maryforeverfangirl

[wilwheaton]

The tech industry is getting increasingly scammy. True innovation has slowed down drastically in recent years, threatening to shrink the staggering profits from the earlier parts of the century. To replace that income, tech leaders have increasingly turned to overhyped products or even outright fraud, as evidenced by the collapse of the FTX cryptocurrency exchange and imprisonment of its founder. Joe Biden's administration has made shutting down consumer fraud a majority priority. Rather than dial back the shady behavior, the tech industry is turning to Donald Trump, a man whose entire business career was built on fraud, to save them.

A viral blog post from a bureaucrat exposes why tech billionaires fear Biden — and fund Trump

[eosnox]

Smart Investors Choose Crypto: Unlocking the Potential of Crypto Investment

[reachartwork]

re: ai water usage

people say this a lot which is baffling because it's totally untrue? if you do the actual math on ai water usage it's almost literally a drop in the bucket - it's a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a percent of the US's (much less the world's) total water usage. golf courses alone in the USA use 700x (that is seven hundred times) the amount of water that openai's model training does every year.

and the cost of running these programs once they are trained is negligible, easily comparable to running any other gpu-intensive program like "a video game" or "watching youtube".

and the water doesn't just vanish mysteriously - it's used to cool down the computers. they just... cool the hot water down again and re-use it.

nfts and cryptocurrency are bad because the waste is baked in to generate the value of the token - hypothetically, the economic value of your byproduct is the value of the energy you wasted, and people were mass buying gpus to use them for cryptocurrency and nothing else. ai energy and water expenditure is used on creating an actual thing - the model - which then has a totally infinitesimal use cost when actually deployed on consumer hardware.

i'm beginning to think you guys just didn't like nfts and cryptocurrency for ideological reasons rather than because they were bad and useless, and never actually thought about the reasons why they were bad and useless.

anyway. some pictures from the twitter thread for those who dont want to click.

human brains are easily tricked and not supposed to think about numbers higher than like 15. i strongly encourage you all to actually research these things instead of just accepting what someone tells you because it agrees with you.

[lacroixqueen]

i'm so chill but you make me jealous jealous deadpool x fem!reader, 18+

Summary: deadpool sees you on a date with another guy and loses his shit lol

Pairing: jealous deadpool x fem!reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings/Tags: jealousy, possessive, angst, brat, noncon, dubcon

You were trying to figure out the fastest way to get out of this dumpster fire of a date. This is what you get for putting yourself out there, by the fervent advice of both your mother and entire social circle. So you went ahead and downloaded a dating app out of sheer boredom but also a tiny glimmer of hope. After quite a number of left swipes and a small handful of rights, you somehow wound up across the dinner table with… er, you forgot his name already. 

But you knew he worked in finance. Or was it accounting? Anyways, he was currently explaining the intricacies of the stock market to you, and the appetizer hasn’t even come out yet. And you realized that you couldn’t care any less. 

“I.. have to go to the bathroom,” you said, standing up quickly and pushing in your chair. Your date almost didn’t seem to notice, giving you a half-hearted acknowledgement and then continuing to drabble on to himself about cryptocurrency. 

Without another word, you darted to the nearest exit of the restaurant, finding yourself on the freshly rained-on sidewalk. You always loved the smell of the concrete after it had just rained. 

Your heels made a satisfying click-clack sound as you briskly maneuvered your way down the street. You opened up your texts to see if you missed anything during the god-awful date, and lo and behold, was a message from none other than Wade.

“Love the dress,” it read. 

You glanced behind you, then side to side, and once you turned back around, there he was, leaning against the side of the cornerstore. 

“What are you doing here?” you asked, barely turning towards him before directing your attention back to your phone and continuing to walk past him. 

“Ohhhh, so it’s ice cold today,” he commented, following right behind you. “I love that flavor.”

“What do you want,” you said while texting a friend about how disastrously the date went. “I am just going home.”

“Well, I was just walking by when I caught a glimpse of you through the window of that Italian restaurant back there,” the assassin replied. “Speaking of which, what was on the menu? I mean that place looked upscale! Like they probably sprinkle gold dust on their pasta instead of parmesan.”

It was an Olive Garden.

“To be blunt, I honestly forgot,” you responded. “I didn’t even eat anything.”

“Well, why did you leave so early?” he pried, this obviously piquing his attention now.

“I-I felt sick,” you lied, your intonation increasing as quickly as your apprehension. “Can we just change the subject, please?”

“Oh ho ho,” Deadpool chuckled, as if he struck gold. “That bad? I mean, I didn’t get a great look at the guy, but from what I saw, he wasn’t terrible-looking. Also, he wore a fleece vest. I mean, that’s just the height of fashion, you really can’t get any better than that.”

“Are you having fun?” you said, rolling your eyes as he continued to mock your absolutely colossal defeat of an evening. 

“Oh, absolutely,” Deadpool laughed. “The other point of contention is why the hell you decided to pull out this absolute banger of a dress for your first date with Mr. Finance Bro there and not ours?”

“That was not a date,” you enunciated, pressing your finger into Wade’s chest. “That was a drunken one night stand that will never happen again and that you even promised to never bring up. It was stupid and nonsensical and I can’t believe it even happened in the first place.”

“Oh come on, Y/N, you’re going to break my heart,” he whined, clasping his hands together like a needy puppy. “I, for one, thought that night was very special. I mean, you even told me that you could see yourself fall-”

Before he could say another word, you grabbed him by the hand and led him into a dark alleyway so that innocent bystanders wouldn’t hear you scream.

“Stop! Bringing that up!” you exclaimed. 

Deadpool was shocked his casual mention of the event elicited such a strong emotion from you. “Okay, okay, jeez.. calm down.”

You sighed, letting him go and turning your back to him. 

But he didn’t let you. Not even for a second. Before you could even react, he grabbed you by the neck and slammed you into the wall. 

You gasped, your hands instinctively reaching up to clasp over his while his grip only tightened over your carotid. 

“Besides, you know that I only followed you here because I wanted to see more of you in this ridiculously skimpy dress..” his voice darkened as he continued to choke you like a helpless animal. “I mean, look at you. That thing practically clings onto you like skin! If you weren’t such a tightass I would have ripped it off of you by now..”

He unsheathed his pocket knife and ran it across your lacy scarlet choker, over the thin straps of your slip dress, and onto your chest. He traced the outline of your cleavage with the dull edge, and then slowly slid it down over your taut stomach. 

You were trying to gulp up air for just one breath, but his hold was unrelenting. 

“I mean a red mini dress, are you fucking kidding me?” he snarled, his blade gently brushing against the garter belt on your right thigh. “Wearing my favorite color? With some other guy? This has got to be orchestrated at this point, Y/N.”

“Wade.. please..” you begged, lips beginning to quiver. Regardless of how much he joked around with you, he scared you when he was angry. 

He finally released you, allowing you to cough and gasp for your first breath. 

“But you know of course I wouldn’t kill you, I mean who do you think I am, a psychopath?” his tone immediately brightened up the moment he saw how much you feared him. “I just like watching you not being able to breathe is all. It’s so cute.”

 After you finally caught your breath, you stared daggers down at the vigilante who stood before you. 

“Listen, Wade,” you said. “I understand you are not exactly pleased with the current state of affairs. But this isn’t entirely up to me. And I’ve told you this a million different times.’

The assassin let out a dramatic, almost cinematic sigh. “Yes, I know, Your mother wants you to date ‘someone sensible with a stable career and not a psycho killer’. Which is perfectly understandable! I get it. I mean, I would probably think the same thing if I lived in the suburbs and made tuna casserole in my spare time.”

“Wade..” you shook your head and rolled your eyes. “You know it’s not that simple.” You walked up to him and gently lifted up his mask to reveal only his lips. 

He didn’t hesitate to grab you by the waist and pull you so close that your body was pressed up against his. 

You stood up on your tiptoes in your heels, stabilizing yourself by holding onto his broad shoulders. You weren’t exactly sure what you were doing, but you knew something within you just wanted to kiss him. But you also didn’t know if this was the right idea. 

