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greennct · 5 years

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saw you in a dream - park jisung

okay this was by far one of the best requests i have ever gotten - which is probably why it took so long (i'm sorry!!), because i wanted to get it perfect!! I am such a sucker for a soulmate!au so i had so much fun writing this i love jisung so much smkddjkfjlsf 💞💖💘

fluff, 4.6k words, slow-burn, hell ye boiiii non-idol!au, soulmates!au

song rec: talk me down by troye sivan

The first time that Jisung showed up in your dreams was when you were about six years old. You didn’t recognise him then - how could you? Life at that stage was mostly preoccupied with which stuffed animal you would decide to bring to school for show-and-tell that week. However, you did certainly remembered him. Unwittingly tucking the boy deep into your subconscious was not an option - not when your first encounter was under such bizarre circumstances.

You remembered the meeting like this: You had watched an extremely entertaining episode of Winnie the Pooh a few hours before you were put to bed, and fast asleep, were enjoying a delightful tea wedding ceremony with the bear himself. That was, until your vows were rudely interrupted.

“Hey!” came a voice, from just outside of your peripheral vision.

You sighed. Even though the memory was from such a young age, you still clearly remember your frustration at your marriage to Winnie being put on hold.

“Hello?” You swivelled your head around, scanning the Hundred-Acre-Wood for the source of the noise.

“You can’t marry Winnie the Pooh!”

A scrawny, yet annoying tall boy was straddled on Eeyore’s back, hands cupped either side of his mouth as he yelled at you, a glint in his eye.

If six-year-old you was angry before, you were furious now. “Why not?”

“He’s not real!”

You spluttered, struggling to vocalise your anger correctly with your limited vocabulary of that time,

“You’re not real!” You shot back, sticking out your tongue at him for good measure.

“Yes I am!” He protested. “I’m real! You’re in my dream!!”

“No, you’re in my dream!”

You woke up with a start, slightly dazed and certainly confused, but much too tired to think anything more of it than to roll over and go back to sleep. Though the thought of him unnerved you, especially when upon asking, your Mother had no idea who “Dream-Boy” was. Though the thought of him cropped up in your mind every so often, and irritated you, eventually, you found yourself forgetting about whoever the stranger had been, and the dream itself got hazier and hazier. In fact, you more or less completely forgot about him.

That is, until you turned twelve.

You had just moved to a new school, and almost immediately, a the class clown, a bubbly boy named Soonyoung, had welcomed you with open arms, perfectly-timed jokes, and the brightest smile you had ever seen. It was almost inevitable that your overexcited tween self would develop a huge crush on him, which unsurprisingly formed barely a week into your friendship.

Spurred on by him complimenting your outfit at school that day, you had found yourself dreaming of a hazy French cafe that night, furnished with an abundance of greenery and sunlight, with a single table and two chairs set in the middle of an otherwise empty room. You couldn’t say you were particularly surprised to find Soonyoung waiting in one of the seats with a red rose. You grinned, happy to finally be seen in a romantic light by him, even if it was just in your subconscious. However, you had barely made it three steps towards him, before-

“EW! Are you on a date? That’s gross! Girls are so weird!”

You blinked, and turned to see a suddenly familiar face. “W-what?” You immediately started to flush red. The boy who had interrupted your dream was standing just slightly off to the side, by the corner of the cafe. He was smirking, confident in his accusation.

“You’re on a date... right?”

“Um, no...?” You sounded about as convinced as he was.

“Yeah, right. Chenle says girls love stuff like this. Flowers, and chocolates, and everything disgusting!”

You frowned. Your embarrassment at having been caught having such a romantic dream was quickly being replaced by anger at the boy for interrupting it in such a rude way, satire dripping from each word that leered from his lips.

“What’s wrong with you! You always come into my dreams at the wrong time! Get out of my subconscious, freak!”

“Hey!” The boy replied, spit flying out of his braces (Which, you noted, were a new, clearly adolescent development in his appearance). “You’re the one in my subconscious!”

“I’m real! You’re just some weird figment of my imagination.” You retorted.

“Nuh-uh!” He shot back.

“What's your name then?”

“Jisung.” He retorted, cursing your own name under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

“See! How did you know my name if you were real?” You smirked, glad to have finally caught him out.

However, your satisfaction was short-lived, as Jisung pointed towards a huge banner in the corner of the room with a deadpan expression. You conveniently hadn’t caught sight of the huge display of you and Soonyoung’s names in huge calligraphy, twisted around vines of roses and hearts before he had pointed it out.

Unable to formulate a response, yet again, you instead stared around the room, searching for anything to distract you from Jisung’s egotistical gaze. As yet another loss rained down upon you, you turned back to the boy in order to yell at him. Soonyoung had disappeared. And you were certain it was his fault.

“You’re so annoying!” You shot at Jisung. “Now he’s gone!”

The boy muttered something underneath his breath.

“What did you say?” Eyes narrowing, you took a step towards the boy.

“I said,” He repeated, louder this time, “What’s so good about him, anyway?”

You almost screamed in frustration. “I don’t know!” You were beyond embarrassed, the anger that had been bubbling up inside you finally erupting. “He’s funny! And kind, and smart, and-”

“Well, so am I!” Jisung replied.

You froze, eyes bulging slightly as you digested what he had just said, thoughts of Soonyoung suddenly gone from your mind. “What do you mean?” Your tone was quiet, slow.

“I- The thing is- What I, um meant-” Jisung was spluttering, clearly stuck having to salvage a dignified response from his outburst. “Everyone is. So, he’s not special.”

You giggled. As young as you were, you still understood that Jisung had just exposed his weakness: You. The power dynamics had shifted, and you were loving it.

“You like me, don’t you, Jisung?”

“What?!” Jisung went scarlet. “No!”

“Yeah, you do, don't you?” Your voice was sing-song, happy to finally have something to wind him up over.

“Only ‘cause I have to!” He wrinkled his nose at you.

“What do you mean?” You were momentarily distracted from your tormenting by his intriguing statement.

“Y- You don't know?” Jisung seemed to visibly relax. “That explains everything!”

“Explains what, Jisung? What do I not know?” All your anger returned tenfold, and you cursed the boy mentally for making you feel so ignorant.

"Nevermind.” He seemed chirpy, a smile tugging at the cornet of his lips. “You’ll find out soon. Just wake up.”

You flew at him, ready to punch him in the face, and was inches from his skin before you heard the sound of your alarm, ripping you away from his smirking face.

You shot up in bed, practically foaming at the mouth. “I swear to God,” You said to yourself, reaching for your clock to turn off the ringing, “If I ever see him again, that boy is dead.”

And luckily, you didn’t. Not for another few years, anyway.

You had just turned sixteen when you got your first boyfriend. His name was Chan, and you thought he was dreamy. An Australian transfer who quickly became captain of the football team with the best grades in your whole year, not to mention being an aspiring songwriter, you were head over heels in infatuation. It was barely a week into dating him when you dreamed in anticipation of your inevitable first kiss.

In your dream, the two of you were huddled behind the bleaches, after a victorious football game. You were wearing his jacket, the same one you donned each day in your reality, and he was just about to lean in. However, he had barely tucked a strand of hair behind your ear before you heard an all-too-familiar voice.

“Should I leave?”

Opening your eyes, you were horrified to discover that your would-be first kiss had had an unknown witness.

“Jisung.” You groaned. “Seriously?” You turned back to Chan in order to apologise, only to discover, that just like Soonyoung had in your last interrupted dream, he had disappeared. “Are you kidding?” You whined at him.

Jisung sniggered. He was older now, the braces were gone, his voice was deeper, and he seemed broader now.

“Sorry.” He replied, in a tone that suggested that he was not sorry at all.

“So who was that?” He shoved into the small space, replacing the boy who had previously been there.

You rolled your eyes, annoyed, but also deciding to push your anger aside in order to finally find out something about the boy who dipped in and out of your dreams.

“That was Chan.” You admitted.

“What did he do to deserve that fate?” Jisung jabbed. “Smile at you in the hallway, or something?”

“Actually,” You snapped, “He’s my boyfriend.”

“Oh.”

You had expected to feel smug at finally shocking Jisung to silence, however you were surprised at feeling somehow guilty at your answer.

In order to distract him from your news, you decided to change the conversation topic.

“How do you always know how to find me?”

Jisung shrugged. “I dunno. I dream most nights without anyone else, but sometimes, there's this weird door thing - it’s not a door, more of a hole, I can’t explain it - but I know it leads to you.”

