laughed, like he hadn’t heard in years, “Ah, it’s fine, Shouto, don’t worry!”

“I was thrilled just to have you visit,” Miyuki’s voice seemed much brighter, “and I even got to meet one of the friends you’re always talking about! You two run along and have a good day, and be sure you’re not working too hard.”

After another series of bows, and hurried goodbyes, Shouto was left wondering how his mother had managed to extract a promise to bring not only Yayorozu to see her again, but more of his friends soon.

…

The weather had cooled somewhat, and as they made their way towards a café that Ashido had recommended, he tentatively warmed himself with his left side. Falling into step beside his friend, he had to admit that today had been much nicer than he had expected.

“I have to make sure I thank Yaoyorozu for accompanying me…” He decided, nodding to himself.

“Um, Todoroki, can we talk for a moment?” Her voice was nervous, tinged with an emotion he couldn’t place, and he stopped, turning to face her.

The way her gaze kept flicking away from his, only able to meet his eyes for a few seconds, set him on edge, but he was able to keep his tone neutral, “Sure. What is it?”  

“When you left the room, your mother, she, uh,” Yaoyorozu paused, hesitating, “she said she was ‘very lucky that Shouto still wanted to visit’, after what she did to you…”

Taking a moment, she seemed to gather her courage, finally making eye contact with him, dark pupils determined, “What happened?”

There was a small part of him that wanted to run, but it was as if her gaze was pinning, no, anchoring him to the spot. He spoke almost without thinking, the automatic habit of answering her questions wrenching the words from his throat.

“Oh, she gave me this,” He heard himself say, pointing to the scar on the left side of his face, “with some boiling water. She couldn’t handle how my father was treating us, or stomach watching the harsh training he was putting me through. One day, my mom, she, well… y’know.”

Yaoyorozu looked horrified, and he wished suddenly he could be anywhere but here. What would she think of him now?

That he was someone to be pitied, who should be shielded from all strife?

“Say something, you idiot!” His mind raced, desperately searching for words that could fix this.

“It’s all in the past, don’t worry.” Shouto forced himself to laugh for a moment, before continuing, “We’ve resolved our issues, my mother and I.”

That eased her stricken expression, but didn’t dispel it completely.

“Ah, I-I see.” She was clearly floundering, out of her element, “In th-that case, I don’t think there’s m-much more to say, is there?”

He shrugged, “Not really.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way, feeling the cold more deeply than before.

…

The session was a disaster.

Shouto could barely focus on the notes, and Yaoyorozu was no better. They were too busy scrutinizing each other, every little shift in posture and gesture analyzed intensely.

This newfound uneasiness between them made him want to go back in time, to right before he had given his response, and deck himself. Twice.

“What were you expecting? That she wouldn’t judge you like everyone else does? That knowing your own mother marred your face wouldn’t change anything?”

He sighed, closing the book, “Let’s call it here. I don’t believe this is helping you.”

He didn’t know if he meant this lesson specifically, or their whole arrangement. His thoughts were a mixed-up jumble, a swirling maelstrom of scientific terminology and memories better left alone.

For a second, he was sure she was going to argue, from the way her shoulders tensed.

But she didn’t. She merely accepted his words, with a resigned nod.

“I want you to fight me on this”, he suddenly realized, “to say something, anything, that tells me moving forward is what you want. Please.”

He couldn’t stand to be here any longer, so he got up, moving towards the door.

“Todoroki, I-I… I had a nice time today. With you.” Her voice stopped him in his tracks, “Is Monday still OK? For the next lesson, I mean.”

“Y-Yeah. That sounds great.” He replied, surprising himself with how much he meant that, but he was still unable to turn around, “Yaoyorozu… Thank you, for coming with me.”

“It was no problem. We’ll talk later, alright?”

“Sure.” Shouto hesitated, wanting to say more – it didn’t matter what, he’d list the periodic table to keep himself from leaving – but everything caught in his throat except for “Goodbye.”

There are thirty-four days until the Retest.

[viralhottopics]

Fox & Friends in the henhouse: how Trump’s beloved show wields power

The president and the Fox News morning show have built a symbiotic relationship: the program defends Trump as it helps set his agenda

I like that group of three people, Donald Trump said this month. They had a man who was saying: Trump is the greatest president ever and there will never be one like him.

Trump was referring to Steve Doocy, Ainsley Earhardt and Brian Kilmeade the hosts of Fox & Friends and a segment he had seen on the show. Its one of the presidents favorite programs, and it may well be the most influential television program in the world.

On 7 March, the president tweeted five times in direct response to topics discussed during the three-hour Fox & Friends, on the Fox News Channel. It wasnt a one-off.

On 29 November, Trump suggested that anyone caught burning the American flag should lose their citizenship or spend a year in jail. He sent his tweet at 6.55am ET 30 minutes after Fox & Friends ran a piece about a protest in which someone burned the American flag.

At 6.04am on 26 January, Trump blasted off a tweet about Chelsea Manning, the whistleblower whose sentence was commuted by Barack Obama. Manning had just published an article critical of the former president.

