#population pyramid

[alpaca-clouds]

There is something wrong about the narrative...

You know this kind of graphic, right? The population pyramid. And I do have a problem with it.

No, not with the pyramid itself. The pyramid is okay and valid. It just shows how the population looks in regards to age. No, my problem is with the narrative around it: "The pyramid is top-heavy and now the pension and care does not work anymore!!"

Technically this is wrong. And yes, the pyramid originally was exactly about that. About showing how the work done by the young people would pay into the system, so that old people could retire at some point and get care. Because originally, of course, we needed that bottom-heavy pyramid to make sure that there were enough people to do all the important work and take care of older people reliant on care.

Only... that it really is not true anymore, right? It more is like... it is just again the system being broken. Because capitalism sucks.

Let me address the two supposed problems with the entire pyramid and what not: 1) "Who is gonna pay for it?" and 2) "Who is going to do the care work?"

Who is gonna pay for the retirement?

See, the theory over here in Germany is technically that during your work time you pay into the social security net and should get back later what you paid in. But, obviously, you technically do not just save up for your own retirement. The money you pay into social security right now gets paid out to the people currently receiving their retirement benefits.

Hence the problem: When more people are on retirement benefits, while fewer people pay into the social security, the math does not work.

But... Like literally all problems related to people suffering from poverty (like a lot of old people are doing) it could be easily solved by redistributing the immense wealth of the super rich. Literally nobody needs to have more than 1 billion dollars. Heck. Nobody really needs more than 10 million, if we are really honest.

And no, giving that money to the rich does in fact not help the economy, if we are going by pro-capitalist logics. Redistributing the wealth, does.

Really, we do not even need retirement funds, if we just gave out UBI for everyone. (Or went communist.)

And that we can finance by taxing the rich. Also taxing any sort of stock trading.

But who is going to do the care work?

See, here is the other issue, where just capitalism is the problem. Because technically there is not a lack of people who would be able to do the care work and would be willing to do it, if only the jobs in care work would be a) fairly compensated and b) actually respected in society.

See, when we look at the job market today, we see in fact a lot of "bullshit jobs", as David Graeber calls it in his book by the same name. Meaning: Jobs that produce nothing of societal value. Jobs, that society could do well without and that quite often aim to enforce the hierarchies of capitalism. Literally.

Hence, heck, even if we had too few people to work in care (something that technically really is not true), we could easily just get rid of those kinds of jobs. In general there are a lot of jobs that only exist to give the appearance of keeping people busy. (The story of why the 40 hour work week is bullshit is a story for another day.)

But yeah, the reason why most people are kept away and pushed out of the care industry is just how underpaid and overworked everyone there is.

See, caring for people is actually something that many people find fulfilling. But not under those circumstances. So, better the circumstances and you will have enough folks to work in care.

So, yeah. Whenever someone keeps whining about "top heavy pyramids" just tell them: "The problem is not birth rates. The problem is capitalism."

#capitalism sucks #fuck capitalism #anti capitalism #bullshit jobs #care worker #population pyramid #explanation #retirement #retirement age #tax the rich

[sunlessea]

anyways on that note can we talk about how insane it is that the m.asters of the b.azaar are so unhinged that even the hour-gods don't poke into their business like. in terms of power and reach, they're actively more feared and unknown than the g.lory gods themselves. mr v.eils is just outright seen as the most terrifying / mysterious presence in all of the neath and the average person literally fears the masters more than the gods. that's INSANE.

the only power they don't really reach over is the j.udgements themselves, but the bulk of them are beyond their reach / thought left up on the surface.

winter is like the only normie on my list {and in a great chunk of london as a whole} who openly, regularly, and blatantly disrespects the masters and has power struggles with them bc he RUNS the c.amarilla in london {and above it, on the surface} and is so old he literally helped WRITE the masquerade laws so he doesn't fear Any bitch god, bat, or otherwise KJNERHM

anyway literally cannot stress enough how seriously powerful the masters are as a collective entity and as individuals, they are extremely capable of ensuring that someone permanently dies in a city where immortality is the norm and that is the Least of what they are capable of doing to someone who slights them. they aren't a forgiving bunch. the only one who rly gives second chances / accepts apologies at ALL is mr pages {unless the others are outvoted on something, and even then, that doesn't guarantee they won't fuck with someone's life after the fact}

the masters are scary

#tbt mr fi/res just simply . SETTING LONDON ON FIRE to quell half the city's population even tho the masters #collectively voted AGAINST DOING THAT #just cuz it said nah i'm gonna commit genocide anw i can't read #<3 #the masters being more powerful than gods is just insane 2 me like #anw i support bats rights and bats wrongs #` ✞ ooc. ⁞ cults are london’s most successful pyramid scheme. #NOW ONTO STARTERS i wanted to finish my tags first lmao

[cicadangel]

now that my ap exam is over i literally have nothing to do at school anymore i'm actually bored bc there's no work wtf

#i should be relaxed and happy but unfortunately im in the best mood when im very occupied #well actually i feel pretty chill rn. i have time to read more insane manga now #that i don't have to memorize agricultural land use and city models and population pyramids

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

SFX Magazine Issue 372 - Designing Good Omens ❤ 😊

PRODUCTION DESIGNER MICHAEL RALPH REVEALS HOW THE SHOW’S CENTREPIECE SET, WHICKBER STREET, WAS GIVEN A DEVILISHLY CLEVER UPGRADE FOR THE SECOND SEASON

WORDS: DAVE GOLDER

Invisible Columns And Thin Walls “The new studio is Pyramid Studios in Bathgate – it used to be a furniture warehouse. And unfortunately – or fortunately, because I accept these things as not challenges but gifts – right down the middle of that studio are a series of upright columns. But you’ll never spot them on screen. I had to build them in and integrate them into the walls and still get the streets between them. And it worked.

“There’s all sorts of cheeky design values to those sets. Normally a set like this is double-skin. In other words, you do an interior wall and an exterior wall, with an airspace in between. But really, the only time a viewer notices that there’s that width is at the doors and the windows. So I cheated all that. I ended up with single walls everywhere. So the exterior wall is the interior wall, just painted. All I did was make the sash windows and entrances wider to give it some depth as you walked in.”

GOOD OMENS HAD A CHANGE of location for its second season, but hopefully you didn’t notice. Because Whickber Street in Soho upped sticks from an airfield in Hertfordshire to a furniture warehouse in Bathgate, Edinburgh. It’s the kind of nonsensical geographical shenanigans that could only make sense in the crazy world of film and TV, and production designer Michael Ralph was the man in charge of rebuilding and expanding the show’s vast central set. “I wish we could have built more in season one than we did,” says Ralph, whose previous work has included Primeval and Dickensian. “We built the ground floor of everything and the facades of all the shops. But we didn’t build anything higher than that, because we were out on an airfield in a very, very difficult terrain and weather conditions, so we really couldn’t go much higher. Visual effects created the upper levels.”

But with season two the set has gone to a whole other level… literally. “What happened was that the rest of the street became integrated into the series’s storyline,” explains Ralph. “So we needed a record shop, we needed a coffee shop that actually had an inside, we needed a magic shop, we needed the pub. To introduce those meant we had to change the street with a layout that works from a storylines point of view. In other words, things like someone standing at the counter in the record shop had to be able to eyeball somebody standing at the counter in the coffee shop. They had to be able to eyeball Aziraphale sitting in his office in the window of the bookshop. But the rest of it was a pleasure to do inside, because we could expand it and I could go up two storeys.”