The plump part of your lip gently brushed against his. The smell of your watermelon lip gloss was driving him crazy. He started to breathe heavily, and if another second passed where you weren’t kissing him he would say fuck it and just do it himself. 

You felt his hot breath in your mouth, and you felt your arms twist around him like they knew exactly where to rest themselves. Like they have done this before. 

“I’m so stupid for this,” you sighed, as you felt his lips beginning to close over yours. 

He smiled smugly into the kiss, quite pleased with himself over the hard fought victory. Without another moment of hesitation, he grabbed the back of your thighs and lifted you up without much effort at all. He walked over to the wall, pressing your back softly against it. 

You wrapped your legs around his waist automatically, kissing him like you would die if you stopped. You felt his tongue wrap desperately around yours. He was aggressive, hungry even. He wanted you all to himself, not some fucker in a fleece vest or anyone else for that matter. 

You knew you would regret your decision in the morning. And that no matter how hard you tried to deny it, you would come running back to him. Every single time. 

[rileyslibrary]

The hot seat.

Synopsis: You decide to attend a speed dating event in the city where you're deployed. Simon “Ghost” Riley, your lieutenant, is also there.

Relationship: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

Word Count: 1,595

Notes:

I got this idea after a friend told me she matched with one of her colleagues on Tinder.

Fluff.

Want more?

———————————————————————

“Why don’t you just give it a try?” One of your friends suggested, “It’s not like you’ll be committing to anything.”

And when you told them there are other ways to meet new people, such as dating apps, they laughed so hard that you felt offended. “You don’t trust your own shadow,” one of them said, “how could you possibly trust a couple of pictures and a few messages before meeting a stranger?”

They were right; not only had it been months since your last date, but your trust issues weren’t helping. So you listened to your friends and decided to give it a shot. This could be your opportunity to get “back on the horse.”

They wanted to come to your house a few hours before to advise you on what to wear—it seems like it wasn’t just you who had trust issues. “You have a thing with self-sabotage,” one of them admitted, “and we don’t want you to portray yourself as less than who you really are.” A bolt claim from Jessica, the master of self-sabotage, who kept bailing her partner out of jail because he was constantly breaking into people’s houses.

You politely declined, promising to do your best. You chose a little black dress, opaque tights, and black heels. You let your hair down for once, since the army wouldn’t let you, and applied some make-up—but not too much—to enhance your features.

The speed dating event is held in a trendy downtown bar. The room is crammed with small tables, each with two chairs facing each other. You take a deep breath and walk over to the registration desk. You sign up, fill out a form with your information, and they hand you a name tag.

“This Is What You Came For” plays over the speakers, and you can’t help but wonder what made the DJ choose that song. What did I come here for, Rihanna? You think to yourself. To tell a stranger in three minutes about my food preferences and favourite colour? Is that what will ensure compatibility?

Your nerves start to kick in, so you rush to the bar. Your options are limited to beer or wine, according to the bartender. When you ask why, he starts narrating the horrors he’s seen of people attempting to calm their nerves with shots before the speed date. You choose wine and turn to face the people you’re about to meet in three-minute rounds. A few catch your eye; some look intimidated, while others appear overconfident and exuberant. “Peacocks”, as you call them.

The event organiser announces the beginning of the event, and you make your way to your assigned table. Dread grips you. What if you don’t meet anyone interesting? What if everyone you talk to is dull or uninteresting? You take a seat and wait for the event to start.

The first guy who sits down is a health freak, to put it mildly. He gets up at 4 a.m., lifts “hard” for two hours, goes to work, and waits until his next workout at around 6 p.m. He says he likes chicken because of its high protein content and asks what your favourite food is, to which you respond, “Haribos,” to piss him off.

The next one is a cryptocurrency investor. Enough said.

The third guy is a motivational speaker. You’re unsure about the “motivational” part, but he’s undeniably a “speaker.” He doesn’t. Stop. Talking. He only asks for your name, which you don’t have to say because it’s written on your tag. He then starts mumbling about books he’s read and the importance of a proper and consistent morning routine. He and Mr Health Freak could have easily become soul mates, you think to yourself.

Three minutes pass like hours, and you lower your head to the table. This was a mistake. Coming here was, as you suspected, a bad idea.

“I see you’ve already given up.” The man in front of you comments with a smile.

You look up and meet his gaze. He is tall and well-built, with short blonde hair and dark brown eyes. But it’s his sleeve tattoo that draws your attention.

It’s familiar to you. You’ve seen it before, peeking through a military uniform and tactical gloves.

Simon “Ghost” Riley.

You’d never seen him without his mask, but his build, voice, and tattoos are distinct. Your heart is racing as you struggle to remain calm. He, too, appears surprised. Did he not recognise you at first because of your make-up and hair?

Well, it seems like he recognises you now. But you’re not supposed to acknowledge his true identity; doing so might destroy everything he’s worked so hard to keep hidden all these years. It may also jeopardise your professional relationship.

But, my God, he’s hot. He’s exactly as you imagined him, if not better. It’d be best to act as cool as possible. Ignorant, stupid, call it whatever you want—just don’t reveal his identity. There are tens of thousands of people named Simon, and you are not supposed to give your surname to the other person here. So all you know about him is his name. He could be any of the other “Simons” out there.

You immediately put on a happy-go-lucky face and smile, trying to muster the courage to date your lieutenant for three minutes.

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” you reply, trying to play it cool.

He fidgets in his seat, still feeling uneasy. You need to act quickly.

“Yes, I’m about to give up,” you moan and pout, “so please, for the love of God, be a decent one.”

He lets out an awkward chuckle. “I’m not sure about that,” he says.

“Oh, really?” You exclaim, raising your eyebrows, “Unless you speak nonchalantly about yourself, chuck twelve egg yolks in the morning, or boast about imaginary coins, you’re good.”

“Ah,” he says hesitantly, “no, I prefer my eggs cooked.”

“Boiled, scrambled, or sunny side up?”

“I don’t mind as long as they’re cooked properly.” He responds, and you raise your fist to your mouth.

“I assume no runny egg whites?” You ask, making a disgusted face.

“Christ, no.” He smiles and shakes his head.

He appears more at ease now, thinking you haven’t identified him.

But then another problem arises. When dating, one of the first questions you usually ask is about the other person’s occupation.

“So, Simon,” you say, “what do you do for a living?”

“I, um, work as an operator,” he replies. “And you?”

That was a wise move on his part. He knows you’ll relate if he discloses his primary occupation, and you’ll start speculating. So he decided to reveal his side job. Although he is not completely honest with you, which could be interpreted as a red flag, there is a serious reason behind his answer.

“I’m a sergeant in the military,” you admit.

He nods and smirks but doesn’t ask a follow-up question.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m not very good at this.”

“Neither am I,” you chuckle, “but I can help you.”

“Thank you,” he says.

“Do you prefer cats or dogs, Simon?”

“I like both,” he says, “I can’t have a preference for animals; they aren’t eggs.”

“Phew!” You exclaim, theatrically placing the back of your hand on your forehead, “most of the men I met today hate cats!”

“Yeah,” Simon agrees. “I believe it’s because they don’t have control over them like dogs.”

“I feel bad for most of the women in here,” you say, looking around, “for settling for such controlling personalities.”

“How do you know I’m not controlling?” He asks, his brow furrowed.

“Men whose job is to order soldiers around, tend to live a more chilled lifestyle.” You elaborate.

“Order soldiers?” He asks, and you immediately stiffen up. “How do you know I order soldiers at my work?”

“I, um, assume you do because of your profession.” You stutter and look down at your lap.

“I said I’m an operator,” he smirks, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, “but I never said what kind of operator I am.”

Your chair has turned into a hot seat all of a sudden.

“From what you know, I could be a heavy machinery operator.” He adds, his smile widening.

You blush and turn to look at the clock; time’s almost up.

He leans forward to the table. “Why such eagerness to end our date, sergeant?” he whispers, “I thought we were doing so well.”

You raise your head to look at him. “I’m sorry, Lt.,” you admit, “I just didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“I appreciate that,” he says, “but knowing that you know who I am is already uncomfortable, don’t you think?”

You look down again, and he continues.

“Perhaps it would have been better to acknowledge the elephant in the room from the beginning.” He explains.

