The Almost Legendary Morris Sisters by Julie Klam
May. 31st, 2025 01:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
archersangelfull title is The Almost Legendary Morris Sisters: A True Story of Family Fiction.
from amazon;
an interesting book, not only about the morris sisters' lives but about family truths and not lies exactly, but mistaken beliefs about what happened and what didn't in a family. and how much can you believe what you've been told about your distant family.
like; can you believe that your great-great grandfather's brother was on the team that developed some kind of revolutionary invention? or that your grandmother was the inspiration for a character in a well-known novel?
from amazon;
Ever since she was young, Julie Klam has been fascinated by the Morris sisters, cousins of her grandmother. According to family lore, early in the twentieth century the sisters’ parents decided to move the family from Eastern Europe to Los Angeles so their father could become a movie director. On the way, their pregnant mother went into labor in St. Louis, where the baby was born and where their mother died. The father left the children in an orphanage and promised to send for them when he settled in California—a promise he never kept. One of the Morris sisters later became a successful Wall Street trader and advised Franklin Roosevelt. The sisters lived together in New York City, none of them married or had children, and one even had an affair with J. P. Morgan.
The stories of these independent women intrigued Klam, but as she delved into them to learn more, she realized that the tales were almost completely untrue.
an interesting book, not only about the morris sisters' lives but about family truths and not lies exactly, but mistaken beliefs about what happened and what didn't in a family. and how much can you believe what you've been told about your distant family.
like; can you believe that your great-great grandfather's brother was on the team that developed some kind of revolutionary invention? or that your grandmother was the inspiration for a character in a well-known novel?
Itinerary of a Parent Chaperoning a Field Trip, as Imagined by Their Middle Schooler
May. 30th, 2025 11:00 am![[syndicated profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/feed.png){kind=small}
mcsweeneys_feed6:30 a.m. I awaken from sleep with the unparalleled energy of someone who has an entire school-sanctioned day to humiliate their offspring.
6:55 a.m. Peering into my closet, I select the skinniest jeans I own—seriously, I haven’t worn these since before my preteen was born. No matter. I squeeze my unforgiving middle-aged body into them while double-checking that I still have the breathing capacity for yelling at middle schoolers every ten seconds.
7:30 a.m. I bound to the kitchen to pack my child the smelliest lunch possible, ideally some combination of tuna salad and egg salad. Naturally, I make sure to tuck in a note including several giant drawn hearts and “I LOVE YOU!!!”s. I sign off using the name my child used to call me when they were three years old.
8:15 a.m. We arrive at the school parking lot and gather by the bus for head counts. I immediately announce myself to everyone as my child’s parent, being sure to enunciate their full (including middle) name.
8:18 a.m. I greet a cluster of students talking to each other. “Good morning!” I chirp. “Skibidi Ohio rizz?” They stare at me and say nothing. I try again. “Gyatt sigma sus? Mewing aura rizzler!” I’ll keep going. I’ve got more.
8:30 a.m.: As we board the bus, I pull a whistle from my pocket and blow on it like I’m refereeing the Super Bowl to let the kids know I mean business. I address everyone as “young man” or “young lady” and remind them that this is a learning excursion, not an opportunity to enjoy themselves.
8:32 a.m. I plunk myself beside my child on their bus bench, hip-slamming their seatmate onto the aisle floor. I explain that this is our “bonding time,” so they’re sure not to mind.
9 a.m. We’ve arrived at our destination. Upon entering the museum / zoo / botanical garden / historical site, I hear pubescent profanity. I identify the assailant as the most popular student in the class and warn them to expect a timeout if I ever hear them use language like that in my child’s presence again.
9:10 a.m. I shout, “Does anyone need to go potty??” Everyone emphatically shakes their head no, even after I offer to hold their hands on the way there. I proceed to repeat this offer in five-minute intervals at increasing volumes. No one’s getting a UTI on my watch.
9:40 a.m. I approach the student my kid has a crush on and show them my kid’s baby pictures on my phone. “Wait until you see the ones in the bathtub!” I gush.
10:15 a.m. I buddy up to the teacher and decide to become their new best friend. It’s only a matter of time before they offer me a teaching assistant position in the classroom.
11 a.m. Our tour guide asks if anyone has any questions, and boy, do I ever. Twenty-three, to be specific.
11:23 a.m. Inform the kids that the Macarena was really popular when I was their age. I don’t hear (or don’t listen) to my child’s protests as I begin blasting the Los del Rio banger from my phone and demonstrate the dance for them. I’m so enthusiastic that I accidentally smack a student in the face while doing hand rotations.
12:05 p.m. During lunch, I pace between tables like a drill sergeant, confiscating any chips or cookies and replacing them with rice cakes and amaranth sprouts.
12:41 p.m. As the group recommences our tour, I notice some post-lunch crumbs on my kid’s cheek. Instead of ignoring it or handing them a tissue, I lick my thumb and wipe it on their face to remove the offensive remains. I feel confused and a little hurt when they groan and run away from me instead of thanking me for being such an attentive parent.