For most of the set, which is around 80 metres long and 60 metres wide, the two storeys only applied to the shop frontages, but in the case of Aziraphale’s bookshop, it allowed Ralph to build the mezzanine level for real this time. According to Ralph it became one of the cast and crews’ favourite places to hang out during down time.

But while AZ Fell & Co has grown in height, it actually has a slightly smaller footprint because of the logistics of adapting it to the new studio.

“Everybody swore to me that no one would notice,” says Ralph wryly. “I walked onto it and instinctively knew there was a difference immediately, and they hated me for that. I have this innate sense about spatial awareness and an eye like a spirit level.

“It’s not a lot, though – I think we’ve lost maybe two and a half feet on the front wall internally. I think that there’s a couple of other smaller areas, but only I’d notice. So I can be really annoying to my guys, but only on those levels. Not on any other. They actually quite like me…”

Populating The Bookshop “The props in the new bookshop set were a flawless reproduction from the set decorator Bronwyn Franklin [who is also Ralph’s wife]. It was really the worst-case scenario after season one. She works off the concept art that I produce, but what she does is she adds so much more to the character of the set. She doesn’t buy anything she doesn’t love, or doesn’t fit the character.

“But the things she put a lot of work into finding for season one, they were pretty much one-offs. When we burnt the set down in the sixth episode, we lost a lot of props, many of which had been spotted and appreciated by the fans. So Bronwyn had to discover a new set decorating technique: forensic buying.

“She found it all – duplicates and replicas. It took ages. In that respect, the Covid delay was very helpful for Bron. There’s 7,000 books in there and there’s not one fake book. That’s mainly because… it’s a weird thing to say, but we wanted it to smell and feel like a bookshop to everybody that was in it, all the time.

“It affects everybody subliminally; it affects everybody’s performance – actors and crew – it raises the bar 15 to 20%. And the detail, you know… We love a lot of detail.”

(look at the description under this, they called him 'Azi' hehehehe :D <3)

Aziraphale’s Inspirational Correspondence “There’s not one single scrap of paper on Aziraphale’s desk that isn’t written specifically for Aziraphale. Every single piece is not just fodder that’s been shoved there, it has a purpose; it’s a letter of thanks, or an enquiry about a book or something.

“Michael Sheen is so submerged in his character he would get lost sitting at his own desk, reading his own correspondence between takes. I believe wholeheartedly that if you put that much care into every single piece of detail, on that desk and in that room, that everybody feels it, including the crew, and then they give that set the same respect it deserves.

“They also lift their game because they believe that they’re doing something of so much care and value. Really, it’s a domino effect of passion and care for what you’re producing.”

Alternative Music “My daughter Mickey is lead graphic designer [two of Ralph’s sons worked on the series too, one as a concept artist, the other in props]. They’re the ones that produced all of that handwritten work on the desk. She’s the one that took on the record shop and made up 80 band names so that we didn’t have to get copyright clearance from real bands. Then she produced records and sleeves that spanned 50, 60 years of their recordings, and all of the graphics on the walls.

“I remember Michael and Neil [Gaiman] getting lost following one band’s history on the wall, looking at their posters and albums desperately trying to find out whether they survived that emo period.”

It’s A Kind Of Magic One of the new shops in Whickber Street for season two was Will Goldstone’s Magic Shop, which is full of as many Easter eggs as off-the-shelf conjuring tricks, including a Matt Smith Doctor Who-style fez and a toy orang-utan that’s a nod to Discworld’s The Librarian. Ralph says that while the series is full of references to Gaiman, Pratchett and Doctor Who, Michael Sheen never complained about a lack of Masters Of Sex in-jokes. “He’d be the last person to make that sort of comment!”

Ralph also reveals that the magic shop counter was another one of his wife’s purchases, bought at a Glasgow reclamation yard.

The Anansi Boys Connection Ralph reveals that Good Omens season two used the state-of-the-art special effects tech Volume (famous for its use in The Mandalorian to create virtual backdrops) for just one sequence, but he will be using it extensively elsewhere on another Gaiman TV series being made for Prime Video.

“We used Volume on the opening sequence to create the creation of the universe. I was designing Anansi Boys in duality with this project, which seems an outrageously suicidal thing to do. But it was fantastic and Anansi Boys was all on Volume. So I designed for Volume on one show and not Volume on the other. The complexities and the psychology of both is different.”

#good omens #gos2 #season 2 #photos #bts #bts photos #interview #sfx magazine #magazines #hq photos #neil gaiman #terry pratchett #michael sheen #david tennant #michael ralph #mickey ralph #bronwyn franklin #anansi boys #the small back room #maggie's record shop #soho #aziraphale's bookshop #dirty donkey #magic shop #aziraphale's correspondence #give me coffee or give me death #fun fact #michael ralph interview #sfx 372 magazine #s2 interview

[ozzgin]

Pyramid Head x Reader

Featuring Pyramid Head and a reader with amnesia lost in Silent Hill. This is Pyramid Head as originally intended for Silent Hill 2, so expect a lot of game-based immersion. Warning: NSFW, dubious/non-consent, violence, gore

[Horror Masterlist]

"Oh, for fuck's sake!"

You grunt and slap the wheel, hoping your defiant act of violence will somehow convince the car engine to start again. It remains quiet. You run a hand through your hair and sigh. The palm is mildly sticky with moisture and you realize you've been sweating a fair amount. No wonder, you're stuck in this shithole. You couldn't see a damn thing ahead with all this fog. The only discernible object was a rusty, run-down sign showing "Silent Hill". You've never heard the name before, but reading the letters and allowing the words to escape your lips has brought you an unexpected wave of panic. You quickly began hyperventilating and your arms involuntarily twitched and twisted, pulling the wheel of the car along with them and causing the car to swerve into a street barrier. And now it refuses to turn back on. Fantastic. 

You hesitantly grab the door handle. After a deep breath in, you open the door and step out. Given the car crashed sideways, you can no longer tell which way is back and which way is forward. You can only see the first few inches of the barrier in both directions, but everything else vanishes under the thick clouds of mist. You rub your temples, becoming increasingly upset with yourself.  What were you even doing, driving all the way to-

Wait. Where were you going in the first place? You recall leaving from...home? But where is that supposed to be? No, don't do this. Not now. You walk back to the car and open the glove compartment, angrily pulling out a thick stack of documents and spreading them out onto the chair. You scan over them, growing more impatient. You don't recognize anything. The names and words and addresses don't hold any meaning. You glance up to the rear-view mirror in an attempt to detect some trail of blood seeping from your scalp, as a concussion might explain your sudden memory loss, but your appearance is fresh. Almost as if you didn't just crash your car in a strange place in utter confusion. 

You check your phone. Even if you can't remember, there has to be someone in your contacts that will come to your aid. The screen glitches briefly when you unlock it and the menu is empty. No contacts, no messages, no apps. No matter, emergency will do. You type in the digits and lift the phone to your head, but quickly remove it when loud static assaults your eardrums. Why is nothing working properly? You're tempted to just slam the junk into the pavement, but find enough composure to stuff it back in the pocket for now. 

All that's left to do now is to find another human. You begin walking. The road has to lead somewhere, that's for certain. And soon enough the barrier is replaced with a different kind of fencing that you use as guidance. It seems to be a small bridge. Just a few steps further and you discover the first signs of modern, populated world: a bus stop. Behind the waiting bench is a brief map of the area and you trace the plaque with your fingers, mumbling the path to yourself. "Now let's see...This is Nathan Avenue...Rosewater Park ahead...Ah, the Silent Hill Fire Station should be very close."