You let out a sigh. “You’re right,” you say, “I should have been more honest.”

He nods, and the bell rings for your next date. Simon gets up from his chair and smiles at you.

“Normally, I’d end this with a nice to meet you,” he says, “but in this case, it’s more of a nice getting to know you better,” he adds, extending his hand for a handshake.

You stand up and take his hand in yours. “Likewise, Lt.,” you say, smiling.

“See you tomorrow,” he says.

“For another date?” You joke, “You move too fast, Simon.”

“For the best military drill of your life,” he corrects you with a smirk, “for thinking you could fool me so easily.”

———————————————————————

Part 2 ->

[seat-safety-switch]

Storage is the defining problem of our age. Two hundred years ago, our ancestors had fifteen or twenty things in their houses, max. And one of them was "bed." Now, we have a lot of clutter. Sure, it's down from the peak of the 1970s, when we needed thirty-six different pieces of electrical equipment just to listen to racist people in our general area, but we still have too much stuff.

Self-storage companies have exploded. Not literally, although that did happen to the one near me from some dude cooking shatter, but they are immensely profitable. If you receive a bunch of heirloom furniture from Crazy Aunt Ethel, you won't have enough room for it in your single bedroom basement apartment. You shove all of it into a self-storage bay, and keep paying the monthly bills, waiting until you can have a house big enough to place some heirloom furniture in.

The storage companies know this. They'll give you a low "sucker" rate at the start, and then start cranking up the fees. And you'll keep paying them. It's cheaper to kick in $5 more a month, than it is to ask your friend Ted to borrow his pickup truck so that you can drive all your shit across town to a competing storage unit, who will do the exact same thing.

How do you fight back, ideally without having to throw away a bunch of coffee tables from 1953 and incurring the eternal wrath of Aunt Ethel's shade? You have to let the storage unit make money for you. The obvious way is electricity. With electricity, you can run all kinds of things, from a seedy cryptocurrency mining operation, to an illegal online betting parlour. And the storage folks know this, which is why they don't provide power to your unit, and wrap the unit's lightbulb in an impenetrable steel cage. They are used to dealing with your average, run-of-the-mill cheap scumbag.

Don't let that stop you: despite what your neurochemistry is telling you, you are an exceptional cheap scumbag. You don't need their electricity; you can generate your own. The answer? Rats love running on little hamster wheels. You can make thirty, forty cents a month, per wheel. That's money in your pocket, and all it will cost you is a bit of expired cheese and a lot of old Subaru blower motors. Sure, it's not going to be great for any couches or clothing that you leave in the unit, but who ever heard of a heirloom sofa bed? Throw that shit out, ideally by leaving it in a unit and no longer paying the bill. You don't need to cling to memories: you're rich now, atop your rodent power empire.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

An excerpt from The Bezzle

I'm on tour with my new novel The Bezzle! Catch me next in SALT LAKE CITY (Feb 21, Weller Book Works) and SAN DIEGO (Feb 22, Mysterious Galaxy). After that, it's LA, Seattle, Portland, Phoenix and more!

Today, I'm bringing you part one of an excerpt from Chapter 14 of The Bezzle, my next novel, which drops on Feb 20. It's an ice-cold revenge technothriller starring Martin Hench, a two-fisted forensic accountant specialized in high-tech fraud:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle

Hench is the Zelig of high-tech fraud, a character who's spent 40 years in Silicon Valley unwinding every tortured scheme hatched by tech-bros who view the spreadsheet as a teleporter that whisks other peoples' money into their own bank-accounts. This setup is allowing me to write a whole string of these books, each of which unwinds a different scam from tech's past, present and future, starting with last year's Red Team Blues (now in paperback!), a novel that whose high-intensity thriller plotline is also a masterclass in why cryptocurrency is a scam:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865854/redteamblues

Turning financial scams into entertainment is important work. Finance's most devastating defense is the Shield Of Boringness (h/t Dana Clare) – tactically deployed complexity designed to induce the state that finance bros call "MEGO" ("my eyes glaze over"). By combining jargon and obfuscation, the most monstrous criminals of our age have been able to repeatedly bring our civilization to the brink of collapse (remember 2008?) and then spin their way out of it.

Turning these schemes into entertainment is hard, necessary work, because it incinerates the respectable suit and tie and leaves the naked dishonesty of the finance sector on display for all to see. In The Big Short, they recruited Margot Robbie to explain synthetic CDOs from a bubble-bath. And John Oliver does this every week on Last Week Tonight, coming up with endlessly imaginative stunts and gags to flense the bullshit, laying the scam economy open to the bone.

This was my inspiration for the Hench novels (I've written and sold three of these, of which The Bezzle is number two; I've got at least two more planned). Could I use the same narrative tactics I used to explain mass surveillance, cryptography and infosec in the Little Brother books to turn scams into entertainment, and entertainment into the necessary, informed outrage that might precipitate change?

The main storyline in The Bezzle concerns one of the most gruesome scams in today's America: prison-tech, which sees America's vast army of prisoners being stripped of letters, calls, in-person visits, parcels, libraries and continuing ed in favor of cheap tablets that bilk prisoners and their families of eye-watering sums for every click they make:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/14/minnesota-nice/#shitty-technology-adoption-curve

But each Hench novel has a variety of side-quests that work to expose different kinds of financial chicanery. The Bezzle also contains explainers on the workings of MLMs/Ponzis (and how Gerry Ford and Betsy DeVos's father-in-law legalized one of the most destructive forces in America) and the way that oligarchs, foreign and domestic, use Real Estate Investment Trusts to hide their money and destroy our cities.

And there's a subplot about music-royalty theft, a form of pernicious wage theft that is present up and down the music industry supply-chain. This is a subject that came up a lot when Rebecca Giblin and I were researching and writing Chokepoint Capitalism, our 2022 book about creative labor markets:

https://chokepointcapitalism.com/

Two of the standout cases from that research formed the nucleus of the subplot in The Bezzle, the case of Leonard Cohen's batshit manager who stole millions from him and then went to prison for stalking him, leaving him virtually penniless and forced to keep touring to keep himself fed:

https://www.theguardian.com/music/2012/apr/19/leonard-cohen-former-manager-jailed

The other was George Clinton, whose manager forged his signature on a royalty assignment, then used the stolen money to defend himself against Clinton's attempts to wrestle his rights back and even to sue Clinton for defamation for writing about the caper in his memoir:

https://www.musicconnection.com/the-legal-beat-george-clinton-wins-defamation-case/

That's the tale that this excerpt – which I'll be serializing in six parts over the coming week – tells, in fictionalized form. It's not Margot Robbie in a bubble-bath, it's not a John Oliver monologue, but I think it's pretty goddamned good.

I'm leaving for a long, multi-city, multi-country, multi-continent tour with The Bezzle next Wednesday, starting with an event at Weller Bookworks in Salt Lake City on the 21st:

https://www.wellerbookworks.com/event/store-cory-doctorow-feb-21-630-pm

I'll in be in San Diego on the 22nd at Mysterious Galaxy:

https://www.mystgalaxy.com/22224Doctorow

And then it's on to LA (with Adam Conover), Seattle (with Neal Stephenson), Portland, Phoenix and beyond:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/16/narrative-capitalism/#bezzle-tour

I hope you'll come out for the tour (and bring your friends)!

Between 1972 and 1978, Steve Soul (a.k.a. Stefon Magner) had a string of sixteen Billboard Hot 100 singles, one of which cracked the Top 10 and won him an appearance on Soul Train. He is largely forgotten today, except by hip-­hop producers who prize his tracks as a source of deep, funky grooves. They sampled the hell out of him, not least because his rights were controlled by Inglewood Jams, a clearinghouse for obscure funk tracks that charged less than half of what the Big Three labels extracted for each sample license.

