i don't even go here, but your fave borgias pairing (something with lucrezia maybe?) and 16. 'Do you trust me?'
It is past midnight in her brother’s rooms, and said brother is naked beneath her, his hands gripping her waist like she is the only thing tethering him to the universe, when the door bursts open.
Cesare jerks up, and she dives for a blanket–but it is only Micheletto. “His Holiness is on his way,” Micheletto says urgently, looking straight at Cesare. “He will not be stopped.”
Cesare swears, and Lucrezia looks frantically about the room–there are too many pieces of her toilette to possibly gather up in time–her chemise, her gold slippers, the purple gown and the sleeves she so recklessly tore off–there is no chance she can gather it up before her father gets here. She cannot leave her brother’s rooms half-dressed, either.
“Hide in the wardrobe,” Cesare orders, coming to the same conclusion. “I shall say I had a woman, that she has left, but will–return.”
Lucrezia shakes her head frantically–there is too much risk that her father will recognize the gown, which he gave her, the ruby-edged pearls she stupidly plucked from her hair and left in a careless pile on the floor, the net Giulia complimented her on only that morning.
“Do you trust me,” Micheletto says suddenly. He must be addressing Cesare, but he is looking at her, familiar, loyal Micheletto, his face white with some unknown emotion.
“We do,” Lucrezia answers him in a frightened whisper, and Micheletto gives her a jerky nod.
“Into the wardrobe, my lord,” he says, and then Lucrezia understands. Cesare rocks back like Micheletto has struck him–like a loyal dog has bit him–but there is no time.
“Go,” she begs, and Cesare goes, his jaw clenched tight.
Micheletto kicks off his boots and joins her in the bed. She tugs him down over her, so his weight covers her like a shield. She runs her fingers through his hair, tugs at his clothing so he will appear a little more debauched. Micheletto’s hands settle awkwardly on her forearms, and his eyes are grave and open only a few inches from hers.
She kisses him harshly, biting his lip so he will appear as kissed as she is, and worries. She will tell her father this is none of his affair. She will tell him Cesare has no idea, that Cesare spends the night with a mistress of his own. She will be outraged, then humiliated, then penitent. Her father will forgive her this, as he could never forgive her true sin.
She can hear footsteps in the corridor now, and it occurs to her all at once that Micheletto will not be forgiven. Her father will insist that Cesare dispose of him, one way or another. His hands tighten on her bare forearms.
“Trust us,” she whispers against Micheletto’s mouth just as the door bursts open, and what she means is we will protect you.
I don’t even go here, but I want the 10k comedy of errors that leads to and from this point.
LOL
I realize that you probably meant this rhetorically, BUT I’m gonna tell myself a story about how this would go anyway:
So the Pope would throw an absolute fit at the idea of Cesare’s assassin having congress with his precious daughter (who was just about to receive an offer of marriage from the Duke of Ferrara! The timing could not be worse!), and so he’d demand that Cesare either fire Micheletto or kill Micheletto.
What Cesare actually does is get Micheletto out of Rome by promoting him. No longer an assassin-manservant, Micheletto is now a reluctant general of the papal armies. Cesare and Micheletto go tramping gleefully around the Romagna carving out new territory, and instead of demanding new states for himself, Cesare cooly demands a barony for his loyal general.
Baron Corella can have an affair with the Lady Lucrezia Borgia, even if His Holiness still doesn’t approve.