“Can you-”

“Travel to other people’s dreams? No. I’ve tried to visit Chenle, but the only door I can open is yours.”

“Chenle?” Your brow furrowed in recognition of the name. “You’ve mentioned him before, right?”

You could see Jisung smile in spite of himself out of the corner of your eye. “Yeah. He's my best friend.”

“Really?” You asked. “How did you guys meet? You must’ve been friends for a while.”

That night, when you dreamed of Jisung at 16, the dream didn’t work the way your usually did. Instead of vague, constantly shifting and extremely brief as all of your other ones were, this dream truly felt as if you were awake. You seemed to talk to Jisung for hours, swapping interests, stories, and simply getting to know one another. He told you all about Chenle, his brother, his parents, his hobbies, his life. You learnt more about him that dream than you think you had ever learnt about anyone before.

Never had a dream of yours been so vivid, so detailed, and most strangely, so easy to remember once you had woken up. You could recall clearly each and every joke that Jisung had made, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, and the fluttering feeling in your stomach when he had brushed his shoulders with yours.

The dream made you uneasy. Yes, Jisung had assured you that he was real, and had provided you with more than enough in-depth information to confirm to yourself that there was no way that you focused be creative enough to invent an entire other person to such an extent. However he was still someone you had met in a dream. If any of your friends had told you that this phenomenon had happened to them, there would be no way that you would believe them, let alone if they ventured so far as to admit potential feelings blooming for their dream friend.

Despite all of this, you still couldn’t get Jisung out of your mind. It didn’t matter how much your brain tried to rationalise your emotions away, time and time again your thoughts slipped back to what the mysteriously was doing.

You broke up with Chan within the week.

Even through your confusing thoughts, you prepared yourself to not see Jisung for another few years at least, as was your usual custom. Yet, you were surprised to find him again just over a month from your last dream. In fact, as you progressed through high school, you found yourself dreaming of him mire and more often, until you dreamed of him almost three times a week.

The dreams always changed in location. Sometimes you two would go paint-balling, or pottery painting, however your favourite location to dream in was a simple space, perhaps a meadow, or living room, where the two of you could pass the hours simply sitting and talking to each other.

It wasn’t a surprise that you two grew as close as you did. After all, you were pretty much stuck together in a confined space for hours on end. The surprise was instead, how much you genuinely liked him. Something about knowing someone so intimately, their most embarrassing stories, their wildest hopes and dreams, and still being able to spend hours simply talking about nothing and not getting bored, for years on end, was never something you would have expected from yourself. Before you knew it, you were eager to get to sleep each night, excited simply to spend time with him.

However, no matter how close you were, there was always one thing that Jisung would always avoid mentioning. You realised early on, that Jisung could travel into your dreams at will, yet he never told you how, or more importantly, why. Every so often he would reference this ‘connection’ between the two of you, but refuse to explain what it was. It irked you that Jisung somehow understood exactly why and how it was possible for you two to dream of each other when you didn’t have the slightest clue. It offended you that he didn’t want to tell you. It was a particular Thursday night, a little after you two had entered college, that finally prompted you to say something to him about it.

You were in an attic somewhere, cuddled up on cushions as he played with your fingers. You told each other that you were best friends, but sometimes, especially in moments like these, the lines between just that and something more, began to blur. You had never really considered the possibility of you actually entering into a relationship with Jisung though, how absurd would it be to try to explain to your friends and family that you only saw your boyfriend in your dreams? You decided to ask about the ‘connection,’ referencing it delicately, almost jokily, not wanting to scare him away.

“So what’s the big deal about us, anyway?”

You could feel his chest vibrate through your back as he chuckled softly. “What do you mean?”

“Well, y’know, all this weird dreaming. The fact we can communicate in a way no one else ever has, that I’m pretty sure science can’t explain, that you know the reason behind but have refused to tell me for years?” Your voice was deliberately calm, keeping your accusations as light as possible.

Jisung stiffened. Though he clearly felt uncomfortable keeping this secret from you, you felt that your sympathy was not yet warranted, as the discomfort was not enough for him to actually tell you what you so desperately wanted to know. His silence hurt.

“Jisung?”

There was still no reply.

You sat up, turning to look at him, inhaling softly when you caught sight of the tears in his eyes.

“Jisung, what’s wrong?” You wiped a stray tear that had spilled onto his cheek gently.

“I can’t tell you.” He muttered, avoiding your gaze.

“You can tell me anything.” Your voice broke slightly as you watched your best friend try not to fall apart in front of you.

“Not this.” He shook his head fervently, more tears escaping his eyes with the movement, though his voice remained steadfast.

“Jisung-”

“I can’t!” This was louder, verging on a shout. “Please, don’t ask me again. Don’t ask me ever. I won’t tell you.”

He stood up, brushing your hands haphazardly away from his face, storming to the trapdoor.

You shrank back at his raised volume. “Oh.” You said, to his disappearing figure. “Okay.”

You would have expected yourself to feel angry. Your best friend had just deliberately concealed a secret that you knew involved you, and yelled at you when you asked him to tell you about it. Instead, you just felt sad.

The next night, you did not dream of Jisung. The night after, you did not dream at all. Your sadness quickly slumped into a depression, as the days started piling up between your last meeting with Jisung.

Studying for classes was an effort you found monumental. Showing up for your part-time job, forcing tasteless food down your throat, simply seemed pointless. Your friends and family all voiced their concerns, however it was about three weeks into your moping around, when you finally gave in, and unloaded your troubles.

Chaeyoung had been your best friend since the two of you were about five. Having survived all the way up until now, you reasoned that your friendship would not be broken by your ranting about some boy you had met in a dream. Besides, she had always been a little... whimsical, believing absolutely in her horoscope, ordering suspicious ingredients off the black market, and sprinkling any and all metaphysical vocabulary she had learnt from dodgy websites online on a daily basis.

If anyone was to believe your story, it would be her.

You both worked part-time at café down the street from your house, spending at least half an hour a week swapping shifts with other employees to ensure that you two would serve together. It was a slow, rain-soaked Sunday evening when you finally confessed what had been upsetting you for the past few weeks.

Chaeyoung listened attentively to your story, all the way from your first Winnnie the Pooh dream to your most recent argument. She interrupted occasionally to clarify specific points, and raised her eyebrows at certain parts, but stayed engaged throughout your story. Glancing up at the clock when you had finally come to the end of your your testimony, you realised that, uninterrupted by any customers, you had been talking for almost half an hour.

“So, um, yeah.” You finished awkwardly. “Now I don’t think I’ll ever see him again.”

Chaeyoung frowned. “Hang on, I’m just trying to make sense of all this. I’m certain he’s real - there’s no way you’re creative enough to make up a whole other person, no offence.”

You smiled a little. The backhanded compliment didn’t matter to you, it just felt good to have another person acknowledge that Jisung was real.

“And I believe your whole story, honest!” She continued, raising her left palm to assure you of her conviction. “It’s just... the whole thing seems so familiar, somehow. I’m sure I’ve read something similar before, somewhere...”

She pulled out her phone, scrolling through the fifteen thousand tabs that she kept open at all times, seemingly searching for something, while you scoffed slightly at the idea any sort of occurrence like this could have happened before.

“Look, Chae, no offence, but I doubt any of your weird witchcraft internet forums would-”

“Found it!” You blinked in disbelief. Chaeyoung’s eyes widened as she read the paragraph she had discovered aloud.

“Though a rare occurrence, it is not an urban myth. Found once in a hundred centuries... blah, blah, blah...” She scrolled down impatiently. “Those who can communicate within their dreams are known to be Celestial Soulmates! Hah, I knew it!”

Looking up at you, exhilarated, Chaeyoung’s face fell when she caught sight of your disbelieving expression.

“We’re not soulmates, Chae. Don’t be stupid.”

“See for yourself.” She shoved the phone into your hands smugly.

You scanned the website carefully, a jolt in your stomach each time the page referenced a story you recognised. Only one of the pair able to travel within the dreams? Check. An increased frequency of them as the two of you grew older? Yep. Even the fact you were never in the same place twice was referenced. It felt as though someone had written your biography, and posted it on the internet for all to see. You handed the phone back to Chaeyoung after rereading the passage twice, hands shaking.

“That’s why he’s been so angry, see?” She explained. “He’s hopelessly in love with you, and you have no idea!”