Even at that lower rate, those license payments would have set Stefon up for a comfortable retirement, especially when added to his Social Security and the disability check from Dodgers Stadium, where he cleaned floors for more than a decade before he fell down a beer-­slicked bleacher and cracked two of his lumbar discs. But Stefon didn’t get a dime. His former manager, Chuy Flores, forged his signature on a copyright assignment in 1976. Stefon didn’t discover this fact until 1979, because Chuy kept cutting him royalty checks, even as Stefon’s band broke up and those royalties trickled off. In Stefon’s telling, the band broke up because the rest of the act—­especially the three-­piece rhythm section of two percussionists and a beautiful bass player with a natural afro and a wild, infectious hip-­wiggle while she played—­were too coked up to make it to rehearsal, making their performances into shambling wreckages and their studio sessions into vicious bickerfests. To hear the band tell of it, Stefon had bad LSD (“Lead Singer Disease”) and decided he didn’t need the rest of them. One thing they all agreed on: there was no way Stefon would have signed over the band’s earnings to Chuy, who was little more than a glorified bookkeeper, with Stefon hustling all their bookings and even ordering taxis to his bandmates’ houses to make sure they showed up at the studio or the club on time. Stefon remembered October of ’79 well. He’d been waiting with dread for the envelope from Chuy. The previous royalty check, in July, had been under $250. The previous quarter’s had been over $1,000. This quarter’s might have zero. Stefon needed the money. His 1972 Ford Galaxie needed a new transmission. He couldn’t keep driving it in first.

The envelope arrived late, the day before Halloween, and for a brief moment, Stefon was overcome by an incredible, unbelieving elation: Chuy’s laboriously typewritten royalty statement ended with the miraculous figure of $7,421.16. Seven thousand dollars! It was more than two years’ royalties, all in one go! He could fix the Galaxie’s transmission and get the ragtop patched, and still have money left over for his back rent, his bar tab, his child support, and a fine steak dinner, and even then, he’d end the month with money in his savings account.

But there was no check in the envelope. Stefon shook the envelope, carefully unfolded the royalty statement to ensure that there was no check stapled to its back, went downstairs to the apartment building lobby and rechecked his mailbox.

Finally, he called Chuy.

“Chuy, man, you forgot to put a check in the envelope.”

“I didn’t forget, Steve. Read the paperwork again. You gotta send me a check.”

“What the fuck? That’s not funny, Chuy.”

“I ain’t joking, Steve. I been advancing you royalties for more than three years, but you haven’t earned nothing new since then—­no new recordings. I can’t afford to carry you no more.”

“Say what?”

Chuy explained it to him like he was a toddler. “Remember when you signed over your royalties to me in ’76? Every dime I’ve sent you since then was an advance on your future recordings, only you haven’t had none of those, so I’m cutting you off and calling in your note. I’m sorry, Steve, but I ain’t a charity. You don’t work, you don’t earn. This is America, brother. No free lunches.”

“After I did what in ’76?”

“Steve, in 1976 you signed over all your royalties to me. We agreed, man! I can’t believe you don’t remember this! You came over to my spot and I told you how it was and you said you needed money to cover the extra horns for the studio session on Fight Fire with Water. I told you I’d cover them and you’d sign over all your royalties to me.”

Stefon was briefly speechless. Chuy had paid the sidemen on that session, but that was because Chuy owed him a thousand bucks for a string of private parties they’d played for some of Chuy’s cronies. Chuy had been stiffing him for months and Stefon had agreed to swap the session fees for the horn players in exchange for wiping out the debt, which had been getting in the way of their professional relationship.

“Chuy, you know it didn’t happen that way. What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about when you signed over all your royalties to me. And you know what? I don’t like your tone. I’ve carried your ass for years now, sent you all that money out of my own pocket, and now you gotta pay up. My generosity’s run out. When you gonna send me a check?”

Of course, it was a gambit. It put Stefon on tilt, got him to say a lot of ill-­advised things over the phone, which Chuy secretly recorded. It also prompted Stefon to take a swing at Chuy, which Chuy dived on, shamming that he’d had a soft-­tissue injury in his neck, bringing suit for damages and pressing an aggravated-­assault charge.

He dropped all that once Stefon agreed not to keep on with any claims about the forged signature; Stefon went on to become a good husband, a good father, and a hard worker. And if cleaning floors at Dodgers Stadium wasn’t what he’d dreamed of when he was headlining on Soul Train, at least he never missed a game, and his boy came most weekends and watched with him. Stefon’s supervisor didn’t care.

But the stolen royalties ate at him, especially when he started hearing his licks every time he turned on the radio. His voice, even. Chuy Flores had a fully paid-­off three-­bedroom in Eagle Rock and two cars and two ex-­wives and three kids he was paying child support on, and Stefon sometimes drove past Chuy Flores’s house to look at his fancy palm trees all wrapped up in strings of Christmas lights and think about who paid for them.

ETA: Here's part two!

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/2024/02/17/the-steve-soul-caper/#lead-singer-disease

[mariacallous]

This summer, the Supreme Court is poised to overturn a cornerstone of administrative law known as "Chevron deference." Established in the 1984 case Chevron v. NRDC, this doctrine instructs courts to defer to federal agencies' interpretations of laws where the underlying statute is ambiguous (or even silent). Absent Chevron, Congress could be forced to be much more specific in how it crafts legislation, delegates authority, and conducts regulatory oversight. If it refuses to adapt, agencies could be incapacitated and service delivery could stall.

Ironically, the effort to dismantle Chevron and return responsibility to the legislative branch may happen amid a historically unproductive and divided Congress. Briefing and oral arguments for Loper Bright Enterprises v. Raimondo, the case challenging the 1984 decision, raised questions about Congress' preparedness. And outside the Court, commentators fear Congress may be too broken to fix.

As close watchers of efforts to modernize Congress over the past decade, we don't share that pessimism. But a lot will have to change. In the 40 years since Chevron was decided, Congress has seen worsening dysfunction and atrophy. Staffing on House committees has shrunk by 41 percent. Critical support offices like the Congressional Research Service and the Government Accountability Office have downsized by more than 25 percent. Meanwhile, the complexity of the federal bureaucracy has increased immensely.

While Chevron is often described as diminishing congressional authority, that's not entirely accurate. Rather than stealing authority from Congress, the ruling created the political conditions for Congress to be deliberately ambiguous, and punt contentious policy details to the executive branch. This change was then followed by a hollowing out of committee expertise, increased dependence on lobbyists, centralization of power in leadership, and more gridlock. As attorney Paul Clement argued in Loper Bright v. Raimondo:

Chevron is a big factor in contributing to gridlock. And let me give you a concrete example. I would think that the uniquely 21st-century phenomenon of cryptocurrency would have been addressed by Congress, and I certainly would have thought that would have been true in the wake of the FTX debacle. But it hasn't happened. Why hasn't it happened? Because there's an agency head out there that thinks that he already has the authority to address this uniquely 21st-century problem with a couple of statutes passed in the 1930s.

A post-Chevron world could force Congress to increase its internal capacity, invest in expertise, overhaul its processes, better monitor implementation, and respond more quickly. If not, depending where SCOTUS comes down, things could start to break.

Massive institutional reforms in Congress are rare and usually come in response to a crisis or scandal, whether post-Nixon budget changes, post-Jack Abramoff lobbying reform, or post-9/11 security changes (including the embrace of email after Anthrax attacks).

More recently, we saw continuity upgrades accelerated during the pandemic, and Congress is now responding with remarkable haste to responsibly adopt AI tools. Since 2019, a bipartisan modernization effort in the House has produced and implemented over 100 reforms, creating a virtuous cycle in which members, staff, and outside experts work together to improve the institution.

Post-Chevron, these efforts need to be dramatically expanded. This will require not just incremental adjustments but a comprehensive upgrade in resources, staffing, and operations. It will require a major increase to the legislative branch's budget even as the U.S. faces a difficult fiscal outlook. Indeed, while Congress is a mere 0.1 percent of federal expenditures, it has long been a salient and politically expedient place for politicians to make cuts.

One key area where Congress will need to improve is its regulatory monitoring and oversight. AEI scholars Kevin Kosar and Philip Wallach proposed a vehicle for this change: a new "Congressional Regulation Office" (CRO). The CRO would undertake critical tasks such as conducting benefit-cost analyses of significant agency rules, performing retrospective reviews to assess the effectiveness and impact of existing regulations, and identifying redundancies or conflicts across the regulatory landscape. Another approach would be to build this function inside of an existing agency, such as the Government Accountability Office or the Congressional Budget Office.