AT THIS POINT Cesare and Micheletto return to Rome, where under the Pope’s disapproving eye Cesare and Lucrezia have to turn an illiterate murderer into a grudging, bitter courtier, at which point they UNDOUBTEDLY engage in more and more complex not-quite threesomes:
-Cesare and Lucrezia hide their affair by pretending that Lucrezia and Micheletto are continuing their affair, which means that the entire Vatican wanders around like “what does the Lady Lucrezia–who famously chose her last husband because he was ‘sweet as apples’–see in this dead-eyed torturer with his peasant accent and his utter lack of graces?” -Lucrezia starts publicly showering Micheletto with affection, partially to keep up the facade and partially to goad Cesare, who is super jealous -Cesare and Micheletto have super passionate sparring sessions that end with Cesare’s blade at Micheletto’s throat and intense prolongued eye contact and heavy panting and Micheletto arching ever so slightly into the metal -Micheletto very carefully reminds Cesare that he is into dudes, only dudes, just dudes -Cesare somehow ends up sucking Micheletto off in a confessional as a way to restore his wounded masculinity??? by proving that Micheletto IS more into him than he is into Lucrezia -Lucrezia poisons a man with Micheletto’s help, which makes Cesare even more jealous -threesomes with Extremely Complicated Rules emerge
eventually the pope decides Lucrezia has to marry Micheletto, which SHOULD solve all of their problems but winds up causing fifty more.
NO BUT LIKE FOR REAL PAUL REVERE HAD SOME OF THE SHITTIEST HANDWRITING I HAVE EVER HAD TO READ. I KNOW HE PROBABLY DIDN’T EXPECT PEOPLE TO BE JUDGING HIM ON THAT DAMN NEAR 250 YEARS LATER BUT HE PROBABLY SHOULD HAVE BECAUSE IT IS SOME CHICKENSCRATCH
LIKE THE ONLY REASON “PAUL REVERE BECAUSE OF HIS SHITTY HANDWRITING” ISN’T MY ANSWER TO “WHICH FOUNDING FATHER WOULD YOU USE A TIME MACHINE TO SMACK UPSIDE THE MOUTH” IS BECAUSE THOMAS JEFFERSON IS A PERSON WHO EXISTS
SOME OF YOU MIGHT BE ASKING YOURSELF, “WHAT ABOUT GEORGE WASHINGTON? WHY NOT SMACK HIM IN THE MOUTH?” AND I WILL TELL YOU WHY. I DO NOT HAVE A DEATH WISH AND THAT FUCKER WOULD KILL ME. I CAN TAKE NERDY WIMP T.J. IN A FIGHT BUT I AM NOT PUTTING MY HAND ANYWHERE NEAR THE MOUTH OF SOMEONE WHO WORE DENTURES MADE OF IVORY FROM A HIPPOPOTAMUS, THE WORLD’S DEADLIEST PREDATOR. ALSO MY MAN WAS LIKE SIX-FOOT-TWENTY AND I AM NOT VERY TALL SO I PROBABLY COULDN’T REACH HIS MOUTH ANYWAY.
WHY WOULD YOU NOT SLAP ANDREW JACKSON I KNOW HE ISNT A FOUNDING FATHER BUT SOME PEOPLE CONSIDER HIM TO BE
LOOK IF YOU WANT TO BE BLUDGEONED TO DEATH BY AN OLD MAN’S CANE, BE MY GUEST, BUT I DON’T WANT MY LAST MOMENTS TO BE TERRIFYING SO I’M GONNA AVOID A PHYSICAL CONFRONTATION WITH A GUY WHO, BLEEDING FROM A BULLET TO THE HEART, LITERALLY SHOT A MAN DEAD JUST BECAUSE THE DUDE CALLED HIM CHICKEN
ALSO HE IS NOT A FOUNDING FATHER SO HE IS NOT INCLUDED IN THIS
<p>
me, looking at the current state of the world, crying: I wish none of this had happened...
Gandalf, materialising in my conscience, smiling kindly:
So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. There are other forces at work in this world, besides the will of evil.</p>
Robes are stupid. My sorcerer dresses like Petyr Baelish.
To expand: if you are a mage, dress like a noble. Do not dress like a wizard. Pointy conical hat and sky-blue robes is medieval semaphore for “kill first and with extreme prejudice.” Tailored black silk over cloth-of-gold and studded with rubies says “Harmless, but valuable; ransom if possible or kill last.”