1:20 p.m. I lose sight of my child for three seconds and subsequently panic, yelling their name so loudly that not only our school group but every single person here turns to look at me.
1:21 p.m. My kid sighs and says they’re right behind me. I ugly-cry in relief and swoop them into a crushing hug that lasts no less than four minutes.
2:14 p.m. On the bus ride home, I demand everyone’s TikTok and Instagram handles so that I can follow them, even though, as I inform them, children their age do not belong on social media.
2:35 p.m. We’ve arrived back at school. As we stand to get off the bus, the tight pressure of my uncool clothing forces the world’s loudest fart out of me. Just as everyone turns to laugh at me, I blame it on my child.
Other Trump White House Food Acronyms
May. 30th, 2025 11:10 ammcsweeneys_feed“The term ‘TACO,’ short for Trump Always Chickens Out, has been used to describe how markets tumble on the president’s tariff threats, then rebound when he gives way.” – New York Times
- - -
GRAPE - Gift Received, Announced Pardon Early
PORK - Presidential Order Rewarding Kleptocracy
CHEESE - Classic Hillbilly Elegy, Earning Stablecoin Emoluments
BACON - Barron Accepted, College Officially Normalized
EGG - Executive Grift-Golfing
MILK - Maliciously Ignorant, Like Kennedy
MACKEREL - Musk Around: Conceal Ketamine, Ecstasy, Ritalin, Ephedrine, LSD
BREAD - Bitcoin Representatives, Eric And Don
RICE - Rubio Interim, Consider Empty
PASTA - Presidential Action, Sometimes Tweeted All-caps
BEEF - Billionaires Eagerly Expressing Fealty
PITA - Pardon Investments Trump Accepts
KABAB - Kushner-Arranged Benevolent Arab Billionaire
BURRITO - Blatant, Unrepentant Robbery: Republican Insider Trading Okay?!?
Excerpts from The Believer: Sisyphus in the Capital
May. 30th, 2025 09:00 ammcsweeneys_feed
“A national psyche is loosened when someone is allowed to publicly flaunt the agreements we have all made with one another.”
- - -
Crime, punishment, and the legacy of TRINIDAD AND TOBAGO’S failed coup.
- - -
These were among the remarks delivered to the people of Trinidad and Tobago on Friday, July 27, 1990, by Yasin Abu Bakr, né Lennox Phillip, a former police officer turned community organizer, whose paramilitary organization, the Jamaat al-Muslimeen, had, just a half hour prior, overseen the capture and command of the islands’ lone TV station, as well as Parliament, where the prime minister and members of his cabinet were being held hostage. Community organizer here being a loose term. The Muslimeen’s attempt at a coup covered a six-day span, during which the police headquarters was bombed, a member of Parliament was killed, intense looting spread throughout the capital anyway, and Prime Minister Arthur Robinson, when ordered by his captors to instruct the mobilizing armed forces to stand down, using the megaphone provided, famously yelled: “Attack with full force!”—an act of heroism for which he was shot in the leg. While under duress, Robinson was also coerced into signing an amnesty agreement granting the usurpers full clemency in the eyes of the law, should anything go wrong with their plan, a scheme so harebrained and legally dubious that it is only with a sense of incredulity that we can imagine him to have signed his name to the agreement, believing that anything can be promised to men who are soon doomed to die.
- - -
In 1990 I was two years old, on an extended visit to Trinidad to stay with my grandmother while my parents were in Virginia, where we lived at the time. My grandmother resided in Belmont, on Archer Street, on the same plot of land where she had raised my mother and her other children, though not in the same building: one of my mother’s first orders of business after making some money of her own had been to fund the transformation of the wooden house where she’d grown up into the brick-and-mortar one I would come to know, replete with hard tiling, a washing machine, and a small, fenceless veranda that Granny Sylvia was always warning me not to stand near the edge of, lest I fall. For Caribbean children, the world is for the most part made up of places not to go and things not to touch. It is only imagination that lends the remaining space its endless bounds. My slice of Trinidad shrank even further when my daily walk with Aunty Laverne was indefinitely postponed. Ordinarily we would hold hands for the few blocks to the local parlor shop, where I would get a sweetie, or chilli bibbi—a candy of flavored ground corn sold in thin cones of wax paper—but one day we instead had to stay inside. Many people were staying inside during that eternal week, awaiting further news, except for the looters, who I guess must not have owned TVs or radios. Of that time I have only the impression of hushed concern from the adults, which nonetheless did nothing to dampen the general excitement that characterized my vacation as a whole. I was reportedly so happy during the six months I spent in Trinidad that when, one day much later, a pair of strangers entered our home and told me I had to come with them, I refused and hid behind my grandmother’s leg. They were my parents, back from the US to collect me, and whose existence I had in the meantime forgotten. Only my dad’s promise of a bicycle was enough to lure me away; he was sitting on the edge of the washing machine and miming a pedaling motion in the air. “Bicycle! Look, bicycle.” I agreed to go with the strangers. In my early understanding of material gain as a substitute for love, I had taken a vital step toward becoming a Trinidadian.
