There are a lot of reasons to oppose monarchy but one of the most overlooked is that the king is always getting stuck in some kind of hazardous puzzle chamber filling up with gravel or lava or something. Do your fucking job man

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@memelypauper
There are a lot of reasons to oppose monarchy but one of the most overlooked is that the king is always getting stuck in some kind of hazardous puzzle chamber filling up with gravel or lava or something. Do your fucking job man
Impeccable music choice here:
On the American broadcast, about five seconds after the music started the announcer said about the woman, “she lists her hobbies as ‘forgetting things’ and ‘existential crises’”, and I can’t imagine a more delightful one-two punch
In the bathroom and cascada every time we touch just came on and the girl in the stall next to me was like oh my god this is my song and started peeing harder
I was supposed to give a speech to over a thousand people today at a labor rally, but the rally was planned mostly around white union organizers who have not been to ICE recently or maybe ever. I say this because they planned this as follows: a Rally, with a march to ICE, followed by a second half of a Rally, the second half of which was to include my speech, which seemingly was the only speech to include a Salvadoran migrant speaker.
I was not originally invited to speak, but heard last minute that someone else had fallen ill and was giving up their slot, and begged white organizers through the grape vine to let me speak as a Salvadoran migrant and union steward who came to the US at age 7.
I have long been soured of going to so many rallies and felt alienated that they were allegedly for or about my people, but that no one had thought people /like/ me exist - we are still here! There are migrants in your work spaces and neighborhoods and organizations, we have stories and labor songs and speeches to share, we are marxists and labor organizers and have reasons to speak out too.
But seldom if ever do you hear our music or faces or voices near the banners. Instead of Tigres Del Norte we heard Bella Ciao, and none of the singers knew the Italian words or bothered to even translate them, so they sang nanananananana, instead of the powerful lyrics that maybe meant something once to someone somewhere. Instead of Somos Más Americanos we heard Don’t Worry, Be Happy.
Instead of a Salvadoran woman who wanted to speak to the American union workers about the Banana workers unions, we heard from a dozen white people about democracy, and justice, and the constitution, and no one was warned about what would happen if they marched down the street from the park to the ICE facility. They fully expected everyone to come back and complete the second half of the rally.
Instead, marchers with their dogs and children were tear-gassed to hell and back the second they dared get close to the facility, maybe at best 1/3rd of the marchers returned while the rest were bottlenecked towards ICE. There was little to no water to treat the untrained protestors. I returned to the rally quickly realizing I could not get caught up at ICE, knowing who I am and what awaits me.
When I got back a chorus of smiling white faces sang a silly song like a Christmas carol with their heads bobbling, reading the lyrics from some handed out papers. White people with upside down flags cheered. Then a black woman in overalls abruptly got on the mic and said “Well thank you everyone but we have to close the program early because people are getting tear-gassed, please get home to safety righty away,” - and I swore I couldn’t believe my ears.
They had brought us all here, marched all these people down to the ICE facility, and expected us all to march back without encountering teargas? And then when some people had made it back they had them sing a little jingle but turned the one migrant away? I begged them to let me speak for the three minutes I had allotted, noting that I had put myself in serious danger to come out here today. That I needed to be heard just this once, and that all the white people had their fair turn to say many unrelated things, and to sing many unrelated songs.
She said, “you don’t understand, there are children down here,” and I had to say “you don’t understand, there are children in the camps.”
And she tried again, “yes but the gas is spreading,” and I said “yes we have been down here being gassed for six months, don’t you understand?”
She blinked twice and told me they just had to break down. I watched from the sidelines as they continued to blare Caribbean Blue and smooth jazz while people filtered out, stood around talking, chatting - finally I said, “please let me speak, you still have speakers going, it’s been 20 minutes,” and the DJ, a white elderly man in a sweater vest who had a strict “only the classics” policy that seems to actually mean “no hip hop and no curse words,” - barked at me that he had to break down and to help him take down his canopy. I am no maid, so I did not listen. He then turned to my comrades and told them to take his canopy down, which they did not. Then turned to his two other labor organizers who were not paying attention, and they took a leg of the canopy and moved it somewhere without breaking it down.
And one looked at me and said quietly, “it’s okay, take that bullhorn no one will notice,” and we took it and ran.
And we ran to a firetruck which I climbed, and I gave the speech, which was in fact more than 3 minutes, sorry not sorry, to a crowd of workers who were slowly pouring out from the ice facility, some stopping, some going, some who heard me, some who didn’t. And I gave it there and it was the only speech most of these people will ever hear from a migrant in all of this, and I think that is tragic. But I firmly believe that had I not given it, had I not climbed the truck, had I not taken the mic, some people would have never heard this story at all. And I think very much you should hear it. And I hope you will share it, if you have the chance. And I hope I get to tell it again, someday, to people who actually listen, to the masses who came to actually support immigrants, and not just to the dredges after they’ve been gassed and are running for shelter while I’m coughing myself.