If you dress like a noble, they’re not going to pay attention as you take a turn or two to back away from the melee and prepare yourself. The ruse is only broken when you reveal yourself, at which point 8d6 fire damage is screaming toward them at Mach Fuck anyway, so no big.
“Excuse me,” says the battle droid. R2 cannot roll his eyes, but he twitters in binary, something hard to translate but best summarized as:
you heard me arsehole [the literal translation here would be: human excrement funnel]
“I will shoot you,” says the other battle droid. B-1 models, flimsy in the face of a lightsabre – or a blaster, or a well-aimed stick – but more than a match for R2.
“No you won’t,” says the first one, “the General needs him.”
“Well at least let me threaten him a little,” pouts the second droid.
“Why?”
“It’s so –”
boring chips in R2 right, it’s boring?
“Yes!” says the first droid. And then he adds, more out of a sense of duty than any real conviction: “Republic scum.”
“It isn’t boring,” says the second droid. “Last week, Grevious killed my best friend. At least. I think he was my best friend. I can’t tell us apart, really.”
you have no names
“I’m B-1,” says the first droid.
“And I’m B-1,” says the second.
“Mass-produced,” says the first.
“Could be worse,” says the second.
I was mass produced, R2 says hurriedly. but Anakin takes care of me.
“What do you mean?”
I’ve never been shot for target practice, says R2, and I’m allowed a name and –
“It isn’t that bad,” says the first. Maybe the second. Hard to tell. “Anyway, you’re Republic scum and – “
The smack-shriek of a blaster. The first/second droid collapses, minus head. His companion says, “Never shot for target practice?” in a tone of voice that is, somehow, different.
never ever, says R2. my friends wouldn’t let it happen.
“Friends,” says the droid. “He wasn’t really my best friend. He just went on patrol with me more than the others and I got used to him. Familiar face, you know. When the General killed him – uh – I kind of felt….bad.”
wanna get out of here?
“Roger roger,” says the droid, with feeling. Then: “Roger. That’s a name, right?”
yup, says R2.
“Great. Great,” says Roger. Then he hesitates. “What’re your orders?”
I don’t order you – oh, fine, babysteps, look just get me out of here.
“And make sure that your Jedi doesn’t lightsabre me.”
Roger, roger, trills R2.
“Fuck you,” says Roger who, it seems, is a very fast learner.
forgive me if this has been done but please accept the following theory: anakin knows that women outside of tattooine do not die in childbed.
He’s travelled the length and breadth of the galaxy. He’s seen stars sing into being and empires topple to ash at his feet. He’s seen horrors and wonders and he’s a legend in at least fifteen different systems, and he’s seen medical droids work miracles, and he knows – he knows – that Padme is highly unlikely to hemorrhage, or succumb to eclampsia, or die of a slow mouldering infection.
(look, if you think Anakin ‘this woman is my entire life’ Skywalker didn’t research the fuck out of every possible way a woman can die in childbirth you are wrong. He’s a walking talking Web MD of the Worst Possible Result by the time she’s in her fifth month, and he shepherds her to every appointment, and arranges strange and obscure tests which he keeps concealed partly by subterfuge and mainly by Force-choking and mind-control. His eyes are turning a little yellow at the edges. He blames it on exhaustion.)
(since when did tiredness make you go – Padme will say )
(maybe it’s jaundice that’s something you could get, or the baby, or – )
Anakin’s every stereotype of ‘insanely overprotective father-to-be’ and it’s adorable except it really, really isn’t. Because there’s something he learned on Tatooine that he hasn’t shared with his wife: slave-children are property of the master, and are often sold young, and the mothers would protest. Of course they would.
And when they protested too hard, they were punished, and when the punishment went too far and the woman remained in the dust where they’d pushed her (red red red) they would, euphemistically,say that she had died in childbed. Because, technically, it was true. Her children had caused her death. A few years down the line, maybe, but all the same: if she hadn’t borne the child, if she hadn’t become a mother, then she would have lived.