- - -
As a matter of fact, the amnesty agreement did stand up in the courts, and in the months following the surrender, arrest, and jailing of Abu Bakr and his forces, the cynical validity of their legal loophole would soon become apparent. In a ruling from Justice Clevert Brooks, based on the precedent of governments acting in the interest of restoring national stability, the forcibly signed amnesty agreement was considered part of a negotiated settlement aimed at ending the coup and was thus valid and binding. Which is to say: they were free to go.
Absent of wars, not every nation is afforded so obvious a fork in the road between who they are and who they might have been. One such moment in Trinidad’s recent history was the failed attempt in the late 1950s to form, alongside nine other islands, a West Indies Federation. With the federation’s shared currency, open borders, and collective government, we might have grown resilient against the meddling influences that were the World Banks and IMFs of the time, whose entrapments of debt we have been long in recovering from. The other moment was this coup, which offered us an alternative destiny, not in its potential success (this seems too unlikely), but in the response to its failure. In setting the men free, we exposed ourselves to a mocking revelation, one that is the unspoken fear of any new nation that was once a colony: that we were an unserious country. Our laws were written on paper and nowhere else; they had not made their way into the mettle of who we were. As a Nigerian friend of my father’s once opined upon hearing the story of the Muslimeen, “Say what you want about Africans. At least we have the good sense to round up our traitors for the firing squad.”
- - -
Bad Kissing Techniques
May. 30th, 2025 08:30 ammcsweeneys_feedThe Desperado: They get a dreamy look in their eyes, then, before you know it, swoop in quick as a bandit and shove their tongue down your throat.
The Zombie: Their lips are stiff and dead, and you want to whisper, “Pucker up, you lifeless weirdo,” but you can feel yourself become infected, the passion slowly draining.
The Lollipopper: They suck on your tongue like a child sucking on a Tootsie Pop. You want to say, “Hey, that’s bad, stop that,” but you can’t speak, because your tongue is vacuum-locked in their death grip.
The Kubrick: Toward the end of a long, intense make-out, you realize their eyes are open—and you get the creeping sense they’ve been open the whole time.
The Escher: You try to get solid contact, but the angles are just wrong. Their head is strangely tilted, and their lips don’t obey the laws of Euclidean geometry. Nothing makes sense.
The Missing Tongue: You kiss open-mouthed, but their tongue isn’t there. You search for it like a rescuer trying to find a lost hiker in the Alps. You wonder if it’s hiding somewhere, retracted into a secret chamber.
The Mmmmm Yum Yum: They make extremely loud and distracting “mmmm yummy” noises that remind you of a hungry guy devouring spaghetti and meatballs.
The Duck: They peck you four times on the lips, then they lean back and stare at you like they want some bread.
The Lizard: They rapidly flick their tongue in and out of your mouth like they’re trying to catch a fly. Then they pull their head back and scurry across the sofa and out of the room.
The Transylvanian: Their seductive nibbles turn into full-on bites. Then, in a thick but commanding Romanian accent you hadn’t noticed before, they say, “Turn off the lights.”
The Aggressive Dentist: They perform an invasive, one-by-one inspection of your molars, canines, and primary teeth, then text you an invoice the next day.
The Abyss: Before the kiss, their mouth opens in a wide mechanical swoop, like a puppet’s. Their mouth-hole is too big, and you fear they will literally swallow your head.
The Vehicular Manslaughter: They want to kiss while they drive in a residential zone!?
The Wes Anderson: They kiss you while playing a ukulele. Just as things start to heat up, they pull away and give you a handwritten note that says, “I have never had sex.”
The Lynch: Halfway through the kiss, they call you by the wrong name.
The Days of Our Lives: They lean in slowly and sensually, French kissing you first softly, then more urgently. Just as the intensity builds to a crescendo, their lips stiffen, and you feel a hot tear roll down their cheek and onto yours. They whisper, “I don’t love you anymore.” Then they lean in and do it all over again.
mcsweeneys_feed“The White House has been hearing out a chorus of ideas in recent weeks for persuading Americans to get married and have more children, an early sign that the Trump administration will embrace a new cultural agenda pushed by many of its allies on the right to reverse declining birthrates and push conservative family values.” — New York Times
- - -
Stay-at-Home Mom—or “SAHM” as the truly fuckable people say—is one of the most sexually arousing roleplays I can imagine for myself or any woman (we are all pretty much interchangeable, after all, and what works for one of us will no doubt work for all of us). And when a pure sex machine like JD Vance says something completely provable like, “Young children are clearly happier and healthier when they spend the day at home with a parent,” and then helps lead one of the hottest and horniest meetings of the minds in modern political history to brainstorm ways to not only raise the birth rate in our country, but keep more parents at home with their children, I feel my uterus start to involuntarily contract.
As the SAHM of two small kids, I can tell you that not only is this arousing acronym a completely accurate, satisfying, and untroubling way to identify myself to the world at large, but it also makes me feel like my personal identity is so meaningless that it need not even exist or be acknowledged outside the boundaries of my home, which is where I get to stay. Can you think of anything more deliciously erotic than that?