You can't wait to be done with this mess. They'll call for a tow truck and get you out of here. You almost sprint to the next block, expectantly. In fact, you can already spot someone right outside the building. 

"Thank God! Listen, my car broke down before the bridge. My stupid phone is also...huh." 

Just as you mention it, the same static as previously erupts from the speaker. You're startled and fumble for your phone. You're about to apologize to the person in front of you, but upon lifting your gaze you instantly stop in your tracks. 

'Person' is a strong word for it. It resembles one, or maybe it was one long ago. What's crawling towards you, however, is not how you'd define it. The arms are melted into the torso, mimicking a straight jacket of skin. The bony, crooked legs are dragging themselves in an unnatural, unnerving way. The creature has no face, save for a gaping hole, a bizarre cavity deforming what should be a head. Your mouth grimaces with disgust, followed by fear. Terror. You have the choice of returning to your damaged car, or attempting to find actual help deeper into the town. You run ahead, praying that someone's out there. The dissonant sound of a siren can be heard, diffused into the persistent fog.  

By the time you reach the next building, you're gasping for air. You didn't expect to run this far. You went all the way around Toluca lake, avoiding the side streets. The center was swarming with those abominations. Each turn and each corner would eventually reveal its revolting murmur, that pathetic shuffle of disfigured limbs. Thankfully they're not fast, nor smart. A little distance and they lose their interest to pursue you. You fall against the brick wall of this small house and read the poster. "Silent Hill Historical Society". Doesn't look too promising, but it's surprisingly devoid of any monstrous being. At this point you'd be more grateful for emptiness. It's safer. 

You tiptoe your way in, wary of potential attackers. There's a faint buzz echoing from afar, but other than that no immediate danger. You examine the lobby and notice the paintings and old photos hanging from the decaying wallpaper. It smells slightly rotten. One of the art pieces catches your attention and you stop in front of it. "Misty Day, Remains of Judgement". 

The abstract character depicted on canvas reminds you of an executioner. The more you stare, the clearer you can feel some kind of guilt knotting inside your stomach. Your shoulders are heavy and you're overwhelmed by the same anxiety of a child about to be punished. Awaiting the belt. The calloused hand of an unforgiving father. Your throat is dry.

Your musings are interrupted by the static that - as you've since learned - warns you of approaching creatures. The rooms are cramped and the walls are narrow and you dislike the idea of calculating your escape within this claustrophobic maze, but it's preferable to being dead. You jog along slithering paths, unsure of where they lead. The threatening turbulence of your phone goes up and down, like a sine wave, with each turn into uncharted territory. In your frantic efforts to flee you don't see the large hole blocking your way, or at least not fast enough. By the time you figure out the outlines of this pitch black well, you're flooded with the light sensation of gravitational force, stretching and compressing your innards as you fall. Is this how you end?

It's not so easy. 

As soon as you open your eyes, a burning pain metastasizes through the head, digging deep into your brain. You grab onto your scalp and press your fingers over the skin, hoping for a small relief. In your debilitating migraine you don't hear the agitated flutter of limbs. They're minuscule, but so many. Thousands of sclerotized joints frothing around your limp form. You lift yourself off the rusted ground and yelp voiceless at the sight. Cockroaches. The pile of vermin lets out a deafening, high pitched screech with every movement. You drag your elbows in an attempt to get away, but the creepers almost ignore your existence. They seem to be running away from something, retreating in masses.

You don't have to wait long in order to witness their source of fear. Heavy footsteps, muffled by the grating friction of metal against metal. A corroded stench invades your lungs and you cough. Whatever is coming has instilled the utmost dread in your very bones. You want to get up and run, until your legs give up and your body collapses of exhaustion, but your limbs are petrified in panic. Your chest constricts and throbs, as if your heart is trashing to escape this prison condemned to unknown doom. 

Finally, the fiend comes into view. A tall, large man wearing a leather apron layered with grime and encrusted blood. His skin is scarred and discolored, and a bulky, dense pyramid structure rests on his broad shoulders, concealing his face. He seems to be dragging along a great knife of sorts, although on closer inspection it looks like a halved pair of oversized scissors. The edge is dulled and has splattered visceral leftovers mattifying its surface. You remember the painting you've seen upstairs. Is this what it is? Your Retribution? 

You lower yourself until your forehead touches the rusty floor. Like an animal awaiting to receive the final blow from its hunter, like a prisoner resigning to his fate under the guillotine. If only matters could be dealt with so simply! Your neck is clawed into a tight hold by the large gloved hand and you're crudely pulled back up so that you can properly face your Punisher. There's a vague grunt coming from underneath his bizarre helmet. 

He carries you to the nearest wall and slams you against it. The great knife drops to the floor with a loud crash, and the other hand, now freed, begins to search your lower clothing. You can feel the seams of the garments tear and snap with no resistance. You want to vocalize a protest, but your throat is crushed under the forceful pressure of his clasp. At best, you can exhale in what sounds like a whispered wail. His apron is nonchalantly flipped to the side and your thigh lifted over his forearm, so that his hand can adjust itself securely under your bottom for support.

Abruptly, a prickling ache crosses your entire body as if you've just been split in two. Tears automatically begin forming in the corner of your eyes and spill down your cheeks and over the pyramid that's now pressing tightly against your quivering form. It's too big and you want to push away, but with each renewed plunge you grow weaker. The small tears and rips that blossom around your abused intimacy turn into bleeding wounds. You want to sleep. 

A creature of pure instinct, serving as a reminder of human perversions and immoral desires. Travesty, corruption, sin. And what about it? Before you know it, a small moan escapes your dried lips. You throw your arms around your captor's shoulders. The sharp edges of the helmet scratch your skin, waking you back into consciousness. Your lower muscles start to relax around the massive member and allow for a smoother glide in and out. The numbness is gradually replaced by pleasant sensations. The throbbing reverberates inside your abdomen and your other leg wraps around the creature's hips, asking for more contact. Once your compliance is confirmed, the hand pinning you by the neck wanders to other parts of your body in starved desperation. Your voice returns and more lewd whines roll out one after another. If only you had a mirror so you could look at yourself in this moment. What shameless expressions are you wearing on your face? You're clinging to your violator in feverish depravity. And in return, the creature responds to your cravings with increased intensity. He seems to resonate with your wishes and stiffens his hold on you with newfound obsession. His thrusts become almost feral, with a certain possessiveness to it. 

As you're about to reach your peaks, your mind once again travels to the painting. You wonder if you'd be hung and framed just like the prisoners behind their executioner. Pleasure mixed with guilt. 

What sin is eroding your entrails? 

#silent hill #silent hill 2 #sh2 #pyramid head #pyramid head x reader #pyramid head smut #horror #silent hill x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #dead by daylight #dbd x reader #dbd x you #dbd pyramid head #pyramid head dbd #slasher smut #yandere pyramid head #monster x reader

[arkon-z]

Okay, I take it back. TOTK isn't BOTW 2: Let's Do It All Over Again. It feels way more populated. People are working together to save Hyrule and to improve their lives, and to solve the mystery of everything happening around them. Now that I think about it, that's a big change from other Zelda games. it's almost 50/50 on whether or not the citizens will even notice the shit going down around them. Giant translucent pyramid around the castle (in TP)? "Gee, someone had better do something about that!"

No, man, in TOTK, people are like, "Shit's fucked. Guess we got work to do!"