Anakin’s seen the aftermath of such a conflict. More than once. When they come for your children, you’re meant to say yes, a friend of Shmi’s had said to her. Watoo had been a good master. A kind master. He had never flogged Shmi’s back red because she would not surrender her son.
(it hadn’t saved her, in the end. but that’s another story.)
Anakin knows that prophecy can come in strange and circuitous language, and dreams of Padme – his Padme! – dying in childbed, well. When they come for your children you’re meant to say yes, thinks Anakin. Be obedient, the council tells him.
They will not have his Padme. He will save her. He will save his child.
Cesare/Micheletto, "Do you trust me?" or "Either you know or you don't" 👍👍
It is a stupid risk, but Micheletto takes it anyway, follows a boy out from under his lord’s nose to an abandoned palace. What is he alive for, except for stupid risks like these. If he had wanted a safe life, he could have stayed in Forlí, and married Violetta the miller’s daughter.
It is a very pleasant interlude. The boy is a sweet, fine thing–finer than anything made for gutter trash like him, and almost unsettlingly tender.
He returns seamlessly to his lord’s side when the pleasure is done, and that evening reports some of the curiosities of da Vinci’s workshop, only himself left in Cesare Borgia’s war tent. Cesare listens to him for a while, sipping at Ludovico Sforza’s wine, and then abruptly he turns to Micheletto and says: “You fucked that boy.” It isn’t a question.
Micheletto freezes, utter dread and a strange, savage relief flooding him in dual measure. He has feared exactly this for so many years, and now it has happened. His lord knows the truth of him. There is nothing left to fear. He unbuckles his dagger and drops to his knees before his lord, pressing the point to his heart. “Kill me quickly,” he manages, offering Cesare the hilt. “Please.”
A hand joins his on the dagger’s hilt, Cesare’s fingers brushing his, and then Cesare is drawing it away from him, setting the blade aside. “There will be no killing,” his lord says quietly. “God’s wounds, Micheletto. Did you think I did not know?”
Micheletto raises his head sharply, and finds Cesare looking at him with the concentration he usually reserves for matters of state. His voice, when he can bring himself to speak, is hoarse. “You knew. How long have you known?”
Cesare shrugs, but doesn’t break their eye contact. “How long have you been in my service?”
Micheletto has trained himself too well to move, but he feels that like a blow. All these years. All the care, all the terror, and for nothing. “My lord wanted to know about the boy,” he says stupidly.
“Mm,” Cesare agrees. “I marked him. Machiavelli did, too. You must take greater care, my sweet assassin.”
The only answer Micheletto can make to that is a nod, stiff and humiliated.
Cesare tilts his head to the side, curiosity filling his face. “You will not see him again.” It isn’t a command, but it also is not a question. Micheletto shakes his head anyway. “And you have no lover in Rome.”
“Love is not–for men like me,” Micheletto says haltingly.
“Oh?” Cesare raises his eyebrows. “So you do not love me?”
He can make no answer to that, his tongue gone dry in his mouth. He is suddenly very conscious that he is still on his knees.
Cesare smiles at him. He sounds amused, but his eyes are sharp. “Either you know or you don’t.”
Micheletto finds his voice at last, swallowing hard. “I would need a heart for that, my lord.”
“Ah,” his lord says, drawing the word out. “Of course. I had forgotten.”
you are holding a thing. its in your hands. you look away for five seconds. you are no longer holding the thing and you cannot find it anywhere. you did not move from your spot. you do not know how this happened
you are scrolling down a website. you see something nice and you decide to read more about it. you scroll up to look into it. you see something nice. you decide you want to read more about it. you forgot the first thing you were going to search. you scroll down in hope to remember. you see something nice. you decide you want to read more about it.
there is a tear in one of your favourite outfits. you decide you can fix it. you grab the sewing supplies and put them down while you research how to do it. an hour passes. you wonder why there are sewing supplies by your bed.