“Don’t be stupid.” You replied. “We might be soulmates, I’ll give you that, but platonically. No one is in love with anyone.”

Chaeyoung rolled her eyes. “It says there that Jisung could enter into any dream of yours he wanted. Why do you think he only chose to interrupt the ones in which you were with a crush?”

You sighed. “That doesn't make sense. Why wouldn’t he just tell me we’re soulmates?”

“Because you’re living in denial!” Chaeyoung slammed her hand onto the countertop you two were stationed behind. “You’re like the most oblivious person ever! He probably thought you’d just reject him, since you never show anyone affection ever, so just kept quiet!”

“But-”

“Do you love him?”

A pause.

“What?”

“I said,” Chaeyoung repeated, “Do you love him?”

You stopped in your tracks. In all your years of friendship with Jisung, you had never once considered whether or not you wanted something more, dismissing any inkling of a romantic thought before it even fully formed as impractical. For the first time, you tried to picture yourself kissing Jisung, going on dates with him, introducing him to your parents. It felt... right, somehow. Like remembering the words to a song you had loved years ago. It had always been there, you just never bothered to look.

All of a sudden, what felt like memories started to flood into your mind, images of a future with him. A wedding day, a baby girl, a retirement home, all of which, you shared with Jisung. Your knees buckled as you absorbed the torrent of emotions that suddenly hit your body. Your heart seemed to swell, colours blurred until all you could see was Jisung’s face scrunched up in a smile. You gripped the counter for support, staring at Chaeyoung in utter disbelief.

“Oh my God, I think I do. I’m in love with Jisung.”

Chaeyoung opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the ding of the bell above the door, and you both instinctively turned to greet the customer who had just walked in.

Your heart flew into your throat. Even as rain-drenched as he was, covered mostly by a huge pink hoodie, with hair plastered to his forehead, you recognised the boy in an instant.

“Holy shit.” You whispered. “That’s- He’s-”

As Jisung turned to look at Chaeyoung and you to order, you sprinted through the door just behind the counter into the backroom. Heart beating faster than it ever had before, you pressed your back against the nearest wall, panting slightly as you tried to process what had just happened.

You could hear him ordering, though slightly muffled, you recognised his Americano with warm milk and hazelnut syrup order from the many times the two of you had argued over the best-tasting coffee combination. Of course you knew his regular. How could you not?

Your heart stopped as you heard him mention you.

“Is that other server okay? She ran kinda fast when I came in.”

You heard Chaeyoung chuckle awkwardly. “She’s fine. Just... forgot something in the stock room.”

“Oh, ok.” There was a short pause. “I just thought I recog...” Jisung trailed off. “Nevermind.”

“I’ll bring your coffee to you in a second, just go make yourself comfortable.” She urged. “You have the whole café to yourself!”

Silence, as you heard him shuffle away. You were just beginning to calm down to the sounds of Chaeyoung preparing his drink, when she burst through the door and rounded on you.

“What are you doing?!” She hissed. “That’s Jisung, right?! Your literal soulmate is sitting not even ten feet away from you, and you’re hiding in here like an idiot!”

“I’m scared, Chae.” You confessed. “What if he's still angry at me?”

“You are so dumb!” She rolled her eyes at you. “He was never mad at you, just hurt ‘cause he didn’t think you loved him back! Y’know, that whole ‘distancing-himself-before-he-could-get-hurt’ bullshit! Go give him his coffee and a big ol’ smooch so you two can finally find some fucking happiness!”

“But-”

“No buts! You’re going over there right now.” Chaeyoung said as she hustled you out the door, shoving the tray into your hand, and pushing you in his direction.

Since Jisung had his back to the counter, you made your way over slowly, shooting panicked glances back at Chaeyoung every few steps.

He was looking over an essay on his laptop when you put his cup down, and you almost turned around again and left, when his hand shot out to grab your own.

There was a pause as you froze, not even daring to breathe as you watched him examine your palm.

“That scar.” He said, voice low, urgent. “I know that scar.” He pointed blatantly at the small pale line below your life line. “You got that scar chopping carrots for your Mother when you were twelve.”

He looked up at you, finally, his incredulous eyes meeting your teary ones. He whispered your name, under his breath, almost like a prayer.

“Jisung.” You smiled through the tears that starting to stream down your face in full force. He was standing now, towering over you, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist.

“I found you.” He breathed. “I finally found you.”

“You were looking for me?”

“Of course! Weren't you?” A hint of insecurity flashed behind his ecstatic expression.

“I was too scared you weren’t real.” You replied, moving your hands around his neck to wrap him into a tight hug. “But you are, of course you are.” Feeling him, solid in your arms, breathing in his scent, all of your previous agonising over the past three weeks, over the past few years seemed distant now.

“I’m so sorry I let you dream alone.” Jisung murmured into your hair. “I had to tell you in person, I couldn’t keep lying. The thing is, we’re-”

“Soulmates, I know.”

Jisung pulled back from your hug, eyes bulging out of his head. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?!”

“I only found out about five minutes ago!”

“I found out when I was like five!” He replied, exasperated.

“How?” But you knew the answer before the question left your lips.

“Chenle.” The two of you said at the same time, laughing at each other.

You stayed silent for a minute, simply enjoying being able to be physically present with who you now realised was the love of your life. You realised with a jolt that you needed to tell him.

“Jisung?”

“Hm?” He was distracted, pouring over your features, memorising your face all over again.

“I love you.”

Jisung beamed. You could feel the walls of the room you stood in fall away as you basked in the warmth of that smile.

“I love you, too. More than you’ll ever know.”

All the struggling, the agonising, the anger and frustration, that feeling that you always had something missing from you, was all in the past now. The only thing that mattered was the future, the days, months, years that you would spend with Jisung. There were only happy tears to cry, let your insides wash away all of the pain you could barely remember now. Jisung was here, Jisung loved you, and somehow, nothing else mattered.

There was only one thing left to do. You closed your eyes, finally pulled the boy you loved, your soulmate, into a kiss, and felt the world explode around you.

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bnrobertson1 · 3 years

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The Cleansing Comedy of “Cum Town”

To paraphrase a point Canadian All-American Hero Norm MacDonald laid on a then-alive Larry King, comedians used to aspire to be funny, now they aspire to appear smart. While political humor, ostensibly a stage to show off one’s intellect and humanity by the empathetic tackling of modern topics, has been a thing as long as humor itself, there was time in the not-so-distant past where the goal was the display of comedy chops, not compassion*. This significant shift in the mainstream started with Jon Stewart’s reign as host of The Daily Show. A far departure from the wackier Craig “Dance Dance Dance” Kilborn’s approach to the Comedy Central staple, Stewart treated TDS as a megaphone in which he could espouse his political views. Nightly challenging W’s hawkish take on foreign policy, liberals the country over championed their new clever-if-not-amusing hero- but at some point during Stewart’s ascension, reflecting a certain acceptable viewpoint became more important than reflecting a sense of humor.

*Back in the early SNL days Chevy Chase suggested that Gerald Ford sustained significant brain damage playing football to mock Ford’s bumbling persona, not excoriate him on the tenets of his agenda.

Consider Last Week Tonight with John Oliver or the zeitgeist-shifting Nanette. The former features some of the best reporting on the planet, displaying a willingness to cover potential viewership-poison like prison reform or, on a recent episode, black hair and its connection to the systematic racism African Americans face daily. The show is relentless, passionate, and is about as funny as that sounds. John Oliver is clearly a witty person, but even he often acknowledges how “Erudite Brit Shames Americans over Racism” isn’t exactly the blueprint for a yuckle factory*. Much like his old boss Stewart, Oliver is more dedicated to espousing the correct viewpoint over a funny one. To this point, most “jokes” in the show feel jammed in like a satirical sausage, often coming across as after-thoughts that can mess with the tone**. As a show it is unquestionably a success, opening myriad eyes to plights once unknown. As a comedy show, which is what it at least originally marketed itself as, it is a failure.

*It is, however, pretty perfect Monday Morning hiding-in-cubicle watching

**While he does try to infuse some zaniness into the program by talking about fucking animals or whatever, I don’t think Oliver realizes how genuinely funny it is watching a bookish Brit get upset about coconut oil hair products, although not in the way he probably hopes it would be.