Every time I write SAHM (emphasis on the Mmmm) on the “occupation” line of the many forms I get to fill out for myself and my children at places where women who don’t like to fuck are employed as doctors, dentists, educators, and car mechanics, I feel a powerful sexual thrill that can be rivaled only by one other thought: that of a vigorous, peerlessly charismatic Republican like Elon Musk or Josh Hawley hanging a National Medal of Motherhood around my hot little neck.
If I close my eyes, I can still see Senator Hawley running manfully away from the January 6 mob he helped incite, his back Carlton Banks–straight while his legs flew beneath him at a hero’s pace. “Yes, chef?” more like, “Yes, senator!”
In fact, I may be pregnant right now, just thinking about it.
So, it’s a good thing Hawley has proposed a $5,000 tax credit per child, because everyone knows that’s more than enough to assure a child’s success in a country where the average cost of raising children is over $20,000 annually and the average cost of a dozen eggs is roughly twice as much. If that math doesn’t add up for you, it’s probably just because you didn’t factor in the $1,000 in Trump bucks you’ll get if you deliver a newborn by 2029. And if that still doesn’t sound like enough to even make a dent in your childcare costs, ask yourself why you’re not sexy enough to stay at home all day while a grumpy baby farts and throws Cheerios into your prematurely graying hair as you mutter to the wall that you graduated from college Phi Beta Kappa.
Some women might think that being a SAHM means forfeiting their earning, intellectual, and social power for the sake of their children, who may not even like them very much or fare better with them than they would at a quality daycare. These women might also be worried that the current administration’s attacks on public education and policies that promote access to it for all children are somehow bad for future generations. But these women aren’t sexy, and they most definitely aren’t patriots.
Take it from me, a baddie with a body (that has been absolutely wrecked by bearing two children) who gave up a minimally lucrative career in marketing to raise her babies because her husband’s job paid much better and the cost of daycare and the prospect of getting into a good one seemed too daunting to pursue: There is nothing in this life that makes me feel more potent, sexual, or ready to triple the size of my brood than staying in my house all day with my children. Especially when they are screaming at me or each other over some deeply felt but completely illogical perceived slight, which is always. If it weren’t for the inconvenient distractions caused by libraries, public schools, public parks, and public broadcasting, I’d probably want to get down and get pregnant even more.
And since my husband and I are never worried about whether he will lose his job, or if our kids’ school will lose funding, or if our neighbors will be deported, or if our gay and trans friends will be stripped of more of their rights, or if the air quality will get so bad that we will all be forced into being stay-at-home everyones, we both feel so sexually supercharged at all times that we could probably resurrect this nation’s mystifyingly low birthrate all on our own. Which sounds like it might easily net us between six and ten thousand dollars, and at least as many medals.
So let me just peel off these come-fuck-me, yogurt-splattered sweatpants, attempt to shave my legs below the knee while my children interrupt me at least seventeen times in two minutes, throw away my birth control (which will probably be outlawed soon anyway), and start doing the real work of saving this great nation. It’s not like I planned on leaving the house today (or ever) anyway.
Osprey nesting
May. 29th, 2025 10:41 ampauraque posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
common_natureI got to see an Osprey sitting on its nest!
When I came back later to show my partner, we talked to another birder who said this nesting platform has been there for a long time but in past years Ospreys have only stayed for a short time and not fledged any young. This year they've stayed much longer than usual so hopes are high for a baby! The other adult was perched in a tree nearby.
Ospreys eat only fish. (The platform is above a river.) It's interesting that small birds seem to realize they're no threat, and completely ignore them. While we were there, we saw a flock of blackbirds furiously mob and chase away a Cooper's Hawk while the Ospreys calmly looked on.
When I came back later to show my partner, we talked to another birder who said this nesting platform has been there for a long time but in past years Ospreys have only stayed for a short time and not fledged any young. This year they've stayed much longer than usual so hopes are high for a baby! The other adult was perched in a tree nearby.
Ospreys eat only fish. (The platform is above a river.) It's interesting that small birds seem to realize they're no threat, and completely ignore them. While we were there, we saw a flock of blackbirds furiously mob and chase away a Cooper's Hawk while the Ospreys calmly looked on.
You Can’t Make an Omelette without Exploding Several Billion Dollars’ Worth of Eggs
May. 29th, 2025 08:00 ammcsweeneys_feed“After back-to-back explosions, SpaceX launched its mega rocket Starship again on Tuesday evening, but fell short of the main objectives when the spacecraft tumbled out of control and broke apart.” – PBS
- - -
We at SpaceX would like to remind the losers who have been gleefully pointing out how often our rockets explode that exploding rockets are a completely normal part of spaceflight.
Look, things explode. It’s just part of nature. Cybertrucks explode, and it’s no big deal. (Really, it’s not a big deal that cybertrucks explode.) So why should we spend so much time harping on how frequently our rockets explode, when we could, instead, focus on how long they haven’t exploded? Many of our rockets that haven’t launched are stored safely, completely unexploded. Yet does anyone congratulate us on the unexploded rockets? Nope.