Not to mention people were looking for Link! Big change after BOTW where people didn't even know you were alive.

Also, hell yeah, companion mechanics are back! I am HERE for these gameplay throwbacks.

#totk #totk spoilers #tears of the kingdom #tears of the kingdom spoilers

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Fighting junk fees is "woke"

“Populism” isn’t intrinsically left or right. The distinction between the two is often obscured by jargon, but there’s a simple litmus test (courtesy of Steven Brust): “ask what’s more important: human rights, or property rights. If they say ‘property rights are human rights,’ they’re on the right.”

Which is to say, both the left and the right can be populist, but the populist left seeks to improve peoples’ lives, no matter what that takes, while the populist right is only willing to make the world better when that doesn’t interfere with the interests of property owners.

This is how you get the Libertarian Party of New Hampshire equating publicly produced, free insulin with forcing enslaved Black people to pick cotton in the fields:

https://newrepublic.com/post/174485/libertarian-party-suggests-former-black-lawmaker-pick-crops-free

For right populists, the property rights of pharma giants are human rights, so anything that interferes with those rights is equivalent to any other human rights violation.

This is not only wrong, but it’s also a huge vulnerability in the right populist mindset. It’s a button that, when pushed, produces a reliable and reflexive outrage.

This is essential for the creation, maintenance and expansion of plutocracy. In a plutocracy, a small minority owns most of the property (we live in a plutocracy). By definition, plutocracy isn’t popular, since it’s a system that benefits a small minority at everyone else’s expense. In its natural state, plutocracy is only popular with its winners, and not the vast majority of losers it creates.

So plutocrats need to find ways to get turkeys to vote for Christmas. One important trick is to convince us all that the system is fair, guided by an invisible hand that performs mystic passes over our heads at birth and locates the very best of us and elevates us to the apex of the social pyramid.

But there’s a problem with this: plutocracy is self-sustaining. The story that we’re all just “temporarily embarrassed millionaires” who can rise to the top with hard work and smarts falls flat in the face of the reality that nearly everyone at the top was born there. If the system selects rulers based on merit, and if everyone the system selects was born rich, then the rich must have some genetic trait that makes them destined to rule.

This is why plutocracy always turns into aristocracy: the idea that some people are suited to rule because they have “good blood.” Eugenics is, above all, a way to excuse inequality. Fitness to rule is determined primarily by whose orifice you emerge from, and only secondarily by any obvious competence or skill.

So right wing footsoldiers are mired in a terrible and shameful swamp of self-loathing. By definition, their lack of wealth and power is their own fault, and not merely their fault, but the fault of their genes. Being on the bottom is proof that you deserve to be there. Your failure to rise proves that you don’t deserve to rise.

No wonder the right is so irony-poisoned. Remember 2020, when gun-nuts got “revenge” on gun safety scolds by photographing themselves pointing loaded guns at their own penises? The participants insisted that they were just trolling, and they were…by pointing loaded guns at their dicks:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/05/28/holographic-nano-layer-catalyser/#musketfuckers

Plutocrats understand that there are limits to irony, and that at a certain point, irony poisoning becomes so acute that your rank-and-file literally start blowing their balls off. To relieve the pressure, plutes scapegoat other people based on their gender, sexual orientation, race, or nationality.

This provides an important resolution to the cognitive dissonance of meritocracy. The reason you’re doing so badly isn’t that you lack merit, it’s that affirmative action has elevated unworthy people to the positions that you deserve. You are a temporarily embarrassed millionaire — but the riches you deserve have been snaffled up by welfare queens and DEI consultants.

Cruelty isn’t the point of culture war bullshit: the point is power. Cruelty is merely the tactic:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/09/turkeys-voting-for-christmas/#culture-wars

Culture war bullshit is a very reliable way to get turkeys to vote for Christmas. Take the campaign against junk fees, which have ticketmastered every part of your life with “fees” for things like “paying your rent by check” and “not paying your rent by check”:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/30/military-industrial-park-service/#booz-allen

There is no broad constituency for junk fees. Scam artists (including scam artists in the C-suites of Fortune 100 companies) love them, sure, but junk fees make everyone else furious.

What’s a plutocrat to do? Well, it turns out that culture war bullshit can make right wingers point (metaphorical) guns at their own junk — all plutocrats need to do is put the word out that getting rid of junk fees is “woke” and low-information right-wing thumbsuckers will demand the right to be charged junk fees.

Here’s an example: one especially pernicious form of junk fee is the “swipe fees” that credit-card companies charge merchants. In an increasingly cashless age, these companies — dominated by the Visa/Mastercard duopoly — have figured out how to scrape 3–5% out of every single retail transaction in the entire fucking economy.

Every merchant you patronize has to charge more — or reduce quality, or both — in order to pay this Danegeld to two of the largest, most profitable companies in the world. Visa/Mastercard have hiked their fees by 40 percent since the pandemic’s start. Forty. Fucking. Percent. Tell me again how greedflation isn’t real?

A bipartisan legislative coalition, led by Senator Dick Durbin (D-IL) and Senator Roger Marshall (R-KS) have proposed the Credit Card Competition Act (CCCA), which will force competition into credit-card routing, putting pressure on the Visa/Mastercard duopoly:

https://www.congress.gov/bill/118th-congress/senate-bill/1838/text?s=1&r=3

This should be a no-brainer, but plute spin-doctors have plenty of no-brains to fill up with culture war bullshit. Writing in The American Prospect, Luke Goldstein unpacks an astroturf campaign to save the endangered swipe fee from woke competition advocates:

https://prospect.org/power/2023-08-04-wall-street-culture-war-swipe-fee-reform/

Now, this campaign isn’t particularly sophisticated. It goes like this: Target is a big business that runs a lot of transactions through Visa/Mastercard, so it stands to benefit from competition in payment routing. And Target did a mean woke by selling Pride merch, which makes them groomers. So by fighting swipe fees, Congress is giving woke groomers a government bailout!

It’s literally that stupid. It’s being pushed by a dark money group based in Kansas, which is targeting Senator Marshall’s constituents with mailers that warns voters they’ll “lose their credit card points” because he’s thrown his lot in with “liberal politicians”:

https://punchbowl.news/caf-marshall-mailer-kansas/

The fliers also warn that competition could result in “your financial data could be processed by partners of the Chinese Communist Party” (the bill bans foreign companies from routing transactions, and bans China UnionPay by name).

The fliers are anonymous. The only ghoul shameless enough to put his name on the campaign is Grover Norquist, whose Americans for Tax Reform tells its Christmas-voting-turkeys to “side with consumers, not woke retailers.”

The dark money org pushing this line have placed op-eds in newspapers across red states, comparing transaction routing competition to your kids’ data being snaffled up by Tiktok:

https://www.theflstandard.com/senators-rubio-and-scott-must-protect-the-personal-financial-data-of-floridians/

This nonsense was peddled by League of Southeastern Credit Unions president Samantha Beeler, whose org has spent $20,000 fighting the CCCA, claiming that a “cheaper” system would be “less secure”:

https://disclosurespreview.house.gov/ld/ldxmlrelease/2023/Q2/301493985.xml

But that’s small potatoes. Millions are being spent, right now, lobbying against CCCA — $5m from the American Bankers’ Association, $2m from the Credit Union National Association, another $400k from Mastercard.

For these rentiers, corrupting our government with millions is a stellar bargain if it lets them continue to collect rent every time we spend money. And millions of people who’ll end up paying that will demand the right to do so, provided they’re told that they’re fighting “woke capitalism” and China.