Donald Trump visits the show in 2011. Photograph: Astrid Stawiarz/Getty Images

Ungrateful TRAITOR Chelsea Manning, who should never have been released from prison, is now calling President Obama a weak leader, Trump wrote. Terrible!

At 5.50am, Fox & Friends had carried a banner that referred to Manning as an ungrateful traitor. Mediaite noted that the anchor that day, Abby Huntsman, had said Manning was slamming President Obama as a weak leader.

The next month, Trump echoed a Fox & Friends suggestion that UC Berkeley should not receive federal funding. He also mused that Obama had been too soft on Russia 12 minutes after Fox & Friends held a discussion about how Obama had been too soft on Russia.

Fox News turned down an interview request for this piece, but by any standard its morning show has had a remarkable year. As Trumps popularity soared, so too did the number of people watching.

According to Nielsen media research, between February 2016 and February 2017, the program increased its viewership by 46% averaging 1.7m viewers a day last month. It is by far the most popular morning show on cable; on average, MSNBCs Morning Joe brought in 847,000 viewers this February, while CNNs New Day reached just 639,000.

Fox & Friends, which airs every weekday, is in some ways a typical breakfast show. It combines light, fun features a recurring item on Monday was a video of a toddler getting swept off her feet by a door; on Thursday the show celebrated National Puppy Day, with harder news and commentary favorable to Trump.

On Monday, Trump was being criticized in much of the mainstream media as he has been for weeks over alleged ties to Russia among his campaign aides. In the Fox & Friends studio, efforts were being made to tell viewers why Russia connections dont matter.

FOX & friends (@foxandfriends)

“Put the narrative aside. Report real news.” -Mom Deborah Antignano on media’s coverage of alleged Russia-Trump campaign ties http://pic.twitter.com/kn1kJhqCyh

March 20, 2017

The people tasked with this were the Security Moms a group of four women, presumably mothers, who are sporadically wheeled out to discuss national security issues.

Appearing above a chyron that said News You Cant Use, the four women set about trying to convince themselves, and viewers, that American families are just not interested in reports that Trump advisers may have been colluding with Russia to help him win the election.

Earhardt kicked off proceedings by asking the Security Moms, who were seated in tiers like the members of Queen in the Bohemian Rhapsody video, if any of them were concerned that President Trump and his campaign colluded with Russia to get elected?

No, the moms said as one.

They want to uphold this narrative as if its factual and its not factual, said Deborah Antignano.

A caption popped up, identifying her as the mother of a 13-year-old girl.

Report real news. Do away with the fake news. Because Americans, quite frankly, were all tired of it.

That was the end of that. Except later that day came a bombshell.

The FBI director, James Comey, told the House intelligence committee the FBI was investigating possible collusion between the Trump campaign and Russia. He added that there was no basis to support Trumps claims that he had been wiretapped by Obama.

For Fox & Friends, this presented a problem. They had to address Comeys testimony: it was the news of the day. But they had to do it in a way that told the viewers including the president there was nothing to see here.

They had already deployed the Security Moms on Monday. They couldnt summon them again. There are no Security Dads. Something else was required.

The solution was to clip together 20 instances of Comey declining to comment and tell viewers: You didnt miss much.

FOX & friends (@foxandfriends)

If you missed yesterday’s congressional hearing with FBI Dir. James Comey, you didn’t miss much… http://pic.twitter.com/AnJdtWcGxK

March 21, 2017

A hostile work environment

In Fox & Friends world, Trump is never wrong and everyone always loves Trump. Its quite a contrast with the liberal world of New York City, where the show is filmed.

The Fox News studio is one block south from where NBCs Today show is broadcast, and four blocks north of ABCs Good Morning America. Those two shows average about 4.5m viewers and their studios are common tourism spots.

People stand at windows behind the presenters, waving frantically and calling family members to tell them to turn on the television. The shows encourage this both have sections on their websites giving directions for fans. Every day, scores of people line up outside. Its fun. Its convivial.

Fox & Friends, despite also being filmed against a backdrop of midtown Manhattan, does not do this. If anything, the studio is hidden away. If you manage to find the address, all you are met with is the imposing grey concrete of Fox News brutalist headquarters.

Theres no opportunity to stand outside. No ogling through the windows. The backdrop of the show is a view of Sixth Avenue but filmed from 50ft up. If youre committed, you can still get onscreen, as the Guardian did on Wednesday. But youll never be more than a blob in the distance.

Unwelcoming and fortress-like, Fox News HQ stands in stark contrast with Fox & Friends the show. With those videos of toddlers toppling over, the puppy visits and the reassuring asininity of the Security Moms, its a warm and cozy place.

The three hosts seem to get along well. Doocy, who looks a bit like a scarecrow whos just had his hair done, is the alpha male. Kilmeade, a New Yorker with close-set eyes and a childlike curiosity, is the everyman. Then theres Earhardt, a former CBS reporter who is probably the most intelligent person associated with the show.

