May 18
Sam doing this pose is how you know the cast have taken the challenge “say something we are legally liable for and terrified by” to heart.
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Sam doing this pose is how you know the cast have taken the challenge “say something we are legally liable for and terrified by” to heart.
seeing like. gavin newsom tweet about being "against political violence" really lays bare how that means fucking nothing, huh. like, yeah, i do think it is generally bad, actually, when people get shot in public, and the fact that it's happening with politicians and pundits (not just this but the minnesota democrats who were murdered a few weeks back) is a bad sign for how things are going. but how are you going to come out as a usamerican politician against "political violence." political violence is this country's number one export. political violence is sending ICE into cities in the style of a civil war. political violence is manufacturing consent for murdering trans people in bathrooms. political violence is murdering immigrants by detaining them in concentration camps or sending them to countries they have never been and places they will die. political violence is funding the gazan genocide so the united states can have an oil outpost in the middle east. and the moment you speak out is when when the violently racist misogynistic anti-vaxx climate-change-denying neomccarthyism motherfucker gets a taste of the life or death stakes of all the shit he "debates" about? give me a break
tributes to david lynch left at bob's big boy in toluca lake, california
I know it’s been said before but an iconic, undeniably canon property of Cas' and tangentially of the Destiel dynamic is the “buddy boy you’ve got what they call sex appeal” of it all. I mean it’s always great when humans look at Cas being strange and off-putting and fumbling his way through every single human interaction and go “what a hot endearing guy”, don’t get me wrong. But what I really can’t get enough of is the fact that he also has the angelic equivalent of crazy game which he’s usually only marginally aware of/completely disinterested in save for being generally prideful or using it for tactical purposes. Even more hilarious, the fact that throughout the show the other angels are absolutely fucking fuming about him choosing humans in spite of this.
Because the thing is Cas is already reasonably well regarded amongst angels as a very competent and loyal soldier and then after he falls he just keeps exponentially gaining both a bad reputation and a cult following. He used to be a master tactician. He was around for Heaven’s greatest battles. He’s led two different controversial uprisings. He keeps disobeying God’s word and he’s killed thousands and he might be a little batshit crazy but he’s also just. Kind of a nice dude. He’s Heaven’s most wanted, for better or for worse. Every angel he meets either wants to fucking kill him or drop to their knees and pledge allegiance, which in angel terms pretty much makes him the extremely fuckable guy with a leather jacket and motorcycle in every teen drama.
And then every time the angels do meet him, instead of a host of warriors there’s this pathetic miniscule angry creature bristling and hissing at his side and the angels are like. Castiel. Why is that bacteria speaking to you. And Castiel fierce garrison commander savior of the rebellion war criminal bearer of free will who God Himself resurrected 47482 times gets this horrifying soft misty eyed look on his face and goes “oh no that’s just my bestest friend in the whole world most beautiful incredible lovable person I’ve ever met in my entire millennia-long life. Dean say hi” and the bacteria goes 🙄😒😏 and rattles off the most incomprehensible sentence on God’s green earth and then calls the angels a slur and the angels collectively feel grace leak out their ears
The Ghost of Christmas Past shows up and you’re like, “Ohhhhh for fuck’s sake,” but you’re in your childhood bedroom so it’s kind of on you. The ghost seems offended. She crosses her arms. She looks like you used to, with the pigtails.
“No way,” you say. “Don’t start.”
“I am the—”
“The Ghost of Christmas Past, I know, I know.” Because she looks like you, and it’s Christmas Eve, so what else. Your parents used to read you the story every year. Even when you were old enough to read on your own, it was better in your dad’s voice.
“You came home for your parents,” the ghost says, solemn. “It’s time to tell them.”
“No, like, ‘when you’re ready’?”
“You are ready,” she says, “or you wouldn’t have come back.”
Which is so stupid, because you weren’t on the moon, you were at college, and it’s only been two months of shots, you don’t even have a mustache. “Fucking leave me alone,” you say, so she does the ghost thing and takes you to a ten-years-ago Christmas. The living room. Your parents. Your fledgling self on the carpet with your stocking, the one you can’t look at anymore because when you were a baby your parents patiently hand-stitched the fucking name.