where are your glasses?
there are three cups on your bedside table. you venture into the kitchen. you decide you want some water. you bring it back to your room. there are four cups on your bedside table.
youve had a towel around your shoulders for the past three hours. you are going to shower.
you’re watching a movie. you pick up your phone to have something to do while you watch the movie. you pause the movie. two days pass. you still havent finished the movie.
repeat to yourself so you wont forget, you think. repeat repeat repeat repeat. you no longer remember anything else but it. you look to the side. blue is a nice colour. what were you thinking about?
your leg wont stop shaking. it has a life of its own. you are not in control.
tiny american civics lesson for those here and abroad who woke up going “uh, so the travel ban is lifted because one judge in seattle said so? I mean, cool, but really?”
that’s how the whole fucking system is supposed to work.
we’ve got 3 parts to how laws are made and enforced in America: Executive (the president), Judicial (the court system), and Legislative (Congress).
I know we’ve not done a good job in the past few weeks showing this, but it is a system of checks and balances. we were very much explicitly not supposed to ever have a king or a king-like executive. that’s why it took them so fucking long to write the founding documents, because there weren’t many good examples of that method, at the time.
anyway, the president can do stuff with executive orders (though tr**p has very much overreached, surprising nobody), and then the other two parts of the wobbly-ass tri-corner hat holding up the rule of American law get to exact checks and balances against it.
right now? It’s the judiciary branch going “hey there slow your roll you unmitigated disaster of an executive branch.”
sometimes, if Congress can get 2/3 of them to agree, they can do much the same thing, but I currently heavily identify with:
Anyway if the three don’t agree (for example, this morning), we end up with a situation called a “constitutional crisis,” which, despite sounding like a lost Hamilton song, is actually a large problem that’s gonna be a shitshow to sort out (andhopefullyendsupwithSOMEONEgettingimpeached).
but we can have this shitshow, because we don’t have a king. we never have, we never were supposed to, and yeah it’s been an awful two weeks of us remembering that we don’t, but hey! the american rule of law! it was vaguely well put together!
(another side of this philosophy is that, you know, we get to hit the voting booths EVERY YEAR, GO VOTE EVERY TIME, MY GOD, and also, impeachment doesn’t involve beheading someone)
Look, there are still lines. No one’s talking about shooting nazis or violating nazis or torturing nazis. No one’s passing a law to get anyone who calls themself “alt-right” on Twitter thrown in prison. It’s not about “kill everyone who doesn’t agree with you.”
It’s about making the social consequences for advocating genocide excruciatingly fucking clear, for the benefit of the potential victims of that genocide.
What do you do if you see someone attacking a vulnerable person in public? Don’t answer right away, picture it: a grown adult hitting or screaming at a child, or an elderly person, or someone with a cane or a guide dog. What do you do? You leap to the victim’s defense. Even if the cane-user has a mean swing or the child knows kung fu, you fucking step in, because that person should not have to fight alone. (or, y’know, you start screaming for help, or something. Each according to ability.)
Because hey, guess what, we’re social primates with a community structure. We teach each other how to behave via how we react to infractions. More than that, when we react - either way - to one member of the community attacking another, we make it clear who is part of our community and who is not.
That is super fucking important, y’all. Most important thing in the world.
And so we come back to the Nazi Next Door. Nice guy. Clean-cut. Picks up after his dog. And he stands in front of national television and explains, in a reasonable tone of voice, that Nazi-ism is Right and Good and The Future. Guys, let’s not pretend this is not an attack, okay? Let’s not be disingenuous. We all know what Nazis stand for.
When this happens… the community has a choice to make. Which monkey gets protected and which one gets ostracized? Who do we welcome and who do we sucker-punch into next week? It’s not morality - it’s community dynamics. It’s also very much a binary choice. If we ignore the Nazi, if we allow the Nazi, then every single member of that community who isn’t Christian, white, straight or able-bodied has cause to believe that they’re the ostracized monkey.