In addition to building a new regulatory support function, Congress will need to bolster its staff capacity and technology resources, with a particular focus on committees with substantial regulatory jurisdiction, as well as support agencies.

Unfortunately, to date, we are unaware of any major hearings or other efforts in Congress to address this challenge. Meanwhile, court watchers see that an upheaval to Chevron is coming. Regardless of where you come down on the merits of the case, it's crucial to get ready. While most will be focused on the November election throughout 2024, some of the biggest changes coming to Congress may soon be decided by nine votes.

[flowersandbigteeth]

Your first day with your alien husband

General Plot: You finally get your glasses fixed and begin sorting out matters of becoming an archduchess

Word Count: 3.5k

Kherae alien x female reader with glasses

💕 SFW MASTERPOST 💕

W: a bit of angst, sfw alien fluff

Tags: @almostoriginalartisan @lizzhearthz

“I want you to teach me more about managing the family estate, brother,” Dessin said as Idreod choked on his morning coffee. It was one of the few human inventions he really admired. It was bitter and earthy. Delicious. He was annoyed his brother was spoiling it. 

“What are you talking about?” he asked sharply, setting down his mug. “Why this all of a sudden?” 

He set his jaw. 

“I’ve been useless in the past, but I’ve grown up a bit. I want to be an asset to our family. You don’t think I hear the way the staff snicker about me? They think all I’m good for is perfume recommendations for their girlfriends. That was fine when I was young, but now I want some responsibility,” he said. 

“Dessin, this is work,” Idreod said, “not a game. If you want to play around I’ll give you a hundred million credits and you can invest in human cryptocurrency or the stock market. I’m told it’s amusing.” 

He growled. 

“You are always like this!” he snapped, “how can I grow if you are always treating me like a child?” 

“Don’t throw a tantrum. Why don’t you visit Gedra for a few days? Get your dick sucked and meet a new plaything,” Idreod said, already bored with this conversation, “I’ll send all your friends this time in celebration of my engagement, all expenses paid. You can call it my bachelor party, isn’t that what human men have?” 

He made a noise in the back of his throat. 

“You are not taking me seriously, Idreod!” he growled. 

Idreod barked out a tight laugh. 

“Of course I’m not Dessin. You’ve never done anything serious in your life and that’s fine. You’ll never have to want for anything, so why are you so upset?” 

He stood and glared at him. 

“You are so sick, brother. You get off on being superior to everyone but deep down you’re just a lonely fool. Someday you’ll find yourself alone with a knife in your back,” he hissed. 

Idreod rolled his eyes at him. 

“Will you be the one to put it there? Then who will pay your pleasure house bills, Dessin? Don’t be foolish. The humans have a saying. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you little brother.” 

He jumped up from the table, knocking his chair to the floor and stormed out of the room, which was just like him. 

If he really wanted something he would build it for himself, not beg his big brother for a position. He thought.  Idreod could give it to him, but then he would just get bored in a few months and return to his lifestyle. He wondered for a moment if he should just indulge him a little. He would get bored after all. 

Perhaps he was still a bit bitter from the day before because he shook the thought away. I am too soft on him already. He behaved with impunity, despite how it tarnished their family name, spent money lavishly without a thought for how it was made, and was generally a poor representative of the Zovith family. He didn’t owe him little kindnesses. 

He picked his coffee back up, determined to retrieve his good mood. In a few minutes he would meet his lovely fiance and begin her training. 

—

“That was so fast,” you told the optometrist as he handed you your new pair of glasses.  

“Yes, Kherae manufacturing technology is much more advanced than human,'' the Kheraen doctor said. 

You pulled on the pair and blinked at him as your world came into focus. Like most Kherae he was handsome, but quite a bit older than you with heavy lines in his face and silver tipping his once jet black horns. 

“You know we can have your vision corrected,” he offered, “it is a simple procedure. You’ll suffer a day of blindness while the nanites restructure your lenses, but after that your vision will be perfect.” 

You smiled at him, just happy you could see. 

“Actually, that might be nice,” you said. 

You’d always wished I had good vision, being legally blind was such a limitation. He smiled at you. 

“I will have a consultation added to your schedule,” he said gathering his tools, “we’ll be in touch soon.” 

You thanked the doctor and finished the breakfast the maids had brought you when he left. 

A few minutes later Airies appeared and you got a proper look at him for the first time. He was a lean Kherae, with their signature purple skin and spade tipped tail. His horns were short and stuck out of neatly cropped black hair in delicate arcs. 

“Archduke Zovith will see you, my lady,” he informed you, gathering you up and leading you down the hall to his office. 

You were impressed with the decor now that you could see it. Everything was done in tasteful neutral tones with pretty Kheraen art hung on the walls. Aries noticed you looking and stopped. 

“If there is anything not to your liking, my lady, please let me know and we will change it,” he said, “the archduke has given you free reign to decorate as you like. He doesn’t really care about such things. This office looks the same as every other office on Kherae, it would be nice if you would freshen it up for us.” 

You nodded and hurried along after him. Your heart pattered in your chest. You were about to see your husband for the first time. 

“(Y/N), you look lovely this morning!” you looked up to find Dessin standing in front of you. He was taller than Airies and a bit bulkier with messy golden hair that just covered his ears and black eyes. His horns delicately curled back on themselves in smooth rolls. He was certainly more good looking than you imagined and you blushed a little remembering that you’d kissed him on the cheek. 

“Good morning Dessin,” you said, trying to hide your blush with a little bow.

“Are you on your way to see my brother?” he asked, seeming a little flushed and out of breath. 

“Oh yes,” you said, “he wants to teach me how to manage the estate.” 

Dessin’s face turned chilly for a moment. 

“So he will teach you but not me,” he growled.

You frowned. 

“I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?” you asked. 

He shook the dourness away and smiled, revealing bright white teeth. 

“No, not at all (Y/N). You can’t say anything to offend me,” he said, taking your hand suddenly and kissing it. Your cheeks felt like hot irons. 

Airies cleared his throat. 

“I think we should be going now,” he said tightly. 

You nodded and pulled your hand away. 

“See you Dessin,” you said and followed Airies into Idreod’s office. 

Golden eyes gripped you when you walked in the room and you stumbled into Airies’ back. 

“My lady!” he exclaimed, catching you, but you were looking at the Archduke. 

He was a beautiful male, looking like some kind of god out of a fairy tale. 

His skin was deep plump, making his bright golden eyes shine like polished coins. His hair was spun gold, that fell in a thick sheet down his back. Large, black horns curved backwards in a shallow bow. He had a painfully handsome face. You could see the resemblance with Dessin, but he was so much more, the kind of face that broke spirits. His aura leaked complete power and esteem. 

Large hands splayed across the desk as he rose. 

“Are you well?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. You felt the urge to brush his delicate, gilt eyelashes with your fingertips. With Airies’ help, you steadied yourself and nodded shyly. 

“Do your glasses work properly?” he asked. 

“Yes, thank you for sending the doctor, he was very nice,” you replied. 

“Leave us,” he said to Airies, waving at him sharply. 

When we were alone his eyes inspected you from top to bottom. He smiled coolly and you felt a shiver go down your spine. 

“You are dressed befitting an archduchess,” he said, opening a drawer in his desk. 

You looked down at the purple dress the maids had given you in the morning. It was a scalloped, boat neck, A-line that fell neatly at your knees. They’d even done your makeup and hair to look pristine. Being fussed over would take some getting used to, but you could appreciate having your eyeliner done perfectly every time. 

“You should look like this every day, because you will show up to do business every day,” he explained, “but as a Zovith you must be even more extravagant. Our title is recognized and our rank must be easy to identify when we enter a room.” 

He crossed the room holding a square box, opening it to reveal a platinum and diamond brooch with a large emerald at the center. You swallowed thickly as his large fingers manipulated the delicate piece of jewelry and fastened it to your chest. 

“I’ll give you a new one every day, ” he said, quietly, his eyes intently searching yours. 

You felt your cheeks burn. 

“That’s really too much,” you mumbled. 