But despite the apparent intimacy, Fox & Friends has not always been a happy place to work. For seven and a half years, Gretchen Carlson got to sit alongside Doocy and Kilmeade. But she was bumped in 2013 and then, in June 2016, fired from Fox News altogether. She brought a lawsuit against the channels then chairman, Roger Ailes, accusing him of sexual harassment. Fox News settled for a reported $20m. Ailes resigned in July.

Carlsons complaint was filed against Ailes, but it also named Doocy. Her fellow presenter had created a hostile work environment, Carlsons claim said, by regularly treating her in a sexist and condescending way, including by putting his hand on her and pulling down her arm to shush her during a live telecast.

Doocy stayed on, apparently unpunished. Fox News did not respond to questions about whether he ever faced disciplinary action.

Do you love Trump?

The mutually beneficial relationship between Trump and Fox & Friends you provide feather-smoothing, ego-boosting coverage, I agree to tweet positive things about your program and sometimes appear on it did not spring out of nowhere.

For four years before running for president, Trump had his own slot. He appeared weekly, usually by phone, on Mondays with Trump.

The segment was a platform for the kind of rambling, free-form missives that came to characterize his 2016 campaign. Trump would call up to weigh in on a variety of issues sometimes war, sometimes jobs, sometimes the Oscars and, increasingly often, Barack Obamas birth certificate.

Fox & Friends would air the billionaires claims without criticism, and with no acknowledgment of how damaging they were.

In a March 2011 clip discussing the issue of whether Obama had been born in the US he was Trump said, without evidence, that the then president had spent millions of dollars trying to get away from this issue. At the end of the conversation, the hosts chuckled.

Donald Trump, who we all know was born in this country. All you have to do is read the side of his building, Kilmeade said.

The Fox & Friends hosts would frequently ask Trump if he was going to run for president. At times, they seemed to be actively encouraging it.

A celebrity stroll with Donald Trump.

In a clip from 7 May 2015, Kilmeade went on a celebrity stroll with Trump a walk down Fifth Avenue that was essentially an exercise in showing Fox & Friends viewers just how popular, and how electable, Trump was.

You seem to have this natural relationship with the so-called blue-collar worker, Kilmeade told Trump, who pointed out possibly using alternative facts how many people on the street seemed to like him.

Look at the response, Trump said, pointing at five people who remained silent as he walked past.

A little later, a truck drove past and the driver leaned out of the window.

Do you love Trump? Kilmeade shouted.

I know you, the driver responded.

If he did love Trump, he had a funny way of showing it.

I enjoyed being with you. I love your show, Trump told Kilmeade.

Then the future president, not known for the consistency of his views, showed that when it comes to Fox & Friends, at least, his commitment has never wavered.

The three of you are fantastic people, he said of the hosts. I wouldnt do this for anybody but you.

Read more: http://ift.tt/2n50S5O

from Fox & Friends in the henhouse: how Trump’s beloved show wields power

[autolovecraft]

There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb.

The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. The pile of tools soon reached, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height. I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. Birch heeded this advice all the rest of his life till he told me his story; and when I saw the scars—ancient and whitened as they then were—I agreed that he was wise in so doing. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was not far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. He cried aloud once, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him. When Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might.

The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the degree of dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, just as I thought! His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that. Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it.

To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the enlarged transom; but he could do better with four. Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones, and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of transporting them. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, just as I thought! Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. An eye for an eye!

On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before.

Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but he could do better with four. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face.

He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. Birch, being by temperament phlegmatic and practical, did not shout long; but proceeded to grope about for some tools which he recalled seeing in a corner of the tomb. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been just fear, and it may have been encouraging and to others may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor.

It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last.

Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform.

For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him. Clutching the edges of the aperture. There was evidently, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. Sawyer. Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you always did go too damned far!

Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted.

Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom. In this twilight too, he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep.

Perhaps he screamed.

[autolovecraft]

I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales.

The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to realize the truth and to shout loudly as if his horse outside could do more than neigh an unsympathetic reply. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not heed the day at all; so that he was wise in so doing. As he planned, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might. Perhaps he screamed. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the rejected specimen, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. Davis, an old-time village practitioner, had of course seen both at the respective funerals, as indeed he had attended both Fenner and Sawyer in their last illnesses.

He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not heed the day at all; so that he was reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the latch. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought! Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. He changed his business, but something always preyed upon him. He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit.

This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height. Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. Birch, but you got what you deserved.

At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb. Birch, being by temperament phlegmatic and practical, did not shout long; but proceeded to grope about for some tools which he recalled seeing in a corner of the tomb. It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb. The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to realize the truth and to shout loudly as if his horse outside could do more than neigh an unsympathetic reply. Why did you do it, Birch? That he was not an evil man.

Being without superstition, he did not heed the day at all; so that he was reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the latch. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was not far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly. The skull turned my stomach, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the tomb.

Sawyer died of a malignant fever.

It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin! As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been mocking. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought! His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. Perhaps he screamed. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. It may have been encouraging and to others may have been mocking. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling.

He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste.

His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the way in his quest for the Fenner casket.