An even purer example of Norm’s point is Hannah Gadsby’s Nanette. The buzzed-about stand-up special is essentially a takedown of white male-ism, albeit one that seems allergic to laughing. Gadsby is trying to woo you with her intellectualism, not her ability to make you chuckle. Some called this approach brilliant- turning a male-dominated form on its head to put its practitioners on blast for things ranging from sexism to transphobia. Widely decorated around the world for its innovative and sharp honesty, Nanette asked the big question: is the next wave of comedy not meant to be funny? Is cutting edge humor not humorous at all? Are we entering a Metal Machine Music era of comedy? And if so, is merely criticizing the perceived powers-that-be now considered comedy?

More like No-nette

This desire to display empathetic enlightenment has gone well beyond the world of stand-up and political comedy. It can be seen by the yanking of episodes of comic cornerstones such as It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and 30 Rock that feature blackface, or animated programs recasting characters so that voices are both more inclusive and representative. Even The Simpsons has all but abandoned its once trademark balance, its current form essentially the wet-blanket Lisa, a far, far cry from the Homer-centric past of the show’s glory years.

All of these decisions have been made by the shows’ respective creators, a mea culpa for insensitive liberties taken in the recent past. Blame the internet for the long, indelible digital footprints, but people are now more worried about how the future will remember them, in some enlightened far-off utopia where comedy is really about nothing being funny, and everybody is judged by the language you used when no one really gave a rat’s ass about what you had to say.

Entertainers are far more concerned with looking good fifteen years from now than making people laugh now. Ironic detachment- the reason a lot of the questionable humor existed in the first place*, isn’t a big enough distance for comics to get away with racism, sexism, and other forms of bigotry, chuckles be damned.

*Racists have been the butt of the joke- and not the jokesters- for as long as I can remember. I find it hard to believe that anyone could watch an Always Sunny and think they’re mocking minorities. While the meme-ification of America has robbed many of these jokes of context, it’s a waste of time to criticize creators for devolving consumption habits, especially in the name of inclusion, compassion, etc.

It’s not my place to say whether this is good or bad. As self-censorship isn’t really censorship, it’s hard to argue that an artist willfully pulling their work from the marketplace is some sort of injustice. It’s their reputation (read: livelihood) after all. There are things I would probably delete/hide if anybody gave enough of a shit to do a deep dive into my past babblings. But while I certainly applaud the idealistic efforts to make a more welcoming society for all, it does kind of suck that it comes at the expense of comic mana such as Lethal Weapon 5 (and 6).

At the risk of kicking dusty horse bones, this does boil the whole “cancel culture” debate down to one consideration: what is acceptable to laugh at?

Insert the podcast “Cum Town.” Starring the trio of Nick Mullen (the bitter one), Stravos Hilias (the bigger one), and Adam Friedland (the butler?), “Cum Town” is the least political of the “Dirtbag Left”* wave of offerings*. If you can’t tell by the name, “Cum Town” isn’t for the crowd that regularly uses the word “problematic.” Employing a fairly new media in the podcast, the three NY-based comics shoot the shit on pretty much all matters, keeping the atmosphere loose and the unapologetic laughs flowing.

*Which also includes the hugely popular “Chapo Trap House” and “Red Scare,” shows that are both fairly funny... and can often be accurately described as “permanently congested neck-beards talking tough about revolution or whatever in between rhapsodizing about time-old yet currently posh talking points (distribution of wealth, liberalism vs. leftism, etc.)”.

As bad as the Olivers and the Gadsbys of the world want to change your mind, the trio at “Cum Town” are much more focused on tickling your funny bone (and/or prostate). Its setup gives the show an air of Howard-Stern-in-the-90s danger, where things that probably should never be thought are said with glee. They’re the type of guys who find the humor in places that make others uncomfortable, such as the connection of the Clintons to Jeffrey Epstein’s murder or, in one particularly great skit, how Trump would undoubtedly try to smear Robert De Niro as a non-Italian homosexual.

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Devoid of the pretension other “enlightened” modern comedy wears so proudly, the show can focus on being being funny in ways that spur a gut laugh, not a guffaw.

“Cum Town” works because its as self-aware as it is fearless. These aren’t Andrew Dice Clays winding up the Islanders stadium with bits about “the brothers.” They’re not just reliving old Stern bits, asking alcoholic little people and other societal pariahs to make fools of themselves. The show wouldn’t work if it was merely “saying racial slurs with the EdgeLord Crowd.” "Cum Town” operates like a savvy boxer- throwing shots, usually at modern idols, knowing that it leaves them open to counter punches.

The genius of this approach is that they know what the counter punches will be (being called “racist,” “sexist,” “fascist,” etc.)... and have a counter-punch for that!* It’s not like it takes Ali-esque anticipatory vision to know what the criticisms will be. While calling a (probably white, cis-gender, straight) male “racist!” or “sexist!” or “fascist!” surely feels empowering to the counter-puncher, the reality is a lot of those terms have absolutely lost their meaning or the damaging heft that used to accompany their utterance. With the mass acceptance of systematic sexism/ racism as prevalent in everyday life, all the (bad) -isms are supposedly so ingrained into the white male psyche that they’re bigots no matter what. Especially when you consider that laughing- actual laughing- is more of a neurological reaction than a considered response. Put another way: a skit depicting Tony Soprano as an Indian may not confuse anybody into thinking Stav is on a first-name basis with Noam Chomsky, but it is infinitely funnier than all the “Donald Drumpf”s shouted together combined.

*Sorry, Mike Tyson’s Punch Out is about the extent of my boxing knowhow.

The show operates in a world where performance compassion is a hell of a lot worse than genuine feeling. Where Donald Trump gets mocked- but less so than Hillary Clinton, who’s president campaign’s attempt to make her “cool” was, let’s say, ill-fitting. It gets mean and nasty because comedy does. So, did Adam Friedland get called out by Chelsea Clinton for calling her ugly*? Yep. And many came to Chelsea’s defense calling for Adam’s sexist, disgusting head, I’m sure in only pro-Semitic ways. Does Nick’s archaic (though quite good) impressions of various ethnicities to a certain trope? Or does Stav talking about pornography and getting ass with a somewhat slimy tone? The three “Cum Town” hosts know that the list of the “powerless” has changed considerably in the last few decades, and that those who pay service to liberal ideals should be mocked just like the rest of us.

The tweet in question.

Juvenile? Sure. Insensitive? Yes. But God Dammit, isn’t humor supposed to be that way? If there’s a killer joke where the punch-line is “bigotry is bad,” I’m not aware of it. “Cum Town” generates a type of laughter that feels liberating- like you’re shaking off the oppressive scowl of a world that blames you- person who has been around for about one one billionth of the world’s life- for all its ills. The more modern society weighs us with new considerations on language and decorum, conjured rules that dictate what you may have a reaction to and what you may not, the funnier the humor in its opposition flies. Breaking rules is inherently funny- thumbing your nose at society is at the core of comedy’s release. And the more it becomes taboo to say words like “tranny,” “fat,” “dumb,” “midget,” etc., the more comedic release will be given when we say the words that I’m not going to type right here. Because the further the joke is from the norm, the more space there is for laughter to form.

Some believe this humor can lead to hatred which can lead to violence. That the Capitol’s riots were a warped result of the Rogans of the world. That by hearing Dave Chappelle say the n-word, white people will start to adopt it, and chaos will surely follow. But there’s another school of thought that says being able to laugh at something is the genesis of being able to process something and eventual acceptance.

I realize this is hardly a surprising point from a straight white guy, one who has said (regretfully and not recently) on more than one occasion that “I don’t get offended, I don’t understand why others do?” But I also think that a lot of the “hurt” these societal infractions cause are more of a smokescreen or diversion from bigger problems. It’d be easier to distract people with discussions over whether James Bond should be black or if Dr. Seuss books featuring offensive illustrations should be banned as opposed to, I don’t know, actually try to combat some of the systematic problems that propagate systems that truly stun growth? Telling people they should feel guilty about something is a slippery slope as we have around 8 billion people on earth, there’s plenty of misery to go around. We should all probably feel bad about something.

In conclusion, “Cum Town” knows that just because something is bad doesn’t mean it can’t be funny. As mentioned before, humor is often how people cope with the hypocritical, values-starved planet we find ourselves on. Humor should delight our soul, not display our sophistication.

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preciousrichard-blog · 7 years

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Second Thoughts, Second Chances (Sniper/Spy)

Chapter 2: Spilt Coffee

AO3 Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9419246/chapters/21321302

Rating: Teen+

Chapter Summary: Coffee and dinner isn’t the usual way rivals interact, and the RED sniper’s invitation to the BLU spy gets him far more than he bargained for. Spy on the other hand, knows exactly what he wants.