With every single explosion, we learn and we improve. That’s called science. For example, when one rocket exploded due to a fuel leak, we removed all of the fuel and solved the problem: no more explosions. The rocket also didn’t take off, so we tried replacing the fuel with a much more volatile fuel, but then that rocket exploded. So we learned two lessons—at a cost of merely $6 billion.
We all make mistakes. Even you. You made a mistake by questioning us. Our mistakes happen to spread fiery debris down from the heavens, but that’s just the cost of business. This is really a “no harm, no foul” situation. Sure, there’s a bunch of garbage falling from the sky, but most of it falls in the ocean, and who cares about the ocean? We’re not fish. We’re not whales. We’re not Snorks. We’re people. We live on the land. And sure, the explosions disrupt air travel, but air travel is so easy and unstructured that a little disruption doesn’t hurt it in the least.
We’ve tried to improve our rockets, we really have. Many of our top technicians have been working, day and night, supplying ChatGPT with ever-more-refined queries such as “Could you make the rocket explode less?” and “This is a good start, but can you design a rocket that doesn’t go boom?” and ChatGPT has told us, in no uncertain terms, that it’s impossible. It also gave us several suggestions for “explosive fanfic involving Team Rocket,” which we’ve saved, just in case. (Some of our scientists tried asking Grok the same things, but most of the responses involved tirades against Nelson Mandela.)
Are you guys rocket scientists? No. You’re not. Neither are we. Most of us have degrees in business communication and have been promoted far beyond our abilities due to a complete knowledge vacuum in the upper reaches of management, like a black hole that pulls incompetence up, into darkness. (Black holes are a space thing, which we know a lot about.)
But the beauty of the free market is that we get to try, we get to disrupt, and yes, some of our spacecraft will unintentionally detonate along the way. That’s just how the free market works. “Aren’t you heavily subsidized by the government?” you may ask, and to that I have one simple answer that will shut you up for good—wait, hold on. Oh. Oh no. Damn damn damn.
Okay, I forgot I was supposed to be watching this launch. On the plus side, we’ve achieved our fastest ever launch-to-explosion time (0.01 seconds!), so we’re all going to celebrate by lighting up some cigars and wandering around the fueling area, giving each other high-fives.
one-pan ditalini and peas
May. 28th, 2025 04:46 pmsmittenkitchen_feed
I Am Pam Bondi’s Shiny Gold Cross Necklace
May. 28th, 2025 01:00 pmmcsweeneys_feedIn the beginning was the Word,
and the Word was with God,
and the Word was “accessorize.”
I am equal parts holy relic and regional pageant tiara. I am crucifix and courtroom bling. I am a sacrament. I am a statement piece.
I am forged of divine gold sourced from the sacred hills of Medjugorje. I was purchased at a Miami-Dade jewelry store that is really a front for a Medicare fraud scheme. As God intended.
I sit just above the sternum, where Christ’s unblemished mercy meets freckled cleavage. I hang, heavily and blessedly, where divinity schmoozes décolletage on the clavicular altar of Florida’s own Evangelical Barbie.
I repel Stephen Miller. I have felt the breath of Bret Baier. I have grazed Ron DeSantis’s nipples during an awkward hug at a prayer breakfast fundraiser. RFK Jr. has used me to draw fault lines in the finest Colombian snow of West Palm. Lindsey Graham clutches me during thunderstorms.
Yeah, though Pam spills Red Bull
and vodka on me with alarming frequency,
I shall not tarnish.
My luster shall endureth
the prosecutions of Tesla vandals
and the titillating Luigi Mangione.
For I am polished in the blood of the Lamb
and misted with Bumble
and Bumble Spray de Mode Hold Hairspray.
I emit Christ’s transformative love, especially under soft Fox News lighting. I radiate Christ’s redemptive mercy. I reflect the glint of the inferno that is the Department of Justice.
My chain is twisted like scripture in a campaign ad and as delicate as an invertebrate GOP senator’s hydrostatic skeleton. My clasp is more secure than the Mar-a-Lago document vault.
I do not tangle. I dangle like an executive order over a large “law” firm.
I am bigger than Kristi Noem’s little rose gold cross. Also, rose gold!? Ew. 2014 called. It wants its signature precious metal back.
And Jesus said,
“I was a stranger and you welcomed me.”
and Pam said unto He,
“Not without three forms of photo ID and documentation.”
She pairs me with off-the-shoulder blouses and unconstitutional executive orders.
I do not judge. Only God judges. I just work with a blazer to draw the eye downward so Pam looks taller.
I once was lost in a tanning bed but now am found, smelling of amazing grace and coconut frosting.
I am Pam’s covenant and her camouflage. She toucheth me mid-interview, and I amplify her piety like a holy satellite dish.
I am bigger than Kayleigh McEnany’s cross. Her cross sayeth, “Ecclesiastes and Etsy.” I sayeth, “A reading from the Gospel according to ”
“Prepare ye the way of the Lord.”