He frowned and stood up straight. 

“It is not,” he said, curtly, returning to his desk, “you will have something new every day. My wife will exude a certain status.” 

You crossed your arms. 

“Idreod, isn’t that a bit wasteful? New jewelry every day? Wouldn’t it be just as impressive to open an orphanage or start a food pantry? You can put your name and glitter all over that if you like!” 

He glared at you, but you were becoming more immune to his intensity by the second. You weren't sure why, but he didn’t exactly scare you. He was a lot for sure, but not frightening. Seeing that you weren’t backing down, he blinked and tapped the button on his desk to call Airies. 

“Send in Mr. (Y/LN)!” he barked.

Your heart fluttered as your father entered the room. 

“Daddy!” you squealed, jumping on him. He held you tightly in his arms, breathing into your hair. 

“I was so worried about you ladybug,” he murmured, “you shouldn’t have done this. Please, let’s go home. I’ll sell the shop and we’ll get out of town together. It doesn’t matter.” 

He inspected you carefully. 

“He hasn’t harmed you, has he?” 

You shook your head. 

“No, Idreod has been very…thoughtful,” you said diplomatically. 

He glared at your fiance. 

“Look Mr. Zovith. I know my daughter is very headstrong and foolish, but I’m not okay with this. I’m taking her home right now. This deal is off.” 

“Daddy!” you shouted indignantly. 

He looked at you. 

“Well you are! What were you thinking selling yourself to an alien?” he snapped, “did you think I was just going to give my only daughter away? I’d rather die!” 

“You would have died!” you countered, “Typhon would have killed you!” 

“Which would have been preferable to this!” he went on. 

“Mr. (YLN),” Idreod broke in, “I didn’t bring you here to negotiate. As the father of the future archduchess, you have a role to play as well.” 

Your father’s mouth dropped open. 

“A role to play? Let me tell you-” he started. 

Idreod held up his hand. 

“Mr. (YLN), what kind of future do you want for your daughter? Do you want her to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder while you scrape together enough to keep the wolves at bay every month? Who will that loanshark try to sell her to next? Did you know someone attempted to kidnap her on her way here? Who do you think that was? Together, we can provide her a life and I can promise protection. The life she deserves, as royalty.” 

He tapped a tablet on his desk. 

“This is an employment contract. Last night I bought a chain of laundromats. I can’t allow you to keep the one you own, but if you sign this, you will be president of this company. You can see your daughter as much as you like as long as you agree to appear at necessary functions. You also agree to sign a sworn statement saying I met your daughter after I hired you as president.” 

Your father gritted his teeth. 

“I’m not selling my daughter,” he said. 

Idreod gave him a cool smile.

“You are not,” he said, “you are becoming a Zovith.” 

You took your dad’s hand. 

“Daddy, please. Just do this…for me? I wish I could have saved the laundromat, but I won’t let you die if I can do something to stop it,” you said.

He looked at you and rubbed his eyes. 

“Ladybug. It’s not about the-” 

He sighed and crossed the room to Idreod’s desk. 

“Fine,” he said, swiping his finger across the screen, then he glanced up. 

“If you hurt her,” he said, “I will do anything and everything I have to do to end you.” 

Idreod seemed unmoved by his threats, but nodded anyway. 

“Of course,” he said, “I wouldn’t assume any less, but I assure you (Y/N) is in the best hands. I don’t just see your daughter as a means to an end, Mr. (L/N). She will be my precious wife and will be treated like fine china.” 

You weren’t sure if those were placating words, but they shocked you just the same. 

Your father nodded, seeming a little defeated, but still suspicious. 

“If you don’t mind reviewing your new role with my assistant Airies,” Idreod said, “(Y/N) and I still have business to attend to today. There will be time for you to reconnect after work hours.” 

You gave your father an optimistic smile as he clutched the tablet in his hands like a lifejacket. 

“Everything will be alright, daddy,” you assured him. 

It took a few more minutes, but you finally convinced your father that you were safe and he could leave the room to go on with his day. 

“Thank you for saying those things,” you said, when he was gone, “I think it helped.” 

I nodded at her. 

“We are a team,” Idreod said, “I only act to benefit both of us.” 

Your eyebrows bobbed up, but you nodded. 

“Oh…okay,” you said, folding your hands and looking down at them. 

“There’s something we need to do,” he said, “follow me.” 

Idreod was hesitant to do this, but it needed to be done. As Idreod led you past Airies’ empty desk to the first floor of the building, his subordinates couldn’t keep their eyes to themselves, all curious about the new Archduchess. 

He called his personal driver and had you carted across town to the local botanical gardens. 

“What are we doing here?” you asked as he helped you out of the car. 

“We have important business,” Idreod told you gravely. 

He led you through the garden, which he’d reserved just for you the night before. Ahead of you, clouds of butterflies flitted here and there from where he’d had them released for this occasion. 

The roses were in full bloom and the air was sweet with their fragrance. 

“When I came to Earth, you know what stunned me the most?” he asked. 

You looked up at him, pushing your glasses up on your nose. 

“No,” you said. 

“The varieties of flowers,” he commented, brushing a finger over a fleshy bloom, “the foliage of Akhet is mostly purple with few flowers, but Spring here is like its own festival, full of life and color.” 

He looked at you. A flower petal had fallen in your hair. 

“No flower here is quite as lovely as you, though,” he said, plucking the soft scrap from your head. 

Your cheeks burned and he kneeled in front of you, removing the little box from the pocket he had hidden there. 

“(Y/N), will you do me the honor of being my wife?” Idreod asked, presenting you the ring inside. He hoped he was doing this correctly. Aries had suggested some movies to watch for this moment, but he wasn’t sure if it was having the desired effect. Your face darkened and your mouth fell open as your eyes widened. 

“Ah…” 

He frowned. 

“Did you change your mind?” he asked. 

You blinked and then your eyebrows jumped up. 

“Yes!”

His face looked suddenly, actually, quite horrified. It was shocking on such a usually composed alien. 

“...I mean no! Wait..I mean. Yes…I will marry you,” you said, straightening your dress, nervously. 

A genuine grin bloomed on his face for the first time that was not related to someone else’s death. Your acceptance was far more satisfying than he expected. He felt warm and tingly all over. He reached out for your hand and you shakily held it out to him. 

Your fingers were trembling while he slid the ring on to the right one. 

He stood and took your arm. 

“Come, let’s take a moment to celebrate before we have to return to the office.” 

You nodded up at him, your face flushed. 

He led you to a pagoda in the center of the gardens where he’d had his staff set up a violinist and some champagne. 

“You arranged all this?” you asked, seeming stunned. 

He looked down at you. 

“Of course, is it not traditional for human brides?” Idreod asked. It was possible he had misunderstood some cultural nuance. 

You blinked at him. 

“Um…I guess so…Usually the groom does something special,” you mumbled. 

“Then what’s wrong?” he asked. 

Your eyes became a little wet. 

“It’s just all so lovely. I never expected…I’m sorry, I’m getting a little emotional,” you said. 

“Have a glass of champagne,” he offered, releasing your hand and popping the bottle for you. 

He handed you a glass and you took a thirsty sip before giving him a wet smile. 

“Maybe I’m just a little sad,” you said, sighing, “this is so perfect, almost like I had always imagined it, but I thought it would be with someone who loved me.” 

You gouged him with your honesty, but there was something so pure about it, he couldn’t really be hurt. 

He tipped your chin up to him. 

“You are so lovable, (Y/N),” he told you, “do you believe in fate?” 

You blinked at him. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never had any reason to,” you said. 

“In Kherae culture it’s believed that the goddess guides us to our fated mate, our perfect counterpart,” he explained, unsure if he should even be saying it, “I never put much stock into it to be honest,  but if it’s true and I have a fated one. I hope that it's you.” 

Your cheeks darkened again, but he refused to let your chin go and instead leaned his head down to press his lips against yours. 

Idreod had never kissed before. It was some kind of magic. 

Your heart exploded in your chest as you felt his soft flesh grazing yours. He tasted sweet and tart with champagne on his lips. His fingers flew to your cheek, drawing you closer. You wanted every ounce of him. His tongue slipped past your lips, exploring you and you welcomed it. You had no way of knowing this but you could have taken whatever you liked, as fast or as slow as you wanted it. From that moment forward, everything that was his became yours. 