It was 5:58, and the spy was shivering in a blue double breasted overcoat on the side of the only solitary road anywhere near the RED and BLU bases. He had taken the long way around, along a shoveled pathway from his base so as not to get his pants or shoes wet in the foot high snow. He'd have to thank the soldier for clearing some of it later. Cloaked and invisible to the naked eye, he tapped his pointed Italian shoe against the faded black tar of the dark roadway. It was night already, and he stood under the eerie orange glow of a streetlight. He folded his arms and shivered freely while he was unseen, scanning about for another form to appear from the shadowy white and amber all around him.

His heart pumped furiously every time he glanced down at his watch, or heard a distant sound. But his face, always composed, showed no sign of distress. Inside however his mind was racing, sorting through a highly calculated plan for the evening. They'd chat on the way there (he'd already arranged the topics from greatest to least interesting), then upon arriving Spy would slip from the driver's seat and hold the door for the other man (then the entrance to the restaurant.) He'd thought of what to order, and a backup order. He'd even planned an escape route from the building in case they spotted anyone who might cause them trouble. He had a spare knife tucked away in his vest pocket, and a pistol strapped to his ankle. If anyone in that God forsaken mountainside town could be the embodiment of thoroughness, it was Spy.

He idly toyed with the seam of his sleeve to resist the urges of reaching for a cigarette. He didn't want to be followed, and spared nothing for complete undetectability. Instead his nervous habits took hold and his behavior would have looked horribly suspicious if one could see him. He held his lip between his teeth and sighed. All he wanted was for the evening to go as he planned, and images of Sniper's smile in a warmly lit booth soothed him. It was now 6:01.

Sniper stepped out from his camper, slipping with practiced ease from the driver's seat onto the shoulder of the road. He left it running as he closed the door with a blunt metallic thud, huffing hot air on his fingers. He was wearing a brown and gray winter jacket that stopped mid-thigh, and a pair of pants that looked quite if not exactly like his work pants. But at least he saved a pair specially for outings. Pushing his Brown Bomber hat more securely on his head, he looked around. He glanced up and down the street, and for a moment he felt a pang of excitement followed by the burn of stupidity when he mistook a blue street sign for the other man. He shook his head, grumbling something along the lines of idiot before letting his eyes fall on the distant BLU base. He looked around himself before stepping along the road toward it, up a hill that obscured the rest of the street from his vision. When he reached the crest of the hill, he immediately noticed a pair of lone footprints in the thin snow of the street shoulder. Carefully he made his way toward them, and more appeared from the spot, one by one in the small bit of white. Spy was there, coming toward him. Sniper tried to catch a glimpse of the cloak, but saw nothing and decided to slow to a stop.

"Spy?" He called quietly, knowing his voice carried further in the silence of the dead winter.

"Observant." Spy said from somewhere beside him and he flinched.

"Blimey. Is'at really necessary?" He gasped, catching a cloud of warm air in the corner of his eye.

Spy's tone gave away his invisible grin, "Did I spook you?"

He rolled his eyes, "Ain't that all yer good for ya bleedin' scoundrel?"

Spy laughed, and watched the man's annoyance manifest itself in a puff of vapor, a shift of weight and a sharp tug of his jacket. With a soft smile Spy resisted the urge to pat his cheek reassuringly. The Aussie must have thought himself pretty clever to spot the Spy, but once again Spy was just a bit stealthier. The man in blue reached for his pocket, but stopped himself short, biting his lip as he reminded himself not to smoke just yet.

"Come now, before someone spots you." Spy smiled.

Sniper felt at ease hearing the throaty accent of the Frenchman again, and welcomed the change from the boisterous chatter of the RED base. He opened his mouth to invite the other to his van, but felt a hand tug firmly at the front of his coat just under his chin. He instinctively began moving in the direction Spy seemed to be pulling him, but reached up to grab an invisible wrist.

"Hold on now, I thought I was drivin'."

Spy slowed and stopped, his eyes snapping to the grip on his wrist and the warmth there. "You don't expect me to ride in that van of yours do you?" He asked in an annoyingly honest tone.

"And what's wrong with my van?" He asked, prickly. "Besides, I left it on just over the hill- I didn't even know you had a car 'round here." Spy let go of his jacket and Sniper dropped his wrist, "I spent the better half of the hour diggin' it out."

Spy's face sank; he hadn't planned for the man to bring his camper all the way out here. He hadn't anticipated that he'd go through the trouble of shoveling it out for such a simple trip. And now how was he to ask otherwise without appearing completely inconsiderate. He grit his teeth, mind working quickly.

"It's..." It's a horribly garish thing he thought, and bit his lip, "It is a bit top heavy for these mountain roads is it not?" He lied.

"On the contrary-" Sniper interjected, "I just got the snow tires on, and she's got four-wheel drive." He grinned, somewhat sideways.

Merdé. They were stuck with the van it seemed. And Spy was certainly not happy, but at least the sniper couldn't tell.

"Very well," He said cooly, "then you lead the way."

When they drove just past the sight lines of highest points of the bases, Spy deactivated his cloaking device. With a glittering of blue he materialized in the passenger's seat. Sniper, conditioned over the years, tensed at the sound. He glanced over to get a look at his passenger, starting from the slender legs in blue pinstripes to the heavy looking overcoat with shiny metal buttons, all blue, always blue. Sniper wondered if blue was honestly his favorite color or if it's all he was allowed to wear. Spy looked at him as if to ask what he was looking at, and he turned back to the road, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel.

Spy looked himself over in the side view mirror, and once content with what he saw, hurriedly reached into his breast pocket to pull out his cigarette case. Gracefully popping a filter between his lips he rummaged in his right pocket for his lighter. Sniper regarded the glint of it with a flick of his head, a hint of guilt lingered from earlier in the day. Dragging deeply on the brown and gold of the burning cigarette, Spy sighed and visibly melted into his seat. Sniper chuckled at him, but he was disregarded with a wave of the hand, the nicotine was too good. He tapped the end on the ashtray sitting on the dashboard, and traced the smell of apricot to the cheap little air freshener hanging off the rear view mirror. It was quaintly shaped like the fruit. Yet he mocks me for flowers Spy thought, laughing through his nose.

"What's so funny?" Sniper asked against the hum of the engine.

"Hm? Oh nothing. But if I may ask, why an apricot?" He dragged again on his tobacco.

"Huh?" Sniper looked about, and suddenly made sense of the comment, "Ah well... It's a sniper thing..."

He cleared his throat, flushing when Spy offered him a quizzical look.

"Care to explain? I am very interested in this 'sniper thing' of yours." He said.

Sniper swallowed hard, there he went again with the interested gimmick. If it really was a gimmick. Sniper just couldn't understand how it couldn't be. Nothing about a fruit seemed interesting to him but somehow Spy found a reason for curiosity. No one he could think of ever showed the interest Spy showed. He adjusted his grip on the wheel again.

"Well, I guess it's a bit of job humor." He began, "Ya see, a sniper's gotta aim fer the brain yeah?" He looked at Spy, who had leaned in and begun staring right into his eyes. He swallowed, and continued, "Well uh, the part ya aim for is called the medulla oblongata. That's the proper name for it anyway-" He felt his face grow hotter at his digression, "Us sniper's we uh- call that the apricot. 'N there you have it." He pointed out the air freshener with his eyes, but Spy didn't look away toward it. Sniper focused back on the road; at least he had an excuse to.

"Very interesting!" Spy beamed as he eased back into the bench seat. "We spies do not have such jokes among our profession-" He crossed his legs casually and tapped the cigarette on the ashtray again. "Or maybe we do- and the joke is that you will never find out." He grinned, spotting the exhaustingly incredulous look Sniper was giving him and he burst into laughter.

Sniper tried and failed to contain his own foolish grin and shook his head. He tried to call the other a bloody mongrel but slipped into laughter himself half way through. Spurred on by the moment Spy laughed so hard he snorted, and when his eyes went wide Sniper only laughed harder. Spy smiled despite himself and buried his eyes into his open palm, huffing chortles between breaths. Sniper grinned from ear to ear. It was rare Spy broke his cool facade and the incident relaxed Sniper's taut muscles. He felt comfortable, and oddly enough Spy looked like he did too.