I'm kickstarting the audiobook for "The Internet Con: How To Seize the Means of Computation," a Big Tech disassembly manual to disenshittify the web and bring back the old, good internet. It's a DRM-free book, which means Audible won't carry it, so this crowdfunder is essential. Back now to get the audio, Verso hardcover and ebook:

http://seizethemeansofcomputation.org

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

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/04/owning-the-libs/#swiper-no-swiping

[Image ID: A mechanical credit card imprinter (AKA 'zipzap') emblazoned with a US flag Punisher logo. It is imprinting a blank credit-card slip with a red Visa card bearing the GOP logo. It sits on a weathered wooden plank table, stained a dark brown.]

#pluralistic #finance #junk fees #ripoffs #turkeys voting for christmas #culture war bullshit #useful idiots #visa #mastercard #swipe fees

[fatehbaz]

early 2022, historians/researchers slowly and casually rolling out of bed, in their pyjamas, with a cup of tea:

“oh yea, by the way, no big deal, we almost forgot to mention that a previously-undescribed species of bold bizarre strikingly-unique 6-meter-long giant crocodile beast lived alongside sophisticated architecture and densely-populated human settlements in the Bronze Age near Guangzhou, Hong Kong, and the cultural epicenter of the Pearl River Delta, and may have lived for centuries throughout the advent of Chinese civilization all the way until 1630 AD, and naturalists and historians just never really discussed this, ever, have a nice day.”

kinda like: “y’know how so-called Ice Age megafauna like woolly mammoths were still alive on Earth hundreds of years after the construction of Egypt’s great pyramid? yea, also there was a giant crocodile beast.”

skeletal and bodily remains from the Hong Kong area have now been reliably dated, and the large “new” species has been officially described as of March 2022. the creature is now known as Hanyusuchus sinensis.

---

---

---

previously, it was kinda assumed by historians/ecologists that saltwater crocodiles may have lived farther north along the Chinese coastline, and that these saltwater crocodiles accounted for the mention of larger, more aggressive crocodiles in stories from the Pearl River Delta region (relative to historical mentions of the smaller, much more docile Chinese alligator)

but, these large crocodilians mentioned in stories may have been this new gharial. the researchers describe the remains of some gharials from the Shang and Zhou eras, which were apparently killed by humans with axes.

here’s where remains of the gharial have been found, from the paper:

today, this region is home to tens of millions of people and arguably the largest contiguous urban agglomeration on the planet (Guangzhou, Shenzhen, and Hong Kong).

the formal academic paper from 2022 which describes the new species of gharial has many high-resolution photos of skulls/skeletons of the gharial. though the remains can be reliably dated to the Bronze Age, the authors suggest that literature/historical text mentions of large crocodilians might indicate that Hanyusuchus survived until 1630 AD. (again, though, the literature mentions may also possibly refer to saltwater crocodiles, maybe?)

the paper also includes a short list of excerpts from historical texts from the Pearl River Delta region that mention the large crocodilians.

check it out:

Hanyusuchus:

#crocodile fan blog

[vonehrenfest]

Vlad in the DC universe has got to be one of the most bizarre people within the billionaire circle ever right?

Owner of multiple extremely valuable businesses, all of which he did not start himself and bought through mysterious and suspicious means. He's clearly got an evil-mastermind hypnosis thing going on - but also he's not doing anything else with his mind control abilities and he doesn't live in any of the more populated cities.

Instead he spends all his time trying (and failing??) to buy the Green Day Packers (again, why doesn't he use his mind-control here? Some strange sense of honor? love?) and living in a giant castle enshrining the proud state of Wisconsin's history of cheese-making. (The equivalent of living in the Bass Pro Pyramid, or Blucifer.) But despite his love of Wisconsin he also just f*cks off one day to become Mayor of some middling town in Illinois where his big platform is fighting ghosts.

Like I'm imagining Lex Luthor and Bruce Wayne meet him at a gala one day. Lex wants to scope out if he can work with/use Vlad and Bruce is investigating him. They're both thinking that he's just doing an eccentric billionaire act the same way Lex does his good-guy philanthropist routine and Bruce has his himbo-dad mask... except no, Vlad is really just in love with Wisconsin and he is actually obsessed with ghosts.

Halfway through the gala he starts fighting with his best friend's teenage son.

#Vlad Masters #He's got a terrible degree of power #over Danny especially #but also he's a wet cat a grimy creature #Danny Phantom #Amity Park is weird #dpxdc

[freeasfishes]

I'm a biologist, and this is why hearing "50% of the population is children" should put the severity of Palestinian struggle into perspective for you.

Let's talk about Age Structure Graphs, aka "Population Pyramids."

The way these graphs are structured is to show the trends in age/sex ratios and projected growth of a population over time. Males are on the right, females on the left, youngest at the base, oldest at the top.

Note where I have highlighted in green. If this space has a large gap, that means there is likely to be higher infant mortality, since a lot of children who are born do not reach their 5th birthday. A broad base and sharply tapering sides reflects high fertility rates and high mortality rates in younger age groups.

This is a population pyramid representing Palestine, from a World Health Organization publication regarding Covid-19 spread.

Based on what we discussed before, this graph tells us that a reasonable number of kids are born in Palestine, but an unreasonably high number of them also die before they grow up.

As a comparison, here is the US population pyramid, courtesy of the US Census Bureau.

When you hear "50% of the population in Gaza is children," please know what that means. It means many, many children in Gaza do not get to grow up.

#free palestine #palestine #biology #population

[cypherdecypher]

Animal of the Day!

Lord Howe Island Stick-insect (Dryococelus australis)

(Photo from Melbourne Zoo)

Conservation Status- Critically Endangered

Habitat- Ball’s Pyramid

Size (Weight/Length)- 25 g; 20 cm

Diet- Melaleuca leaves

Cool Facts- Also called the tree lobster, the Lord Howe Island stick-insect is considered possibly the rarest insect alive today. By 1920, they were believed to have gone extinct after their complete eradication from Lord Howe Island due to being a popular fishing bait and invasive black rats. In 2001, these stick-insects were rediscovered on the tiny island of Ball’s Pyramid with 24 individuals found alive. Two breeding pairs were removed from Ball’s Pyramid and sent to the Melbourne Zoo and a private breeder. Further breeding programs across the world have increased their population to an estimated 9,000 individuals. As of 2018, efforts began in eradicating the black rats from Lord Howe Island with future plans of reintroducing these amazing insects to their native range.

Rating- 13/10 (One of the very few, possibly monogamous insects.)

#animal of the day #animals #insects #stick insect #sunday #september 24 #lord howe island stick-insect #biology #science #conservation #the more you know #cw: insects

[starryhutcherson]

do you do male requests? If u do I have an idea 😄 maybe a one shot where the reader is pinning desperately over clapton, but doesn’t think he’d like someone like him since he’s a bit nerdy. But in reality clapton is also the biggest dork ever and likes him just as much:3

━━ OPPOSITES ATTRACT

author's note: i try to keep all my fanfiction gender neutral, except for smut which i write with a female reader, just because i don't really know how to write good male smut, so seeing as this is just a fluffy fic i made it gender neutral as usual thank you for your request! also i stayed up until the ungodly hours of the morning to finish this so pls dont judge if its shit i did my best

'୧ ‧₊ pairing: clapton davis x nerdy!reader warnings: swearing word count: 2500+ ⋆ ✩‧₊

After you’d reached Junior year at Grizzly Lake High, you’d accepted the plaguing reality in which you were a nerd. With your plethora of knowledge regarding random facts, active participation in the school newspaper editorial committee, and expertise in your pre-calculus class, it’s reasonable to say that you were not a typical, soulless high-school student like the rest of the Grizzly population, and it was something that you’d grown to accept.