“Maybe they’ll make you a new one,” says the ghost.
“You don’t know that.” Bullshit ghost powers.
“You were happier back then. When they knew you.”
“Everyone was happier back then. It was, like, 2008.”
“There was a recession,” says the ghost.
“Shut up! Shut up!” You turn over in bed. For a second you expect to roll onto child-self-you curled up next to you. Probably crush the life out of her. You got good at that. It’s her bed, her room, pink covers, cat posters.
“This is so stupid, this Dickens thing,” you say. “I’m not even Christian anymore.”
“Tell your parents that second,” the ghost suggests.
“Oh my fucking God I’m not telling them anything can’t you go bother Jeff Bezos.”
“I’m just doing my job,” says the ghost, and vanishes.
#
The Ghost of Christmas Present has an acne problem. As soon as you open your eyes you say, “Oh my God,” and they say, “Hi,” and you say, “You better not be the fucking Ghost of Christmas Present,” and the Ghost of Christmas Present says, “I am.”
Which you knew.
“Why me?” you say, pink comforter bunched around your waist. “I didn’t do anything. Scrooge was mean to orphans.”
The Ghost of Christmas Present shrugs. “It’s the job.”
“Are you gonna show me my parents now?”
That makes them look kind of embarrassed.
“Well, don’t,” you say. If your parents are talking in the other room, huddled up conferencing with the lights off, you can’t hear it over the heater buzz. But you can guess what they’re saying: you went to school with a shitty pixie cut and worse eyeliner, and you came back with a real haircut and a permanent frown and a bunch of new friends you play sentence Twister to avoid pronouning. “I know they’re nice people, I got it. I’m just not ready.”
“It’s just—you’re kind of waiting for them to ask?” says the Ghost of Christmas Present. They scratch their face, where they have spectral sideburns coming in. “Your dad thinks you have a head cold. ‘Cause of your voice. But your mom’s starting to get it.”
You pull the covers over your head. “Cool, awesome, didn’t ask.”
“She isn’t going to ask,” the ghost says. “She wants you to tell her.”
You stick your middle finger out from underneath the covers. When you check, the room is empty again.
#
The Ghost of Christmas Future doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you. You look back. You probably have bedhead. You fixed your daytime wardrobe but your pajamas are still lacy and purple.
“How come you’re a man?” you say.
He says, “I think you know.”
“Fucking—go away.”
“I have something to show you first.”
“Are we going to the goddamn graveyard?”
He doesn’t say anything but then you’re in the goddamn graveyard. Together. Looking at your headstone. The dates are close enough together to make you kind of sick.
“They went with the full name,” you say.
The ghost nods.
“Not even the nickname. My nice gender neutral nickname.”
The ghost shrugs. You kind of want to throw something at him but you’re just looking at it now. Chiseled in marble. Immovable. What’s that thing bigots on the internet say, about someone digging up your jawbone two hundred years from now? You always wanted to think you wouldn’t care.
The Ghost of Christmas Future’s pretty quiet. This is the part where Scrooge goes full breakdown. Tears, begging, promises.
“I’m not gonna cry on you,” you say.
“Okay.”
So neutral. “Man, what do you want me to say?”
“Nothing,” says the ghost. “I think you’re there.”
You can’t stop looking at the headstone. “God fucking damnit shit. You promise they’ll be cool?”
“Nothing’s promised,” the ghost says. He gestures at the graveyard. “Except for this.”
“Awesome.” Cryptic cliche philosophical ghost bullshit. Yada yada. Death and taxes. Not with that name on your headstone, though. Not with that name on your tax forms, either.
You turn to tell him that and then you’re blinking in bed. There’s still one glow-in-the-dark star stuck to your ceiling where the glue never wore out. You put those up like ten years ago. Maybe longer. The light in the room says it’s morning. You swing your lacy-pajama legs over the side of the bed and go to ruin Christmas.
Sometimes you just gotta grab your nipple and jiggle your tit a lil
put him on a LEASH and give him a DOG TOY to bite down on while you FUCK HIM!!!!