This is what I had to say.
Transcribed for accessibility + added links for context, but please still watch/listen to the speech if possible. A live speech really resonates. Begin transcription.
Olivia: I came to the United States when I was 7 years old. And I became a citizen when I was 20. But I am on this stage to ask: if you will give me 3 minutes of your time, *cough* I will give you 300 years of American History that has been taken from you.
There are five crops that changed the world as we know it. Bananas. Coffee. Tobacco. Sugar. And Cotton.
First grown by slaves in the New World, these crops all happened to also grow in a little bean-shaped country that my parents lived in near the Caribbean called Cuzcatlan, ‘The Land of Precious Things.’ It would be renamed El Salvador in the 1800’s.
But the precious things remained after the name changed. And the people were captured, and they were forced to work for pennies on the dollar to dredge the precious things from the soil, and the sea, and the mountains, and the sand. Cuzcatlan was not precious just to us, you see. It was coveted by the Americans. And once they saw our jewels, they would never be satisfied again.
The people suffered. And how we suffered! Dying in the fields, raped by their masters, buried in the shining black volcanic sands, their blood fertilizing the crops.
Of Bananas. Coffee. Sugar. Cotton. And Tobacco.
Until one day, the people of Cuzcatlan said, ‘We can bear it no more.’ And they broke their shovels in half, and they plunged the stems into their masters, and they rode through the streets on their masters’ Spanish horses, and they cried out that Cuzcatlan would no longer belong to the American companies that demanded their precious things without paying precious prices. Perhaps, soon, those business leaders would learn to negotiate for the labor and crops they so needed.
And the Americans? The Americans could not stand it! They would not abide such a story be told. And so you never heard it! The American companies, and all of their corporate masters came down on Cuzcatlan, with a fury seldom seen before. They killed everyone.
Instead, you heard a story about “Communists” and “Terrorists” in Central America, spreading a disease that would destroy your country and families. You heard a story that we have no good will towards you. That we wanted you to starve, that we were lazy, and formed gangs, and were lawless, and wore weapons to sell you drugs and fund terrorism.
But you never heard the story of Cuzcatlan, because it was a sad story, and sad stories do not sell fruit, and coffee, and cigarettes!
No, they came to my country, and they wiped out entire villages. The Archbishop, Don Remar - er, Don Romero, himself, was shot by the military during his Sunday Mass, for having dared to wonder whether the workers deserved some mercy. Assassinated for having dared to wonder, and he was left bleeding on the pulpit, even as worshippers bowed their heads.
EVERYBODY was KILLED.
EVERYBODY! The women, with their children still in their arms. Anyone looking for cover; people who found cover, people who didn’t. People who worked, and people who had no jobs. Communists. Catholics. Those who didn’t know how to read, those who didn’t know what labor rights were. Simple folks. Smart folks.
And they didn’t stop there. They went through the countryside, and they killed everyone they thought was hiding labor organizers or communists sympathizers. Banana union men and women, who they labeled terrorists. And in one village, we still only speak about in whispers, called “El Mozote.” The Americans tied women and children to trees, and they threw their babies in the air, and they shot them. Everyone was killed, to send one message, and that is: “A union is a threat to the American Empire. Not one union man or woman will hide in your village, or any other. And if you hid one here, now or ever, you will never breathe to hide one again."
And I tell you this because I am you from the future. You and I, all of you, are very much alike. You worked very hard to buy the precious things you have from the ground, the sky, the water, and the aether. You all wrote stories, you filed insurance policies, you taught children, you rung people up, you made sure whatever sorry system they had worked, not because you believed in it, not because you wanted it, but because it was all you could do.
And in exchange, they offered you cheap bananas. Coffee. Sugar. Tobacco. Bananas.
But I will tell you a secret. They were never cheap. They were precious. And so are you.
And they stole you, and they stole us, and they stole it all, and they told you: if you look the other way, you get to be satisfied and at least well-fed. But who can afford the luxuries of cigarettes or vapes or groceries anymore? Even that is being taken from you. And even if you have them, your food or your small pleasures won’t satisfy you. Not more than knowing the truth about Cuzcatlan, not more than knowing the truth about El Salvador. Today, where our precious land once stood, they built a concentration camp called CECOT. And not just for our precious things, our people, but yours. Your citizens, your dissenters, your unwanted disappeared into the hole that America built.
And what will we do when they start building incinerators at the camps? What will you do when they open up mass graves?
For our people, the most precious gift of all: do not take my warning lightly. The story of Cuzcatlan is not just from the past. It is from the future. The workers face the same enemy, and the enemy never had your interest in mind. From the moment they had you, the plan was to have a worker. From the moment you existed, it was to create another soldier against the people of Cuzcatlan and the rest of the world. You were a commodity to them.
But we have written you a new future. One in which we no longer point guns at each other. One in which our billionaires fear the land of precious people from learning they are no longer precious things.