And Pam replied, “Okay, but make it a toll road.
For wide is the gate and broad is the shoulder cutout blouse
that leadeth unto the donor dinner.”
I am luminous in the flicker of boardroom lights as Pam declared, “Blessed are the shareholders, for theirs is the kingdom of privatized incarceration.”
Karoline Leavitt’s cross? It’s like Pinterest and Proverbs meet Ruth’s Rhinestones. Me? I’m like, “Hold my beer, Beelzebub. I’m about to cast out some demons (and by ‘demons’ I mean a busload of toddler asylum-seekers).”
I am shiny. I am gold. I am shiny gold. I glisten. I sparkle. I shine like heaven’s all-Caucasian air traffic control towers readying me, “Glory One, you are cleared for takeoff.”
And when Pam ascends to heaven (or the Sunday slot on Newsmax), I shall rise with her, gleaming beneath the stage lights.
I am spiritually aerodynamic.
I will be blessed. I will bedazzle. I will be subpoenaed.
FKFicFest: A Forever Knight Ficathon (now releasing)
May. 28th, 2025 07:22 ambrightknightie posting in fandom_on_dw| FK Fic Fest 2025 |
fkficfest | FKFicFest A03 Collection
fkficfest '25 is releasing!We have 12 all-new Forever Knight fanfic stories this year. We're releasing one per day as long as they last. So far, 3 are live!
Follow the reveals as they happen on our '25 AO3 sub-collection or DW community.
Do you remember FK on CBS's "Crimetime After Primetime?" In local syndication? On the USA cable network or the original Sci-Fi Channel? DVDs? Streaming on Crackle, AppleTV, or Amazon? We still love our favorite vampire homicide cop and all his friends, enemies, lovers, coworkers, and car. Come play with us!
The Blockbuster Manifesto: How to Stop Writing Boring Poems
May. 28th, 2025 08:00 ammcsweeneys_feedSTOP WRITING POEMS THAT ARE ABOUT YOUR OWN LIFE.
HOW DARE YOU ASK ME TO READ A POEM THAT IS JUST ABOUT A TIME THAT YOU WERE ANGRY, SAD, OR HAPPY.
YOU ARE NOT THAT INTERESTING.
HERE IS AN EXAMPLE OF ONE OF THOSE POEMS:
“Plum Poem”
Once, I looked in the fridge,
And I saw that the plums
Were still there,
And that made me sad,
Because you used to eat the plums,
Cool plump purple plums,
Huddled together in the cold,
And now here is a poem about that.
BOOOOOOOOOO!
EVERYONE LOOKS IN THEIR FRIDGE.
STOP BUYING PLUMS IF THEY MAKE YOU SAD.
DO SOMETHING MORE. YOU SHOULD HAVE A CELEBRITY IN THE POEM.
LIKE THIS:
“Plum Poem”
Once, Tom Cruise looked in his fridge,
And he saw that the plums
Were still there,
And that made him sad,
Because he had a roommate
Who used to eat the plums,
And was also a celebrity,
And now here is a poem about that.
IN THIS UPDATED VERSION, THERE IS AN ADDED ELEMENT OF MYSTERY BECAUSE WE DO NOT KNOW WHO THE ROOMMATE WAS.
SPOILER ALERT: IT MAY OR MAY NOT BE BRAD PITT.
SO THAT IS HOW YOU MAKE A BETTER POEM.
MAKE IT ABOUT SOMEONE FAMOUS OR A HISTORICAL MOMENT.
HERE IS HOW YOU WOULD ADD THE HISTORICAL MOMENT:
“Plum Poem”
On September 11, Tom Cruise looked in his fridge,
And he saw that the plums
Were still there,
And that made him sad,
Because he had a roommate
Who used to eat the plums,
But that roommate, who may or may not
Have been a celebrity, was on a flight.
NOW THAT IS A BLOCKBUSTER POEM.
LET ME BE CLEAR. IT’S OKAY FOR A POEM TO BE ABOUT A QUIET MOMENT.
GREAT ART CAN BE ABOUT THE QUOTIDIAN. HOWEVER, WHAT IF YOU TAKE THE QUOTIDIAN AND ELEVATE IT WITH A BAZOOKA?
CHECK THIS OUT:
“Plum Poem”
On September 11, Tom Cruise looked in his fridge,
And he saw that the plums were still there,
And that made him thirsty for vengeance,
A vengeance that would forever be unquenchable,
Because he had a roommate who used to eat the plums,
But that roommate, who may or may not have been a celebrity,
Was on a flight, and Tom Cruise didn’t know what to do,
And that was the moment when Tom Cruise went to reach for his bazooka.
VOILÀ! THERE IS THE DELICATE BALANCE IN ALL GREAT ART. YOU HAVE THE QUOTIDIAN MIXED WITH THE EXCITEMENT OF A BAZOOKA.
AND, YES, I AM JUST REALIZING THAT IT’S INSENSITIVE TO TALK ABOUT 9/11 IN THIS WAY, BUT LITERATURE IS SUPPOSED TO BE COMPLEX AND MAKE US UNCOMFORTABLE.