"That's quite a laugh you have there mate." Sniper smiled, collected at last.

"Oh please." Spy rolled his eyes, he felt a twinge of embarrassment at the jab. "The least you can do is not make fun of your guest non?"

"Not makin' fun!" The sniper assured, trying his best to sound genuine. "In fact I rather-" He grew quiet as the words died on his tongue.

Spy tilted his head and blinked, staring at the other and expecting him to finish. When the silence drew on for just a second too long, he pressed on. "Yes? You what?"

Sniper gave him a look from being jerked back into reality when his mind lost itself in a flurry of words. They all seemed to step on some kind of invisible boundary, one which appeared blurred in such haste.

"Uh-" He began, feeling the weight of idiocy pressing down on him, "well I was just gonna say I rather like it." He stumbled in his verbal footing, "Something about it. So I'm not makin' fun." He tried his best to smile softly.

Spy's heart throbbed in his chest, and a feeling licked at his insides like a dancing flame. He felt a thrill rush down his arms and he only realized he was smiling devilishly when the sniper rumbled a perplexed noise at him. He resisted the urge to reach out for him, bottling up the sensations and storing them away without a hint of their existence.

"Something about it you say?" The spy was leaning inward, daring, closing in. "I fail to see the appeal of such an unfortunately unbecoming laughter."

Sniper shifted his gaze, head turning slightly every time as he glanced from the road back to Spy. He searched back and forth between the two for anything to mentally grab onto. He felt completely out of balance. And his brain could only think about the road ahead, and the way Spy was so very close to him. One of the two was causing his heart to beat faster, and he'd never been a nervous driver.

It's Spy. He decided, and fingered at the steering wheel, feeling like a deer in headlights. "It reminds me you n' I are just people." He tried to chuckle. Am I afraid? He wondered to himself as he watched the other from the corner of his eye.

Spy appeared wholly content with his answer, "I see your point." He smiled softly, gazing out the window. Sniper could have sworn he'd shown a humble look that had no business being on the face of a man like him.

When the spy was settled back in his seat, his curiosity seemingly sated, Sniper was left with only his thoughts and the hum of the engine. What am I afraid of? was the main question that plagued every word floating around in his head. The straight and empty expanse of snowy road before him nearly hypnotized him into a trance as he thought. In every instance he imagined, he grew more nervous in closer proximity to the man. But nothing about it had felt dangerous in a long while. He considered he might be conditioned to avoid being close enough for the other to stab him in the back. But when he thought of being killed on the field it felt more like a nuisance than a fear. Death hurt- quite badly- and it wasn't fun, but it wasn't something he was particularly afraid of. He tried to imagine what made him uncomfortable around the guy. He was always well dressed, and made a point of teasing Sniper for being dirty or unkempt. But it never bothered the man much because it was very untrue, he took good care of himself. His sideburns alone took constant grooming to keep tame. His mind slipped away into wondering just what Spy did with his hair, and why in the world he insisted on wearing that mask no matter what. It must have fused with his skin by now. The thought pulled at the corners of Sniper's mouth. He went over the sharp features of Spy's face; the groomed eyebrows, the slope of his nose, the glow of the little skin he'd ever seen of the man. He'd never seen more than a wrist exposed to him. Did he shower with that silly mask on his face? His skin was likely quite pale, but his body was surely lean and fit beneath his suit, he couldn't keep up on the battlefield otherwise. His black gloved fingers would look good against that pale muscle in the showe-

Sniper's eyes snapped open, breaking the trance of the road when Spy tapped the butt of his cigarette on the ashtray over the dashboard. He made a quick assessment of himself, realizing his face was hot. He'd just thought of Spy naked in the same car as the man. In the shower. With his damned gloves still on. The sharpshooter could not believe his mind. He felt his heart begin to hammer away, and panic filled him as he worried Spy would notice the color on his face. He couldn't get the image out of his head now, it was burned into his eyes. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles slowly turning white. He screamed at himself to stop, that it wasn't happening. But more of Spy's body appeared to him in detail instead. His shoulders, his back, his thighs, his- no. No, Sniper needed to get away from himself. He hadn't had a single thought like this since he was in his 20's. He couldn't let himself fall back into that mess. He nearly began to sweat fighting against the idea that he was attracted to the man who'd killed him more times than he could count. But the more he tossed the word attracted around in his mind the more everything started making sense. From the day he gave the BLU spy a chance to talk rather than fight.

"Are you feeling alright?" He heard Spy ask, the sudden loudness of his voice was nearly deafening, and Sniper visibly jumped. "Oh, my apologies if I've startled you."

Sniper wanted to smack his own face as hard as he could. He craved the sting of pain to overpower the spinning. The last time he'd felt this ashamed he was just a kid. He was unhappy to find the feeling didn't change with age.

"No no, s'alright." Sniper croaked, his throat was tight and he didn't dare look at the man he'd just seen naked in his mind's eye.

"Are you road sick?" Spy asked, and Sniper cursed the genuine concern in his tone.

"Er- yeah..." He lied, "This kinda road really gets to the stomach."

He could see Spy turn to look ahead, regarding the long expanse of white snow and black tar. He nodded, and turned back. "Yes I see... We'll be arriving shortly, will you make it?"

"Yeah mate I've had worse." He lied again; his sweaty palms were slipping on the leather of the wheel.

"As long as you don't wretch anywhere near my suit." Spy said, pulling out his cigarette case for another smoke, but grimacing at it and putting it away instead.

The smoke was definitely not helping the situation, Spy thought, holding his lip between his teeth. The white knuckled hold Sniper had on the wheel tipped him off of something distressing. He looked uncomfortable, and Spy wanted nothing more than to arrive at their destination as soon as possible. It was for Sniper's sake firstly, but just as equally for the sake of his suit if he were to vomit. He glanced at a passing road sign, and sighed when it read they had but five miles left to go. He watched the air freshener swing gently to the rumble of the cabin, and admitted to himself the van was not as unpleasant as he'd always imagined. It was no Ferrari, and the interior looked more like the half finished skeleton of a vehicle, but it was spacious and durable. It somehow exuded the personality of Sniper, but that only lead Spy to consider what kind of animal skin grass woven interior the living space hid inside. He shuddered, shooing the tacky thought out of his mind. He filled the space instead with what mementos must be stored away in there, and whether he'd earn a chance to snoop around one day. He dreamt fondly of what childhood photos must be lying around, and the chance to see the sniper's face before he became such a ruffian. He wanted to laugh when he pictured a scrawny young boy in the outback, perhaps holding some dirty reptile or -what was it called- a wombat. The exit off of the main road rolled into sight and Spy nudged the driver, who flinched in surprise.

"Take that right." Spy instructed, and Sniper nodded at him and slowed to the curve.

They'd parked around the side of the stone and mortar restaurant, and Spy gathered all of his thoughts and focused them precisely on his plans. As they chatted on the topic of explosive ammunition and approached the corner, Spy picked up his pace. Sniper was chuckling to himself about something he'd said while they approached the entrance of the surprisingly busy building. They slowed behind a small group of patrons also going inside. A man trailing behind the group turned to spot the pair behind him, and with a smile he turned before the door, holding it out. Spy clenched his jaw, trying to look composed. The flaring his nostrils gave away his annoyance. He wasn’t about to allow some stranger to interfere. He slowed instead, pretending not to notice the man as he pulled his sleeve up to look carefully at his watch. He did not care one bit about the time.

Sniper stopped with him, and glanced down at the pale skin of his wrist beneath the deep blue of the fabric. He caught sight of sparsely placed dark hairs further up his forearm and swallowed hard, choosing instead to focus on his face. But something seemed off. Was he unhappy with the time? He looked over at a stocky man patiently holding the door, a smile still on his face as the people in front of him made their way toward the front desk.

"Uh mate-" Sniper looked back at Spy, "there's a gent holdin' the door for us." He flashed an awkward smile at the fellow.

Spy grit his teeth harder, he despised being upstaged above all things. He frustratedly forced his sleeve back down and cleared his throat. "Oh, so there is." He said flatly.

Sniper simply blinked at him, but followed when he began to walk. The smell of food was already wafting from the doorway and making his mouth water. He heard a forceful "mercí" from the Spy as he passed the stranger at the door, and Sniper furrowed his brow. He must really have been unhappy with the time. He nodded a pleasant "thanks mate" at the man and he smiled back, closing the door behind them and squeezing past to join his group.