When you parted, you stared up at him, your fist clutching his chest while he panted. 

Airies cleared his throat and you both looked up to find him standing patiently to the side. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Master,” he said in his usual polite way, “but the schedule demands we move on, unless you would like me to cancel your afternoon appointments?” 

Idreod straightened himself and collected the glass from your hand. 

“No, you’re correct. There’s a lot to get (Y/N) caught up on.” 

[itzr4v3n]

You know what I find funny?

The fact that the wildest piece of information can be dropped and then never mentioned again.

(Post contains minor Murdle 2 spoilers)

"Logico has an expertise in poisons and was therefore able to save the penguin with an antidote"

Bitch WHAT?

"Logico hacked into Irratino's bank account and sold his cryptocurrency"

HE'S A HACKER?

"Onyx has a family to feed"

BABYGIRL SINCE WHEN?!

"The Iron Tsar noticed the eye colours were different and cut down the traitor"

I DON'T EVEN REMEMBER MY OWN FRIEND'S EYE COLOURS, HOW BRO?

he also gave Lord Violet an award at some point btw

"Major Red has Iron Tsar's helmet and boots"

Why the fuck do you have your enemy's belongings?

"She's a cannibal"

WHAT

[koysiini-keinumaan]

What is nft? I have zero knowledge about this subject, tried to google but won't understand, so please could you explain like I'm five? Why is it a problem? I'm 100 % positive Jere has no idea either.

hi!! i'll give you a quick explaination and then link a video to watch

Non-fungible tokens, or N//FT's for short (censoring to avoid bots flooding to this post) are a digital asset stored on a big public online database called the blockchain. they are, in theory, completely individual and cannot be replicated as they are authenticated on the blockchain with their own unique ID - think of it like a certificate of authentication for a piece of art - except the art is on a screen and basically anyone can take a screenshot of it.

the main issues people have with them are

1) their environmental impact. the servers used to run the blockchain use huge amounts of power and energy resulting in large unnecessary co2 emissions. purchasing, transferring and holding of N//FTs is all part of this. while there are ways to lessen this, it is unclear whether the system kollekt uses utilises them - and doesnt change the fact that the best way to avoid the environmental impact of N//FTs is to not use them at all.

2) the financial impact. not totally applicable to this as it is a free raffle, but most N//FTs, at this point are basically worthless. paired with the fact that they are usually bought with cryptocurrency - which is very unregulated in many places including where I am in the UK - means that the purchasing of N//FTs is a huge financial risk.

this is a very long but very informative video that goes more in depth with most of the issues:

EDIT: the link to the raffle has been reinstated so I don't think they are looking to take it down.

[mandy-malady]

So that game changer post I reblogged earlier put me in the mood for a morning of laughter so I go down a game changer YouTube rabbit hole and land on a compilation vid of I guess gamechanger's predecessor* make some noise and-

Wait a minute. Brennan... Quite literally... Is spitting facts here

If you didn't already know, because I didn't due to not having any interest in monopoly money to begin with, crypto funds neonazi fascists (I'm not surprised but a lot of shit's starting to make sense) like why the Republican party is suddenly pushing it so hard hey guys your white nationalist is showing

​this was supposed to be a light hearted morning but here we are learning how the world works

Like literally bc I'm also reading How The World Works by Noam Chomsky

And if you were raised in the American public school system I highly recommend this book and also reeducating yourself on history in general because wowwee indoctrination instead of education Batman.

*(edit to correct that make some noise is a spin-off and this is just an old episode, thanks for the correction aka-maggie!)

[creature-wizard]

This is probably rude question, feel free to skip it since I'm not the kind to demand personal essays from strangers.

But, why paganism/occult/witchcraft/wicca/spiritual at all? Sure placebos exist and it's cool to honor the earth but...look at that list you made yourself of awful things that come from assuming inner experience has some kind of weight or bearing on the physical world. I guess traditional tribal stuff would be okay if you're in that group, it's more cultural, but I don't know about deliberately trying to create traditions. I feel like that's how you get cults

Source: has seen all the cool people I knew into the above go right wing conspiracist. Also, covid related batshittery.

Hey anon, I don't think your question is rude. In fact, I've grappled with this kind of thing myself when in a bad headspace. Sometimes it's easy to look at all the bad stuff that's been motivated or justified with various forms of spirituality and think that it might be better if we just got rid of it all.

But the thing is, "religion" and "spirituality" encompass many different things, and in some cases it's very beneficial to people's mental health. If we just took it all away, we might be doing significant harm to people. Also, what are we going to fill the resulting void with? Many people have a strong drive to explore and experience spirituality. That's not just going to go away.

And another thing is, eliminating spirituality and religion won't eliminate cults; people will just make cults around different things. The social environment around cryptocurrency is notoriously cultlike; people trust the rich techbros to know what they're talking about when they basically claim that crypto will save the world, even though all evidence suggests otherwise.

It also won't eliminate batshittery. Literally any form of batshittery that can be justified within a spiritual worldview can and will be justified within a "scientific" one. The HAARP conspiracy theory, for example, is a modern "scientific" take on the old conspiracy theory that witches were causing storms with evil demonic magics.

COVID/antivax batshittery is likewise fully capable of thriving in a "scientific" context. You don't have to believe in supernatural forces to believe that there's an evil conspiracy trying to poison us or sabotage our DNA.

Spirituality also doesn't require one to assume their inner experiences have weight or bearing on the external world. Like, it's a big thing in New Age spirituality right now, but New Age is actually kind of the outlier here. While it does creep into neopaganism and other forms of religion to a degree, it's just not the norm.

Basically, this is an extremely complicated problem, and "just don't do religion/spirituality" is one of those oversimplified solutions that just won't solve it. If anything, it's coming from a pretty polarized of the world, which never goes anywhere good. Polarized thinking is a major driving factor in pretty much every noxious movement, so if we catch ourselves thinking in polarized ways, it's a good idea to slow down and ask ourselves if there's maybe something we're missing.

[dromedawrites]

MTMTE Ratchet, Drift, Rodimus, and Megatron helping you recover from top surgery.

Reader is transgender (ftm/ftn). Any pronouns are neutral. You can interpret this as romantic or platonic, though I drifted more romantic for some interactions. I might do more characters later!

(Also not super important but I like to think reader has some way of ‘mass shifting’ themselves on on the LL so they are not a tiny creature running around, unless you like that, lol.)

Crack/Fluff!!

Ratchet:

He did his homework. He knows so much about the procedure by now that he could have done it himself. 

What he doesn’t understand is why such a life-saving surgery is so bloody expensive.

No, seriously, why did it cost you 10,000 dollars? Do humans not have healthcare?

He would have done it for free, because he cares about you, but Ratchet understands it’s best you’re surrounded by human doctors in case something goes awry.

Ratchet is PREPARED when you come back disoriented and sore. He’s got a private room in his med-bay ready just for you.

It has everything; dry hair shampoo, oversized clothing, powdered deodorant, wedge/pregnancy pillows… so much.

He even has extra medication for you just in case.

Don’t ask how he got a hold of all of this. (It might have involved some stealing.)

He is incredibly gentle when he helps you. You feel so much better after he checks in on you.

Ratchet can’t believe how brave you are. Despite the pain you know you were going to go through, you still chose this. The right, albeit difficult, choice.

He’s proud.

Drift:

He would have helped you pay for the procedure if he could. 10k in human currency is nothing to him.

Drift could’ve been your gender-affirming alien sugar daddy.

You told him that they wouldn’t accept any type of alien money.

They might think it’s cryptocurrency.

Drift didn’t quite understand how invasive the surgery was until Ratchet explained it to him.

His jaw drops. He can’t believe how fucking strong you are.

Drift intensely empathizes with the pain. He’s had some life-threatening injuries with recoveries just as long.

He doesn’t think any of them come close to this though. Humans are a hundred times more fragile and you’re CHOOSING this?

He gives a lots of forehead kisses. You actually think it speeds the process. (You’re just gay.)