Being sort of geeky wasn’t all that bad – you had a close knit circle of friends who shared similar interests, and you were excelling in all your classes, so there wasn’t really a reason for you to have contempt towards your social status, right?

Wrong.

You had one very strong reason, a reason adorned in obnoxiously colored clothes and a reason that you were recently paired up with for a science project. 

Clapton Davis. 

You’d had the privilege of sitting near him for nearly a year now, thanks to Ms. Hudson’s seating plan which had situated you just a few desks away from him. To state that you stared at him for the duration of most (all) lessons would be a little creepy, but it was hard not to, when the afternoon hit its peak and you were able to watch the syrupy sunlight crease right over his figure like fine silk — how are eyes that warm possible? Is that shade of brown even real?

You’re in far too deep for someone who you’ve hardly spoken a word to, sure, but could anyone blame you? You couldn’t help it– the lingering glances sent from the overcast shadows of your desk, tucked into a corner of the classroom, pining hopelessly, bouncing your knee with repeated, tense motions and scattering love-heart encircled initials all over your paper. 

Fuck. 

The real kick in the teeth was the fact that Clapton was somebody, at least at this school. He was propped up by popularity and people, effortlessly perched at the head of the social pyramid of Grizzly High, and you certainly were not. Superficial bullshit like this never bothered you in the past, but the fact that Clapton was so comically out of reach felt like a deliberate joke aimed squarely at you, and for lack of better words, it sucked. 

It was taxing labor to try and tolerate your complete lack of a chance with him at the best of times, when you were nestled in the back of classrooms, hopelessly admiring his figure, or passing him in the halls and basking in the fleeting smiles you exchanged – but seeing him up close, being a mere breath away from him, hands making contact for abiding moments that spark against your skin… you deem it the cruelest torture of all. 

The project you’d been paired up for was relatively simple – creating some predictable poster on mitochondrial DNA, but considering the prospect of working alongside Clapton, it became of far greater interest than it should be, science became a highlight of your timetable, a rarity even for you. 

And it’s where you are currently, tense against the stool you’re seated at, knuckles pulsing with a dull ache from cracking them right against the maple wood of the desk — Clapton’s complaining about the point of this whole thing and you attempt to explain the delicate concept of nucleotide composition, while trying not to sound like a complete and utter loser. You’re failing substantially. 

“No, so– the phosphate group is part of the main components which are what form the DNA, but deoxyribose–”

“De–what?”

You huff, wiping sodden palms against the plane of your denim-bound thigh. 

“It’s not—”

“I can’t focus here anyway. It’s too loud,” he grunts, opting to etch his initials onto the side of the desk with deliberate, harsh carvings of his pencil. 

Your gaze swallows up his convex figure. Boredom. Ouch. 

“I can just do it all, if you, uh, want.” 

His head cocks upwards – it’s a tempting offer. But he’s not a douchebag. No matter what people might insinuate. A gradual smirk tugs downwards at the curvature of his lips, hands stilling their previous motions as he turns up to you. 

“No, you don’t gotta do that. Just come over to my place after school or something, you can explain it there, right?”

Your throat clots as though you’ve swallowed mud— your words feel heavy on your tongue and you don’t dare glance upwards from the paper in front of you, in fear of him finding the elation that’s erupting across your guise. 

His house? His house? It feels like an elaborate prank – how how how were you supposed to resist him if he was openly inviting you over? Your nails bite into the exposed flesh of your palm, leaving raw crescent marks in their wake. You couldn’t turn down the opportunity, even if every second would be agony, having him dangled in front of you, so close yet so far. 

You croak out a weak, “Oh, sure, that sounds good—” it sounds better than good. 

But it also sounds worse than it as well. You develop a looming sense of nervousness, forcing your fingers deeper into your skin, choking back a scream of intolerance. What would you even talk about? Sports? Shoes? Or just this stupid project?

He seems to sense your displeasure, because he answers it with a chuckle. “Chill. I don’t bite. Y’know, unless you want me to.”

Cocky prick. 

✩‧₊˚

The walk to Clapton’s house went smoother than you anticipated, casual conversation playing on loop as you wind through the bends of each mundane neighborhood that Grizzly Lake has to offer – his house is the same as a thousand others, but you wear a smile and offer lousy compliments anyway, to which he rolls his eyes a little and tells you that it’s nice or whatever. 

Maybe he’s picked up on your inherent adoration, maybe he’s just toying around with you. You’re not sure– but his damn hypnotic eyes are distracting you from your purpose– mitochondrial composition. Super interesting. 

The pair of you are slumped against his bed, surrounded by sunwashed memorabilia as the afternoon begins to bleed into the evening. Your progress is limited, but you don’t care. Your proximity is the only thing settling in your mind, like dust upon your shoulders and in your throat– you can taste his breathing as it fans across your neck. 

Cedarwood seeps into every crevice of your skin – he’s too damn close. You’re not sure you can take this. 

“It’s sort of like lego.”

Your voice cuts through the incessant tide of your wandering thoughts. 

“Lego?” “Yeah. Y’know— like, okay, the phosphate is the base, and then the sugar molecule connects to that, and then the nitrogenous base is like, your unique pieces, y’know, color, size, whatever, it gives the DNA it’s unique features.”

“Sort of… following?” You grin at the achievement. 

“That’s good!” 

“I never usually get this stuff, so uh, thanks.”

Your heartstrings tangle into one unfathomably tight knot, and your nerves pulse in sharp bouts beneath the surface of your skin. He’s thanking you. And he’s smiling too, pearly whites seeming near opalescent, but maybe that’s your mind, warped with ecstasy. You wished you had more to talk about though. More to offer. But what were you supposed to bring up, your comic book collection? He’d probably laugh in your face. 

“It’s all good. I’m glad I could help you.” His grin widens fractionally. 

“I’m glad too.”

A moment’s silence flutters by. 

“So uh–”

"Should we-"

You chuckle, a smidge awkward, as your sentences overlap. 

“You first,” he tells you, and you shift timidly on his bed, accompanied by the dull squeak of his mattress.  

“Just uh… wondering if I should go.”

He appears to tense, just for a moment, as if your words had implications that you weren’t aware of, but it dissolves as quickly as it came and you can’t analyze his feelings in time. 

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you want.”

Whatever you want. You’re sure he doesn’t want the true answer to that. What you want, what you absolutely want, is mere inches away from you, looking preternatural in the first whispers of a mid-autumn sunset, splayed across his bed with a boyish grin, whatever you want is right there, waiting and daring you to try and take it. You don’t. You can’t. 

“Okay. Uh, see you tomorrow then.”

Shit.

✩‧₊˚

The aforementioned tomorrow is so inconsequentially boring that you debate coming home early. You’ve got nothing planned, no important subjects, and every time you pass Clapton in the hallways, greeted with an elusive raise of the eyebrows or a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it grin, it gets harder and harder to ignore the fiery feelings in your body. 

You can barely take the spiderwebs of angst growing across your stomach, tangled into your thoughts– Clapton. That’s all you can seem to find threaded into every fissure in your psyche. It feels like every stray thought is the gnawing reminder that Clapton isn’t yours. How are you supposed to focus on physics when those honey-sweet eyes are eternally burnt into the forefront of your mind? You’re seconds away from tearing out your own fucking hair, it’s so unlike you to get worked up by something like this. 