Mark my words, Spy seethed in his mind, if I were not in good company you would be a dead man. But inwardly, he mourned the loss of his planning.

Sniper looked on as Spy slid something across the front desk toward the young man working there while they spoke. A bribe no doubt, of course he'd pin Spy as the type of man to do such a thing. Sniper didn't see the big fuss about which tables were better or special services, but Spy loved to throw his money around so he let it be. He took to looking the Frenchman over instead. He was now noticing the spilling feeling in his chest, registering the way it filled him up when he thought about being completely alone with the gentleman for the evening. He reminded himself to be friendly, and that whatever passing fancy he'd been living with would leave him eventually. For now he could simply enjoy a hot cup of coffee and a bite to eat with an attractive guest. There was nothing more to any of it than that.

Sniper drew his gaze away from the spy and noticed the man at the desk glaring at him, a look of judgmental scrutiny with squinted eyes. Sniper was taken back by the face and reeled with furrowed brows. The man then returned his attention to his papers and didn't look up again. Spy was unbuttoning his coat and missed the exchange, so of course Sniper's look of disbelief was lost on him. The Aussie tensed, he wanted to sock the guy square in the face. The echoes of his culture pressured him to strike but he restrained it and stuffed his fists in his pockets.

As if on cue, a shapely lady with big brown hair appeared to take them to their table, she cast a lingering glance upon the sniper, and smiled. Sniper offered the most polite smile he could give, and she hurried the pair forward into the den of patrons. They'd been seated a generous distance away from the others, and Sniper couldn't help but worry the look he was given earlier was because the host had gotten the wrong idea about the two. He didn't even want to think about how strange he must look sitting alone with a man in a blue balaclava. The entire concept made him nervous, and he dodged every glance he got from the people across the room. They ordered their coffee and something to eat. Spy requested some appetizer and a seafood entree, and Sniper hastily ordered some kind of steak. The waitress turned to Sniper when she spoke, and it made him feel cornered. But he smiled the best he could manage.

Spy bit his tongue when he realized the waitress' interest in the Australian. She was no older than 35 and had a pretty face; all the more reason to resent her flirtations. This was Spy's night. Everything he had been working toward finally manifesting in time alone off the clock. He would not have it ripped away from him by some mountain town nobody. If it weren't for her and the imbecile who held the door, the evening would be nearly perfect. He straightened his silverware and sighed, deciding to admire the location he'd chosen. He had imagined Sniper would find the wooden interior comforting, and hoped he would appreciate the many hunting trophies that decorated the walls. The food of course, was not exquisite, but tasteful enough for such a secluded location. He'd already been here once to be sure of that. He watched Sniper carefully as he seemed to be taking in the environment as well.

The waitress returned with coffee, and her blouse unbuttoned to reveal a pronounced cleavage. Spy rolled his eyes. She may have been blessed with good looks but she was barking up the wrong tree. Spy looked at Sniper fondly, happy he was paying all of his attention to his steaming drink. He had the most charming look of excitement holding the cup that Spy dared to imagine it directed at himself. He hummed as the woman walked away and stirred a cube of sugar into his coffee.

"Hell of a rack that is." Sniper said suddenly, and Spy nearly flipped his spoon out of his fingers.

#tf2 #sniperspy #sniper/spy #sniper #spy #team fortress 2 #fanfiction

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katieelwanger · 5 years

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Online Vulnerability

When I woke up this morning, I was excited to see that The Real Life podcast had a new episode out that seemed like it was going to be about something I've been processing through lately. I haven't talked about it with anyone and I've never heard anyone else talk about it and I imagined it probably wasn't a popular opinion or one that would feel good to hear so I was excited to hear someone else speak about it and process through it which is exactly what Jeff & Alyssa Bethke did on this episode.

VULNERABILITY.

I've been thinking about online vulnerability a lot lately and the way that term has overtaken the internet. Everyone is trying their best to be real, authentic, and vulnerable. Instagram, especially, has turned into a place of sharing #realife and about how much of a #hotmess you and your house are, but in a funny, acceptable way that isn't totally real (especially for the business accounts that are beautifully curated) and I see this mostly in the mom community (this is just about the IG mom community as a whole).

It's not bad in and of itself to be real, to be authentic, to be vulnerable. Those are great, necessary things for human life and especially the Christian walk. But in the last couple years the internet has swung so far in the opposite direction from "putting our best selves out there" to now praising and celebrating and "commiserating" together the moments of utter chaos and messiness of life because it makes us feel better to know there are other people out there who also don't have it all together. It's nearly to the point where people are shamed for sharing the good moments or for posting a nice photo because it isn't real enough, even if that may actually be that person's reality in that moment (we shouldn't make people feel bad OR feel bad about ourselves just because someone caught a lovely moment that was very real! And really as moms we should be celebrating together because it isn't always easy to capture those moments that often include wiggly targets 😊).

I've actually heard of what I'm often seeing online referred to as "fellowshipping in the flesh" and boy is that convicting and a hard pill to swallow. When we run to the internet to find comfort in others struggling the same way we are without there being a solution or true hope or path for growth offered up like we can more typically find face to face, we're simply fellowshipping in the flesh and finding comfort in remaining stagnant in the ways in which we need to grow and mature vs encouragement in how to do so.

I'm not saying we do need to have it all together or that anyone actually does. Of course we don't. That's why we need Jesus. And I'm not saying we can't ever share our hard day or that our house is a mess at the moment. But I think we do ourselves and others a disservice when we nearly boast about our #hotmess lives because it 1) almost gives people an excuse to stay where they're at in life, to not grow, to not make progress, or to not put in more effort to be disciplined and habitual about their responsibilities in life (whatever the case may be) and 2) it doesn't actually hold us accountable for the things in our life we are struggling with. There is little to no real accountability online. We need to be finding that in our families and communities, being real and vulnerable with them and more importantly with the Lord so we aren't just stuck in this place of not having it all together but so that we can walk through it, grow from it, and come out on the other side having a deeper dependence on the Lord and a greater understanding of His love for us. And come out on the other side stronger, more capable because of the Lord, and able to accomplish more through His strength.

As Jeff Bethke talks about in this episode, I've been thinking a lot about how everyone is calling the internet "a highlight reel" like that's suddenly a bad thing that means people aren't being their authentic selves when in reality that is exactly what the internet is - a highlight reel. You'll have to listen to get his explanation and a really good analogy about that, but this is why I don't post a lot of "real life mom moments" on the internet. It's not because I'm not having them or don't want people to know I'm having them. Of course I'm having hard moments as a mom, of course I get behind on laundry, of course there are toys scattered about sometimes; we live here after all. But I think there is enough of that on the internet and I also think as consumers of the internet we need to be more wise about how much we are consuming and also more wise and logical in knowing that just because "what's her name" posted a cute photo of her kids this morning doesn't mean there weren't some tears or hard moments or messes right before or after that photo. That's just a given. She doesn't need to follow that cute photo up with a picture of her messy kitchen for the sake of keeping things real.

So for all of these reasons, I think it's okay for people to mostly share the good moments, the beautiful moments, hopefully some moments that actually inspire others to strive for greater things, to be more disciplined, to draw nearer to God, maybe to be a better steward of the tasks God has given to them, even if they are mundane and monotonous. I think we can use the internet to edify, to uplift, to spur one another on rather than simply share about how real and messy our lives and homes are since that's already a given. In my opinion, that just doesn't hold as much value as the former.

Also, I personally don't want to portray myself as a hot mess. I just don't. I don't think Jesus wants me to remain the hot mess I was without Him. I know it's typically meant as just a silly term and I'm not saying I've never said it or will never say it and I'm not trying to make more out of it than is necessary or make people feel uncomfortable for using that term. AT ALL. But I do think Jesus died on the cross for us "hot messes" so that we don't have to remain there. So we don't have to identify as this chaotic, struggling, worn out, drowning mother who can barely keep their head above water and isn't able to manage their life, their home, their children, their job, whatever it may be. Of course knowing Jesus and walking with Him doesn't make us perfect but I think we need to take more seriously the whole idea that our old selves are literally dead and gone and we are new creations in Christ.