WILL OUR HERO GET REVENGE, OR WILL HE BLOW UP THE PLUMS FOR MAKING HIM EXPERIENCE SUCH A COMPLEX RANGE OF EMOTIONS?
NOW I WANT TO SHOW YOU HOW TO TAKE YOUR OWN WRITING AND MAKE IT BLOCKBUSTER.
HERE IS A PARAGRAPH FROM ONE OF MY NOTEBOOKS. YOU SHOULD WRITE DOWN STUPID, HEARTFELT THINGS THAT YOU CAN MORPH INTO AWESOME POEMS.
HERE IS A HEARTFELT THING I WROTE ONCE. BRACE YOURSELF, IT SUCKS:
I’ve just been tired lately, and I have everything I’ve ever wanted. My life is passing quickly. Seconds ago, my kids were babies, and they needed me. Now, they’re getting big. Everything is busy—just the day-to-day. I look down, and five years have passed. I get tired. And when I’m not tired, I’m starving—starving for an experience or shitty, salty, fatty food. My wife and I are always telling the kids to be cautious about what they eat, but I have so little impulse control that I’m eating myself to death, and my body aches more and more, and I fear that my kids will realize that I’m an imposter, that I’m not the man I appear to be. I still feel like a teenager. I don’t know anything more than them. And once they’re old enough, they’ll pull back the mask and see every last bit of me.
SEE WHAT I MEAN? THAT’S HEARTFELT AND RELATABLE. SO, HOW CAN WE FIX IT?
EASY. JUST FOLLOW MY PROCESS.
REMOVE YOURSELF FROM THE POEM. ADD SOMEONE WHO THE READER WILL FIND INTRIGUING.
FOR THIS ONE, LET’S THROW IN GENGHIS KHAN.
“Imposter Dad”
Genghis Khan has been tired lately,
He has everything he’s ever wanted,
But his life is passing so quickly.
Seconds ago, his kids were babies, and they needed him.
Now, they’re getting big, riding horses, marauding.
His body aches more and more, and he fears that his kids
Will realize that he’s not the man
He appears to be, and once they’re old enough,
They’ll pull back the mask and see who he really is.
THAT IS MUCH MORE INTERESTING FOR THE READER.
THEY START THINKING ABOUT GENGHIS KHAN, AND NOT ABOUT SOME GUY WHO’S NEVER CONQUERED ANYTHING.
BUT WHAT ABOUT ADDING A BAZOOKA LIKE IN THE PREVIOUS POEM?
“Imposter Dad”
Genghis Khan has been tired lately,
And he has everything he’s ever wanted,
Except for a bazooka. He doesn’t have one of those.
His life seems to be passing more quickly than he would like.
But if he had a bazooka, then he could conquer more quickly
Plus have time for his kids. They’re getting so big, riding horses.
Once they’re old enough, they’ll pull back the mask
And see who he really is. But if he gets a bazooka,
They’ll respect him. And if not, then he’ll blow them up.
THAT’S 100 PERCENT BETTER.
EXCEPT THERE IS A PROBLEM.
WE HAVE THE EMOTIONAL ELEMENT. GENGHIS KHAN IS GETTING OLDER, AND HE WORRIES ABOUT DISAPPOINTING HIS CHILDREN. WE HAVE THE CONFLICT. GENGHIS KHAN DOESN’T HAVE A BAZOOKA, BUT HE REALLY WANTS ONE.
BUT WE DON’T KNOW THE HISTORICAL MOMENT.
SO HOW DO WE FIX THAT EVEN IF IT’S IN AN INSENSITIVE WAY?
“Imposter Dad”
Genghis Khan looks in his fridge,
The vegetable crisper is full of plums,
Cool, plump, and purple,
His daughter leans over him,
She’s gotten so tall,
It’s September 11,
And he really wants to own,
A bazooka. Oh yeah, I forgot,
His son’s there too.
NOW THAT’S A POEM.
BUT WE NEED TO—PREPARE YOURSELF—WE NEED TO SHOW AND NOT TELL.
ALSO, WHAT IF WE MADE THE SON AND DAUGHTER FAMOUS PEOPLE TOO?
THAT WOULD BE EVEN MORE BLOCKBUSTER.
“Imposter Dad”
Genghis Khan looks in his fridge,
His daughter, Frida Kahlo, leans over him,
Reaching for the plump, purple plums.
His son, Dikembe Mutombo, is wagging
One finger, at the screen. Someone has flown
Two planes into the twin towers.
“Do you own a bazooka?” asks Frida Kahlo.
Genghis Khan confesses that he does not.
“Then who will protect us?” asks Dikembe Mutombo.
THAT’S HOW YOU MAKE IT BLOCKBUSTER.
PLEASE REMEMBER THAT EVERY POEM DOES NOT NEED ONE, BUT MOST WOULD BE BETTER WITH A BAZOOKA.