Yet here you are. 

Here you are, staring emptily down at your worksheet, filling in the answers with ease, wondering how much easier it would be to attract attention if you had more appealing interests. If you knew how to skateboard instead of the elements of the periodic table, if you spent your money on clothes instead of comics. Shit. Shit, you really liked him and he really probably didn’t like you. It stings like a childhood wound, like hydrogen peroxide festering amongst skinned knees. 

Fuck this.

✩‧₊˚

The day is achingly slow, boredom clinging to the air and swallowing you whole. Each class just feels like going through the motions, your thoughts are stuck on one thing and one thing only, and you hyperfixate on every previous interaction with him, sourly regretting every word you’ve ever spoken, praying he didn’t think they were as weird as you did. 

You want to scream! The schoolbell released you after what seemed like decades, and now you’re shuffling down the streets back to your house, where you can hopefully catch a break from your constant stream of deprecating thoughts, but no. 

The roll of a skateboard pounding against the graveled roads becomes audible as it slows behind you, a familiar voice cuts through the silence. 

“Going home?”

It's him.

You turn around, plastering a weak smile across your face. 

“Uh, yeah. Why?” He inches a little closer, picking up his board and tucking it under his arm. “Can I come over?”

Your stomach snags on itself, an airy sensation spreading across every tense limb. It’s a bold move, but it’s a welcome one. 

“For the project?” He shrugs. “Yeah, sure. Also just to hang out.”

You perk a smile at this, for a brief moment, before it melts directly from your face. Clapton in your house? Clapton in your room? You visualize each poster, each stupid certificate your mom made you hang up on your wall— he can’t go in there. You’d die of shame. 

“Oh, uh, I’m kinda— busy.” He frowns. “Seriously? C’mon, just for, like, an hour.”

“Clapton—”

“Please?”

It should flatter you, how desperate he comes across, but you’re too worried that after he sees you, like, the real you, presented through your room and your stuff and your interests, that he’ll be weirded out, and scamper away to some cheerleader or something. Still, those pleading eyes work wonders on you, and it becomes impossible to refuse them. 

“Okay, fine. An hour,” you mumble, and set off back on your journey home with him following close behind. 

You make it to your house, hesitantly guiding him into your bedroom– he doesn’t seem to have much of a reaction. You were definitely overthinking it. 

He makes himself welcome, collapsing on your bed with a sigh, laying sprawled on his back with his eyes trained on your ceiling, eye to eye with your collector’s edition Return of the Jedi poster, limited edition, signed. 

You tentatively join him.

“You like Star Wars?”

He asks, gesturing to the poster, no teasing present in his tone. 

“Oh, uh, yeah.”

“Seriously? What’s this one about?”

You can’t help yourself– he seems properly interested, and even if the question was merely to start conversation you attack it, spluttering eager sentences about the plot and the characters and oh fuck, you’re really going on about it. His eyes have left the poster and he’s rolled onto his side, vision stuck straight on you, he’s probably judging you. 

You cut your own sentence midway, feeling the apples of your cheeks redden with embarrassment as you shrink back down to your previously timid self. 

“Sorry. My bad,” you mumble, picking a loose thread on your duvet. He notices, faltering a little. 

“What? No, come on. I’m invested now.”

You sigh, your eyes drilling holes into your shoes, where they stay staring. “Why? Why do you keep, like, talking to me and stuff?” He sits up so he can join you, shoulder resting beside yours. “What’d you mean?”

Your body feels uncomfortably taut with the suspense of this tangible moment, and you decide that you might as well get this swollen feeling off your chest before it bursts inside of you. 

A moment’s silence. A bated breath. You harness whatever confidence you can find in yourself (though it’s pretty barren), and go for it before your thoughts can catch up to you. 

“I just– I’m not, like… I’m not like your other friends. And I… I dunno, I… look, I like you. Like, I really like you, and I know it’s stupid, but I feel like you keep on giving me, like, mixed signals– but I don’t wanna—”

“Wait, you like me?”

You let out a begrudging exhale. “I know, it’s stupid–”

“What? You’re kidding right? You’re, like, perfect.”

Your head jolts to him so quickly you’re surprised you don’t get whiplash. 

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re super pretty, but like– you’re smart, and you’re nice, and you’re funny… you seriously like me?”

You’re barely processing. It feels like you’ve swallowed rose thorns, like every grain of sand has settled in the pit of your stomach, filling you up from the inside out, drying out the cavity of your throat. 

“Y–yeah?”

He chuckles, a noise you want sewn into your memory forever. “I like you too. I totally have for ages.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull. “Are you serious?”

Again, he flaunts that grin that you’ve marveled at for far too long. And it takes you a moment to realize he’s not replying– not with words. But his face is closer than before, and suddenly you could count every freckle, you could name every color in the ring of his iris, and he’s closer still, and only your eyes are doing the talking, and then his soft lips hit yours and everything stone inside you cracks. 

He moves gently, as if you’re made of frozen sugar; his hands find your waist, he paws at it slowly, too much, not enough— and then he pulls away. 

“That serious enough for you?”

You stammer out a butchered sentence, before roping yourself together, somewhat. “You can’t do that!” You choke, though there’s no malice in your tone, because he can hear your smile, even before he can see it. 

“Just did, baby.”

“You’re unreal. This— this isn’t real,” you chuckle in awe. 

“Mmm… I’d say it’s pretty real,” he smirks, reaching for your hand and squeezing it for emphasis. 

“Why’d you like me?” If you hunt for it, you can still taste the vestige of him on your trembling lips. 

“I just said, remember? You’re really generous, and you’re, like, patient with me, when nobody else is. And you’re painfully hot.”

You snort at this. “You’re the hot one.”

“Hey, we can both be hot.”

You giggle, squeezing his hand back, you fall into a pattern. You fade into him. 

“Oh my god, I actually can’t believe this.”

He presses a chaste peck to the canvas of your cheek, spreading a ruby flush that’s all for him. 

“Believe it.”

And you start to.

masterlist

✩‧₊˚

#clapton davis x reader #clapton davis x you #detention 2011 #josh hutcherson smut #mike schmidt fluff #clapton davis fluff #clapton davis smut #clapton davis #josh hutcherson #josh hutcherson x reader

[dozenssporks]

*the video opens with Vash collapsed in the sand looking dry and withered. The camera is at ground level, indicating that the cameraman is probably also on the ground*

Vash speaks, his voice raspy: is this it, Wolfgang? is this how it all ends?

Wolfwood: it ends for you if you keep calling me by made-up names.

Vash: oh, Lobo Arbor, I think I can see the light . . .

Wolfwood: listen here you little brat I told you not to use my name in your little home movies but I didn't say you could just pick me a new one!

Vash: Ulf of the Jungle . . .

Wolfwood: okay that is it--

*the camera shakes as Wolfwood starts crawling toward Vash. Abruptly the image only shows sand, having been dropped mid-journey. Shrieking from off-screen can be heard*

*the video cuts to a new scene*

*Vash is still on the ground, somewhat more sandy, holding the phone above his face. Next to Vash's head Wolfwood's feet can be seen, his shoes also encrusted with sand*

Vash: guys, we're lost in the desert

Wolfwood: we sure are

Vash: this might be our last video, dear viewers

Wolfwood: I want to be cremated and have my ashes portioned up and dumped over the heads of all the people I hate

Vash: I'm not one of those, right?