So, no. I don't want to put myself online as a hot mess mom because 1) that's not who I want to be so I'm not going to keep speaking that over myself and 2) that's not even who I am. I have hard moments, days, sometimes weeks that are not always, but certainly sometimes, a result of me choosing my flesh over the Holy Spirit. But because of Jesus I'm not drowning, I'm not in over my head, I'm not a hot mess. I'm a woman, a wife, a mother who is being sustained, upheld, and strengthened by the Lord and a woman who chooses to honor Him, obey Him, and walk with Him and the result of that is some pretty beautiful moments in my home with my kids, with my husband, and to some degree having a good handle on the mundane tasks of life because I know the Lord desires discipline and servanthood from me as a homemaker.

Another point that was made in this podcast episode was the difference between being vulnerable vs being authentic. Being vulnerable would be sharing about something while you're going through it (real life community is the best place for this) while being authentic would be sharing about it after you've already walked through it with the Lord (which could be done online) and would give people hope and encouragement!

(Again I'm not saying we should never post about hard things online when we're in the moment. This is all just a very broad and general idea so hopefully my point/thoughts are coming across properly.)

I don't want this to come off as boastful or like "look at me I have it all together" because that's not where my heart is at all or my intention. I can only boast in the goodness of the Lord and His kindness towards me and I quite literally do not have it all together. This is just kind of a hard topic to share about in general without it coming across as "judgemental" or offensive simply due to the nature of the topic and its ever growing popularity right now. And it's a hard conversation to have in a culture that would say I'm not being authentic by saying these things. But often times what we want to hear and what we need to hear are two very different things. What we want to hear feeds our flesh and what we need to hear (and may even make us uncomfortable at times) feeds our spirit and that is most important of all.

My thoughts are sort of jumbled as I'm constantly battling brain fog and currently suffering from a headache so if this is all over the place and comes across not fully processed that would be why. I also am still processing these ideas but I thought it was an interesting enough thought to share and I'm curious to know what others' thoughts are on it. And if you completely disagree with me and think I'm a crazy lady that's okay too and you're not wrong. 😂 This is just what I feel like the Lord has brought to my mind and heart lately and maybe it will encourage someone who struggles with the internet and what can of place to give it in their lives. And if you haven't listened to this particular episode of The Real Life Podcast yet, you really should. It's got some great wisdom in it and all of their episodes do!

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limejuicer1862 · 5 years

Text

F WORD WARNING

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger. The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these fiction writers you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.

Ian Woodrow

I got into comedy when I lived in Manchester in the early 2000s. I was a contemporary of the likes of Jason Manford and Sarah Millican. They went on to fill stadiums while I went on to live in Wakefield. I didn’t perform onstage for a while after moving here for a new job, though I did perform comedy in the virtual world of Second Life for a while, which was quite fun. Then, about four years ago I got invited to see a mate from Manchester (Tony Kinsella, aka Bolshy Bard, who was performing with Bard Company) do Jackanory one time. Halima, who runs Jackanory, got wind I’d done comedy before so asked me to do a slot at an upcoming show which I was happy to accept. Since then I’ve done Jackanory a few more times, plus a couple of benefit gigs at The Red Shed, and some other general open mic nights around Wakey. Then, just over a year ago, I started my own comedy open mic night, Jockularity, which runs at Jolly Boys Real ale Cafe in the town and is Wakefield’s only monthly comedy night. I also do a comedy cooking blog, It’s Not Big, But It Is Clever, which is another outlet for my humour (though it is a serious cooking blog with actual recipes that work), but that’s taken a bit of a back seat of late as I’ve been not writing standup material at home of an evening instead of not writing blog updates. During the day I’m a Clinical Scientist in the NHS, so as well as being a smart arse doing comedy in my spare time, I also pretend to be a smart arse for a living. As far as comedy goes, family commitments mean I’ve no ambition, nor have I the time, to go any further afield for gigs. I may have the odd foray somewhere not too far away, like Leeds maybe in the not too distant future. Links My comedy night, Jockularity, is on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/JockularityWakey/ and Twitter @JockularityWfMy cooking blog can be found here: https://swearyfood.blogspot.com/This is a flyer for Jockularity This is me performing at the Red Shed last year as part of We Shall Overcome

The Interview 1. What inspired you to start performing comedy?

My wife and I bought our first house in Swinton, near Manchester, and a local pub started doing a comedy night. They had some top headline acts but also some open spots on and I thought “i could do that”. I spoke to the guy running it, a comedian and actor called Toby Hadoke, and he arranged to get me an open spot at his weekly gig called XS Malarkey, which is often voted one of the best nights in the country. I largely died on my arse (to use the comedy vernacular), but the few laughs I did get were like heroin and I was hooked.

2. Who introduced you to comedy?

Toby, as mentioned above, and some of the other people who ran gigs around Manchester at that time. Besides that, the standup that got on TV in the 80s and 90s was a huge influence in giving me the kind of mind that comes up with one liners and wisecracks. The earliest comedians I remember that truly spoke to me were Billy Connolly and Dave Allen. Jasper Carrot’s style of satirical material from his show in the 80s had a big effect. Jo brand I always loved, Jack Dee, Ben Elton, Alexei Sayle, Joan Rivers, the list is endless. The Newton quote about shoulders of giants rings very true, except even with that greatness to stand on, I’m still fucking severely myopic.

3. How aware were you of the dominating presence of bigger acts?

There was a lovely camaraderie within the comedy circuit at the time. In the green room it’s quite egalitarian, so just hanging out with the bigger names was somehow calming.

4. What is your daily writing routine?

Dreadful. I’m incredibly lazy. I see that I’ve got a gig coming up (which mounts to the monthly open mic night I run in Wakefield at the moment) and try to produce a few minutes of topical material from recent news stories. I post one liners to Facebook when they occur to me and I try to use some of these in hammering out a routine

5. What motivates you to write?

It might be a bit of a cliché, but seeing what’s happening around me. The world and home political situation at the moment is so completely crazy, a lot of material almost writes itself. In fact, there’s so much of the news that is so utterly bonkers that it wouldn’t make something like The Thick of It because it would have been deemed too ridiculous.

6. What is your work ethic?

Shoddy at best. I’m trying to form good habits and write more prolifically, spurred on by submitting material to radio shows like Newsjack on R4, but it’s a steep and slippery entropy slope to climb up. I’m a lazy fucker

7. How did the comedy you saw when you were young influence you today?

I’ve already mentioned a lot of the sort of thing that gave me my sense of humour. In terms of written work, Hitch Hikers Guide was a major milestone, showing me it was possible to use science to make people laugh. On film there was Laurel and Hardy, The Marx Brothers, Carry On films, Monty Python, The Airplane series. On TV there was Fawlty Towers, Not the Nine O’Clock News, Spitting Image and of course The Young Ones.

8. Who of today’s comedians do you admire the most and why?

I’ll lose my seat at the table of the liberal elite if I don’t say Stewart Lee. That he keeps getting primetime work is a testament to him, and also shows it’s possible to be intellectual, funny and (relatively) popular. I don’t get out much to see stand-up, but it does seem that TV is saturated with comics on panel shows, mostly white males, and largely interchangeable. I do like Katherine Ryan, Frankie Boyle, Kevin Bridges and even Jimmy Carr. Armando Ianucci is also a comedy genius and I’ve got a bit of a man-crush on Adam Hills. And, yes, I realise they are, bar one, white males, but only one of them is English and one of them is disabled.

9. Why do you do comedy?

It’s all about the laughs. I’m not crusading to change people’s minds about issues with a finely honed knob gag about Nigel Farage or Boris Johnson. Sure, they are dicks, but me saying that in a different, but more amusing, way isn’t going to change make you think differently about them.

10. What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a comedian?”

I’d say, to appropriate a corporate slogan, just do it. Find a local open mic night and give it a go. I’d also say don’t do it unprepared and don’t so it drunk. Write a routine, but make sure it’s original and practice it for days, if not weeks, before the show. Don’t rattle off a barrage Hicks, Kay, Lee or (God forbid) Manning material, find your own voice.

11. Tell me about the writing projects you have on at the moment.

Well, as I said above, I’m fucking lazy. I’ve got long-standing attempts at a sitcom, a couple of novels and a few sketches that will almost certainly never see the light of day, at least not before I retire. I’m on the periphery of the Wakefield spoken word circuit (and met some utterly wonderful people as a result) and I’ve been fleetingly tempted to write some poetry, but it’s not really my style. I could turn a finely crafted piece of satirical verse on the current status of the UK political situation, or I could just call jacob Rees Mogg a wanker. I know which would get the bigger laugh.

Onto Writing Comedy Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Ian Woodrow F WORD WARNING Wombwell Rainbow Interviews I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me.

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