ROLL CREDITS:
“Blockbuster Manifesto”
Tom Halford … Author
Tom Cruise … Poet
Brad Pitt … Poet’s Friend
Bazooka … Author’s Wife
Genghis Khan… Poet
Frida Kahlo … Author’s Daughter
Dikembe Mutombo … Author’s Son
Reviews of New Food: Skittles POP’d Freeze Dried Candy
May. 28th, 2025 06:00 ammcsweeneys_feedWhy would a fifty-five-year-old man try such a thing as Skittles POP’d Freeze Dried Candy, you might ask.
I’ll tell you why. The grocery store was out of Nerds Very Berry Gummy Clusters, and a fiend needs his fix. We are in the midst of something like a golden age of candy technological advancement, and you never know when some new morsel capable of leaving your tongue scoured raw by repeated exposure to high-grade dextrose and food starch will hit the market.
But even that knowledge did not prepare me for this.
I have to assume these were discovered by accident, like X-rays, penicillin, and Marilyn Monroe.
As to where I would place the Skittles POP’d Freeze Dried Candy in a ranking of that American icon and two scientific discoveries that have together saved millions (if not billions) of lives, my answer is “above.” Well above.
Here’s my best guess: Some Wrigley Company candy scientist got high one weekend, and then watched Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory back-to-back with one of the Top Chef episodes where a hubristic contestant thinks they can actually get away with making ice cream but realizes the ice cream will never set in time and dumps the liquid mess in the freeze dry instant chiller thingy, and out comes a “Lemon Matcha Bomb” or whatever, which has some other poor sucker packing their knives and going.
Why not Skittles? This stoned genius thinks, and next thing you know, we have a perfect, airy artificial-flavor candy bomb that I have to believe RFK Jr. will ban any moment now alongside vaccines and curing cancer.
Some tips from an expert. Go with the Skittles classic flavor over the sour. The classic flavor has the perfect balance of sugar and artificial fruit essence, while the sour additives overpower the citrus notes of the original.
Also, give the bag a bit of a grope before purchasing to make sure the individual POPs have not congealed into a brick-like mass. It’s not that the brick-like mass is inedible, but an adult eating Skittles POP’d is undignified enough. Breaking off pieces of a brick-like mass to gnaw through like a cow with its cud is beneath even me.
Not really, but it should be.
Turtle from the Kyzylkum desert
May. 28th, 2025 02:43 pmpilottttt posting in common_nature
For more details about our trip to this desert (in Russian), see here: https://pilottttt.dreamwidth.org/445028.html
Decoding Cat Adoption Biographies
May. 27th, 2025 09:50 ammcsweeneys_feed“Shy around strangers but will warm up”
It will take six months for your friends to even realize you have a cat. They thought your apartment just smelled like that.
“Treat motivated”
You’ll never enjoy a bagel in peace again. Cats can have a little cream cheese, it’s fine. Cats can lick cream cheese right off your bagel while you’re taking a bite. Cats can run off with the entire bagel, eat all the cream cheese off it, and hide the soggy remains under your couch for you to find once it molds. Look, cat ownership is all about choosing your battles.
“Independent”
Will ignore your existence except for twice a year when he’ll curl up on your lap out of the blue, until you inevitably ruin it by breathing.
“Bonded pair”
This one cat is so great you won’t even notice how much the other one sucks.
“Not good with dogs”
Met one dog and was not happy about it. We’re not sure, but we think he’s trying to assassinate them. Feels vendetta-based. And doodle-specific.
“Mischievous”
Basically, she’s gotten a taste for breaking stuff. Shattering, spilling, toppling, clawing, tangling, shredding, you name it. But sometimes she’ll do this really cute thing where she’ll lick her paw and then use it to clean her ear, so it kind of evens out. Oh, and smashing. She loves smashing things.
“Talkative”
Wails like a ghoul every morning from 3 a.m. to 5 a.m.
“Tolerates dogs”
Will think of your dog as a second-tier pet that you and she own together. (Note: still largely a menace to doodles.)
“Very affectionate”
This cat will sit on your laptop during meetings, your lap during meals, and at the end of your bed during sex.
“House-trained”
She will always use the litter box, except for hairballs, which she will reserve exclusively for your rug. That’s on you for buying a cream-colored rug.
“Resourceful”
This cat knows how to open doors. And cabinets. And the fridge. And windows. And safes. And steel-reinforced concrete cages—oh, god, she’s out again. Code red! She’s loose! Bolt the doors! Double-check your safes! Double-check your lunches in the fridge! She does not respect label etiquette.
“Loves to play”
Loves to utilize seemingly lighthearted gameplay to hone her already razor-sharp hunting skills. Her favorite toy is a feather on a string, and her favorite game is pretending to kill it.
“Kitten”
This cat is honest to god nineteen years old. You people always pass over the senior cats, so we don’t even feel bad about lying. Her elderly owner passed away, by the way. At the delicate age of ninety-two, no less, which coincidentally is also nineteen in cat years. Anyway, that’s why she’s here. Just thought you should know. She arrived wearing a little knit hat. Yeah.
“Smart”
Manipulative.