Wolfwood: you're not that significant to me

Vash gasps: if the desert hadn't dried up my tears I would weep, Wolfgang. We're so horribly dried up . . . like raisins or sun-dried tomatoes . . . if only there were some landmark

Wolfwood: look again, one more time, spiky

*the camera raises up and slowly pans a wobbly path back and forth, showing empty blue skies and yellow sand. It flashes past something triangular, stops, and turns back. The blurred image focuses until the pyramids of Giza are clearly visible*

Vash: no way

Wolfwood: is that--?

Vash: it can't be! it's--!

*disregarding the pyramids the camera whips around and swiftly zooms in on a modern highway and clearly populated and thriving city. Everything blurs again when Vash staggers to his feet*

Vash: It's a pizza hut!

Wolfwood, simultaneously: It's a KFC!

*the camera turns back around to show Vash's overjoyed face and lingers there for a few seconds. Vash's face twists up and after a brief struggle he bursts into laughter*

Vash: just foolin'!

Wolfwood, also laughing: gotcha!

Vash: this video is for everyone who doesn't know that the best view of the pyramids is from a KFC and that even I couldn't get lost between the pyramids and the city!

Wolfwood, breathlessly: pfft, okay let's get some chicken

Vash: no? we're getting pizza hut?

Wolfwood: nooo we agreed on KFC

Vash: we did not, I never did

Wolfwood: yes we did, we're going to get some extra crispy

Vash: nuh uh

Wolfwood: mashed potatoes. biscuits.

Vash: pizza with everything on it!

Wolfwood: Bucket! Of! Chicken!

Vash: ranch-pineapple-BBQ-anchovie-jalapeno-mushroom-green onion-feta-asiago-buffalo--

Wolfwood: whoa jeez is that a pizza order or a curse?! K.F.C.

*Vash screeches and lunges at Wolfwood*

Wolfwood: Oh LORD!

*the camera, again abandoned, shows a beautifully clear image of the cloudless blue sky before the video cuts to black silence*

#trigun #vash the stampede #wolfwood #a dozen sporks speaks #trigun snippets #on the run au #trigun on the run au #trigun modern au #whenever they fight I imagine a cartoon dust cloud with the occasional fist popping out

[endlingmusings]

[ A jar in the shape of an ibex, retaining one natural horn, found in the tomb of the pharaoh Tutankhamun. Photographed by Robert Harding. ]

"Millennia ago, northern Africa was much wetter and cooler. Monsoons struck periodically, and the Sahara was covered with lakes and vegetation. This greener version of Egypt was home to a mix of wildlife more like the one now found in East Africa, with 37 species of large mammals including lions, wildebeest, warthogs and spotted hyenas. The region began to dry out about 5,000 years ago, a time that coincides with the fall of the Uruk Kingdom in Mesopotamia (located in present-day Iraq) and the rise of the pharaohs in Egypt. The Egyptian people at this time switched from a mobile, pastoral life to one of agriculture and subsistence hunting. The new research shows that several species of antelope, along with giraffes and rhinoceroses, disappeared around the same time—extinctions that could be due to overhunting of herbivores. Shortly afterward, the long-maned lion vanished. Egypt became even drier around 4,200 years ago, during a time known as the “First Intermediate Period” or the “dark period.” The region depended on yearly flooding of the Nile to inundate the land and leave behind nutrient-laden silt to feed agricultural fields. But during the dark period, this flooding became inconsistent, crop yields dropped and famine ensued. War and chaos reigned, and eventually the Old Kingdom—and with it, the “Age of the Pyramids”—ended. This is when the roan antelope and African wild dog disappeared from the records. A third aridification event occurred about 3,000 years ago, again bringing drought and an end to the New Kingdom, a time that included Tutankhamun and 12 kings named Ramses. Egypt’s short-maned lions, revered as sacred and even occasionally mummified, vanished around this time. Then about 150 years ago, as Egypt’s growing population became more industrialized, more species disappeared, including leopards and wild boar. Today, only 8 of the original 37 large-bodied mammals remain."

- Excerpt from "Egypt’s Mammal Extinctions Tracked Through 6,000 Years of Art" by Sarah Zielinski.

#Egypt #Biodiversity #Extinction #History #Article #Text #Historical #Upload

[countriesgame]

Please reblog for a bigger sample size!

If you have any fun fact about San Francisco Bay Area, please tell us and I'll reblog it!

Be respectful in your comments. You can criticize a government without offending its people.

Info: San Francisco Bay Area is not a country. The blog is open to non-country polls now. In this case, it refers to the region in California, the United States.

#san francisco bay area #bay area #the united states #north america #country polls #polls #not a country

[whencyclopedia]

Dogs and Their Collars in Ancient Mesoamerica

Dogs were an integral aspect of the lives of the people of Mesoamerica regardless of their location or culture and, throughout the region, were recognized as liminal beings belonging not only to the natural world and that of humans but to this world and the next.

Dogs were believed by the Aztec, Maya, and Tarascan to travel between worlds, assist the souls of the dead, warn of dangers to the living and, at the same time, were regarded as a food source, companion, and guardian in daily life. The dogs of the indigenous people are frequently depicted without collars because it seems to have been thought that these would restrict the dog’s movement between worlds.

Even so, collars did exist – fashioned for humans to wear – and it is thought that these developed from dog collars. This model changed with the arrival of Christopher Columbus (l. 1451-1506) in the West Indies in 1492. Columbus’ dogs all wore collars and were much larger than the animals the natives were used to. The European dogs had also been trained for war and so were far more savage than any dog a Taino, for example, had ever known.

After Columbus, who sailed for Spain, more Spanish invaders arrived and made their way north through South America to Mesoamerica, bringing Christianity with them. Christianity began to replace indigenous beliefs and, as the Catholic Church claimed dogs had no souls, belief in the supernatural power of the dog declined. Although there were no doubt many indigenous peoples who still believed in the dog as a psychopomp, there is no widespread evidence of this belief after the arrival of the Spanish as compared with pre-Columbian Mesoamerica. The descendants of the ancient people of the region have only begun restoring their ancient cultures in the past 100 years and so, in time, the dog has slowly regained the status it once held.

Olmecs & Their Dogs

The Olmecs of Mesoamerica lived in the lowlands along the Gulf of Mexico c. 1400-400 BCE and bred dogs as food. The Olmecs are the oldest civilization in the western hemisphere, inventing the first written language of Mesoamerica as well as distinctive art and architecture which would influence the later civilizations of the Aztecs, Maya, and Tarascan, among others. The sacred animal of the Olmecs was the jaguar which was thought to be spiritually related to the dog. The dog was therefore associated with the divine while, at the same time, serving as a food source. There seems to have been no contradiction in this as dogs, servants and messengers of the gods, also served humanity by graciously offering themselves as food.

A tomb of the Zoque peoples, a Mesoamerican population thought to be descended from the Olmec, was discovered in 2010 in Chiapa de Corzo containing jade collars. These were ornamental collars for human wear but could have developed from the dog collar. The tomb dates to between 700-500 BCE and is the oldest pyramid tomb yet found in the region.

The indigenous people of modern-day Mexico, Belize, Guatemala, Honduras and neighboring regions, built pyramids as temples, not as tombs, and this find is thought to reflect an earlier Olmec practice of keeping precious objects in temples – one that was observed by later cultures. The jade collars, though clearly for human use, could have linked an officiant with the spirit of a liminal dog who would bring messages from the gods.

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#History #Dog #Pets #PopolVuh #WHE #[ #]