You have Ratchet, but Drift is like a second nurse whenever he visits. Which is often.

And of course, there are the mandatory healing crystals he leaves beside your medberth.

They’re pretty. They help distract you.

Plus, he leaves the best ‘Get Better’ notes.

Rodimus:

When you tell him you are getting surgery he panics a little. He doesn’t want his best friend to die!

He asks if you have cancer.

You have to calm him down and explain the TYPE of surgery you are gonna get.

He immediately relaxes, and when you ask why he thought you might have cancer he shrugs.

Rodimus has no idea what cancer is.

But he’s super happy for you!!!

He does his own ‘research’ (aka, just ask Ratchet) and has the same reaction as Drift.

There is so much bravery inside such a tiny human!!

You might also be the entire reason why the Lost Light is staying on Earth for a few months. 

Which actually is not so bad. Some bots are happy to be on Earth again.

The government isn’t so happy about it, but it works itself out. 

Rodimus may or may not have told them why they are here.

You get a congratulations note from the fucking President later and you are so confused??? 

He loves to help you reach for stuff on shelves now. It’s been weeks now and he is still doing it.

Flameboy misses cuddling with you until you are well enough again.

But then you have a giant 4 hour napping session with him once you are.

It was worth the wait.

Megatron:

Megatron is angry once he hears how much you had to pay for such an important procedure.

He wants to speak to the president.

He lets you vent about how cruddy trans healthcare is, in general, all over the world. It’s not much better anywhere else.

Instead of Rodimus he actually does research. 

The concept of ‘gender’ has always left a somewhat bitter taste on his glossa, but he’d be lying if he didn’t find the literature of queer folk interesting. 

Megatron is now a gender abolitionist and trans activist.

He gives you a giant, sappy hug before you leave. 

When you get back he’s upset he can’t give you the physical comfort you look like you need.

He is very patient though.

If it’s not Ratchet doing it, he makes sure you are taking your meds on time.

Despite his squeamishness when it comes to some functions of the human body he insists on helping you clean yourself.

He wants to keep you as comfortable as possible. (And not stinky. No offense. He loves you.)

Megatron is proud. Look at you. Even during recovery you seem happier.

He’s definitely not writing poetry about it. (He’s already written three by the time you fully recover.)

You get another cuddle session from Megatron once you’re ready for it. 

Megatron is secretly a giant teddy bear.

[yuyubeans]

bitcoin

pairing: chicken nuggets? I actually don't know

genre: NSFW (MDNI)

wc: ??

as you slowly gain consciousness in dark room tied to a chair. A tall, muscular man walks in and asks, "you're CaptainCrypto2817 arnt you?" realizing why you were here. about a week ago you were bragging on a Reddit thread that you made about 200k trading cryptocurrency. Was it true? ofc it fucking wasn't, you don't even know how to mine bitcoin. however, yeosang, you're handsome captor, thinking you have insider information about how to win big, opening his computer, pointing at the charts on the screen, looking at you

"either tell me what you know, or you're dead." slightly sweating you mumbled,

"I lied! I'm sorry I swear, I'll never do it again, I swear"

"you lied? to me? hmm... well you're gonna have to do something very special for me then, something very special..."

signalling for you to sit inbetween his thighs, by tapping on the ground with his leather shoes, you slowly crawling between them, keeping your head low,

“so, tell me why you lied?” you deciding not answer, his eyes rolling in response,

“Eyes up here liar”

pulling your face up, with an index finger to your chin. You looked at him with puppy eyes, trying to make him forgive you, but it all it did was make him want to dick you down

"I'm sorry I swear to go-"

“Prove it.” His face dropping “Make use of that tiny mouth of yours, to prove that you're sooooo sorry"

you quickly undid his belt, slid his pants and boxers off, and started to gently pump his cock as he staring down at you, god this was so humiliating, looking up at him as he finally got fully hard

your spit and his pre cum mixing, as you finally took him in your mouth, him taking a handful of your hair making you bob your head up and down.

“yeah, yeah, just like that”

continuing to guide you down his cock, forcing you to deepthroat him every once in a while,

“god... this proves lying little sluts give the best head hmm?” he groaned, looking at your tear stained cheeks, making him twitch in your mouth and buck into your mouth, finally cumming all over your face and into your gasping mouth, you quickly swallowed it as he stood up, pulling his underwear and pants up as he started walking on the room, stopping Infront of the small CCTV camera, tapping on the lens

"I'll definitely gonna watch this act again... see your soon, whore"

a/n: kicking my feet, I hope this was good

© yuyubeans 2024

[trivalentlinks]

🔥 - i'd like to order an unpopular opinion on leverage, please!

Sorry for the very, very late answer, but to make up for it, have two unpopular opinions:

The first one's a bit of a cop-out. I think it's the less popular opinion, but probably because most don't care that much either way:

I head-canon that Damien Moreau is actually a banker/financier, ie, his primary source of income is actually derivatives investments and market prediction, and all the buying countries, arms deals and other such clandestine activities is just to give markets slight pushes in the direction he wants. (I've previous talked about this here (my last reblog addition))

This opinion seems "unpopular" in that the more common reading is that he's a mob boss who just calls himself a 'banker' to make himself sound cooler than he actually is. Which I think is a totally valid reading, consistent with what we are shown in canon! Like, he's all about image, and it's totally believable that the entire financier/banker persona is just that.

One reason I prefer the actually-a-banker reading is, as I described in the other post, because I like the parallel with team leverage and their "alternative revenue stream". This is also why I like to head-canon that when Eliot and Moreau were starting out (after Eliot met Toby and left the PMCs with his newfound conscience), before things got bad, they actually did good--only destabilizing horrible, abusive dictatorships, using their alternative revenue stream to help people. The parallels are just so compelling to me this way.

Another reason I prefer the actually-a-banker reading is that it's more relatable to me. I know people who work as financiers (hedge fund/high frequency trading/crypto firm founders or high-level quants etc).

None of them (that I know of) would actually do illegal things to manipulate prices, but it sometimes seems like if they were a little less risk-averse, a little less ethical, who knows? And when they tell me about the people they know, people they describe as "if you took a person's stats and dialled 'ethics' all the way down to zero"... These friends think anyone too stupid to see through a cryptocurrency white paper deserves to lose their life's savings. So when they say someone has ethics dialled to zero, well. You don't wanna know.

On the other hand, I don't know anyone who's anywhere close to being a mob boss.

-

Here's a more genuinely unpopular opinion, in that I think most people believe the opposite, and actually do care:

I really like Jimmy Ford. I find the character very relatable and very compelling. I feel like a lot of people in the fandom just write him off as a bad father, but I don't think that's fair.

I talked a lot about this here (skip past the "..." paragraph; above that were my old early thoughts about Moreau, before I reformulated them to be my current thoughts)

As I mentioned there, I see in Jimmy Ford every parent who didn't understand their kid, but loved them, and as Jimmy said to Nate, that's more important.

Every parent who grew up at a different time, in another country, in a harder, less forgiving world, who wants to ensure their kid can survive that old environment, without realizing that that isn't the kid's world anymore, that their kid is actually thriving in this new world, the one their parents sacrificed to raise them in

Every parent who flipped out when their son decided to major in sociology instead of computer engineering, because they could never have made a living with a degree like that

(but he's going to do more than make a living with that degree; he's going to make a difference)

Every parent who constantly monitors their daughter to ensure she waits for marriage, because in the old country she would have been shunned or worse if she didn't

(but she's not there right? her parents worked and sacrificed and bled to bring her up in this more forgiving world)

Every parent who sits next to their kid for hours a day until they get their daily hour of piano practice done (and yells at them until they do every day, disturbing their neighbour, who's just trying to focus on doing her research and grading her students' papers, not that this is personal or anything), because the parent managed to survive and to move to this country by working relentlessly at everything they did and can't imagine a world where a 7-year-old is allowed to play and to find their own interests

(but they will, maybe not then, but one day, years down the line, they may even end up liking music)

Maybe it's that I'm a kid of immigrants who knows a lot of kids of immigrants, but I think I'm more forgiving of people who raised their children in a culture different from their own and struggled to adjust to that.