Turn to me now! And tell me you will not forget the last three minutes. You will never again be ignorant of this story. And you will not let it happen here. You will close the camps. You will destroy ICE.
Spectator: Yeah! Olivia: You would rather have seasonal bananas or never see one again than have it covered in blood.
Spectators: That’s right! Yeah!
Olivia: You would rather trade fairly with other union workers than kill your fellow man, wouldn’t you?
Spectators: Yes! Olivia: Tell me you love me, and that our fates are tied! Tell me you’ll stop them from dragging me down from this place, and I’ll never let them do to you what they did to us. I promise. El pueblo unido…
Spectator: JAMÀS SERÀ VENCIDO!
Olivia: Nunca será vencido. Amen.
End Transcription.
It means a lot to me, that someone wrote down this speech for me, that I in the middle of the night wrote for as a love letter to the American labor movement.
I know I stuttered a bit, as I had just been gassed, as it took place not but 400 feet maybe from the Portland ICE facility.
One correction among many tiny ones:
“You worked very hard to /ply/ the precious things you have from the ground, the sky, the water, and the aether.” - And that work, it is very precious.
May the message make it to you all regardless.
"This 14-year-old is the most powerful person in the WORLD but really... he just wants to be a normal middle schooler...!" is absolutely not new to anime but USUALLY it's all a power-fantasy. It's humble-bragging. It's an awkward marriage of relatability and bus-window-day-dreaming. "Oh MAN, I just SAVED the WORLD 😱😏🌍💥but I still have a MATH TEST tomorrow 📏✖️AND I have a CRUSH 😊 (who doesn't know I'm the coolest badass in the world because that's a secret!! 😜)"
Which is all to say once again that no one is doing it like Mob Psycho 100. Because Mob is unambiguously the most powerful entity in the world and he goes "Okay but that's not very interesting. Being powerful isn't a personality. I'm gonna try to improve myself in ways that matter."
The evil spirit on his shoulder spends all series going "PLEASE IM BEGGING YOU TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD!" and Mob says, "No thank you. Do you want to help me with my math homework?" and the second most powerful person in the world comes up to say, "We are a supreme species of super-human better than everyone else!" and Mob says, "You sound stunted as a person. Maybe try working a customer service job?" and a classmate will go, "Why not use your powers to be popular?" and Mob says, "Psychic powers don't make you popular. Do you want to see me lift this 10kg dumbbell? I've been working on that."
And it's not a joke or a bit. And it's not the narrative giving a wink-wink-nudge-nudge to the audience like 'Sure Mob SAYS he's not more important than anyone else but WE know how secretly cool epic he is for his powers 😏'
Like Mob or Reigen or whoever it is in the moment says, "Maybe you'll learn something about yourself working a customer service job" and the narrative turns to the audience and says, 'You too might learn something from a customer service job. Just a thought.'
Mob Psycho is a power fantasy for young teens about how if you apply yourself earnestly and put yourself out there and value everyone equally and stick to your compassionate principles, then you too can foster a healthy and growing support network of people who care about you and who will help guide you as you figure out the kind of person you want to become. The psychic powers parts are just in service to that narrative.
In a room full of people, i’d look at you so we can leave
ATTENTION
If you see this you are OBLIGATED to reblog w/ the song currently stuck in your head :)
seeing people be like "why did sinners get a vfx nomination" bro there were TWO michael b jordans on that screen!!
That's not on vfx michael b jordan can just do that
i believe the plural is actually michaels b jordan, it's like attorneys general
sorry for being annoying [remembers that practicing gratitude instead of shame is better for my mental health and my relationships] thank you for letting me be annoying with you
"comparing apples and oranges" has always been funny to me as an expression because people's go to exampe of two things so radically different that they defy any useful comparison are apples. and oranges. like you would struggle to find a more comparable pair of objects than that. theyre literally sold right next to each other in most stores.
wikipedia has a whole ass section dedicated to international variants of the idiom so let me quickly run through them
see this is even worse than oranges. pears and apples are like the most comparable things ever. france takes another L
ok so this is what i mean. these are measures of temperature and texture and are in fact not very comparable. молодцы ребята продолжаем в том же духе.
colombia wins most vivid image invoked hands down. would not want that to happen to me.
and i think we can all agree romania wins this hands down. everyone give a big round of applause to romania
I should lock the fuck in *half an hour passes* I should lock the fuck in *half an hour passes* I should lock the fuck in *half an hour passes* I should-
Heard a car horn today that was tuned to a fifth. Fucked up, kinda delightful
I want people to understand how jarring this was. Most car horns are either a single tone or two tones somewhere in the neighborhood of a minor third apart:
Pretty normal rush hour sounds, yeah? But this thing sounded something like this:
Fucked up! Didn't even realize it was a car horn at first, I didn't know what the fuck it was! It was weird as hell!
richie tozier core
I need everyone to see this picture from the 4th article.