I’ll say it loud for the people in the back: THERE IS MORE WORTH IN ONE NON-CHRISTIAN/NON-WHITE/NON-STRAIGHT/NON-ABLE-BODIED/ETC PERSON’S LITTLE FINGER THAN THERE IS IN A BARGEFUL OF NAZIS. Choose fucking wisely.
Punch the Nazi. Yell at the Nazi. Mock the Nazi. Pie the Nazi in the face. Turn off the Nazi’s microphone. Do whatever you have to do to communicate you are not welcome here, you are not one of us. Because even if the Nazi doesn’t listen…
Okay but imagine Yuuri retires from professional figure skating at 27, and he decides to go back to college to become a teacher.
So this boy walks into class sporting the just-rolled-out-of-bed look with the sex hair and the big comfy sweater and the starbucks cup in one hand.
And you know, he’s enjoying his life, he makes friends in his program and on the weekends he helps his husband teach cute little kids how to skate and they have this cozy little house together in a nice neighbourhood. He probably has girls and guys falling for him left and right.
And then one day, Yuuri’s out with his friends, and they’re at a cafe or something.
And a group of girls comes up to them, and they’re all blushing and nudging each other saying “You talk first!”.
So Yuuri just turns this absolutely blinding smile on them and asks, “Autographs?”
The girls squeak, and nod furiously.
“Sure!” he says, reaching out for the notebooks they’re holding out for him to sign.
And about ten minutes later, after several selfies and autographs and a lot of gushing and squealing and “Please let Viktor know we’re looking forward to Yuratchka’s upcoming season,” the girls leave.
So Yuuri turns back to his friends, and they’re all just staring at him with wide eyes and gaping mouths.
Yuuri kinda wonders if there’s something on his face.
The first thing that comes out of anyone’s mouths is, “…who’s Viktor?”
And Yuuri’s kinda confused as he replies, “….my husband?”
“YOU’RE MARRIED!?!?!?!?” his friends all shriek.
Yuuri looks down at his hand to make sure his ring is still there. “Yeah?” he says, holding his hand up.
“I thought that was just a fashion statement!” one of the girls exclaims.
“Why did they want your autograph though?” asks another of his friends, and Yuuri just looks away sheepishly.
“I’m…uh….a retired pro figure skater?” he asks, his voice going higher with embarrassment. “And I…uh…got 2 golds in the Grand Prix…and 2 golds in Worlds….and maybe a silver in Pyeongchang?”
His voice gets progressively quieter as his face gets even redder.
His friends are staring at him in horror and shocked disbelief now.
And he thinks he might as well get it all out now.
“And…my husband might be the most decorated athlete in figure skating history?”
i went to the local shakespeare festival (and by local, i mean on the other end of the state) and during the day i convinced my mother to go hiking with me because we were in the center of like four national parks
so we end up hiking this trail that sort of jack-knifes down the mountain and I end up climbing partway up a tree on the edge of the trail to see further out, so my smartass mother asks “legolas, what do your elf eyes see?”
and i, in my smarmy glory, go “they’re taking the hobbits to isengard!”
which is funny enough as is, but then the entire mountainside of hikers hidden in the trees goes “THEY’RE TAKING THE HOBBITS TO ISENGARD-GARD-GARD-GARD-GARD! THE HOBBITS, THE HOBBITS, THE HOBBITS, THE HOBBITS TO ISENGARD, TO ISENGARD!”
and that’s how an entire hiking trail of people who never actually saw one another convinced my mother i’m some sort of meme-summoning mountain troll
i dont get offended at white people jokes even though im white because:
i can recognize white people as a whole have systemically oppressed POC in america, which is where i live
most people when they make white people jokes only mean the shitty white people and i am not a shitty white person
im not a pissbaby
my white friends that have reblogged this give me life
4. Sometimes I am a shitty white person and the jokes remind me to FUCKIN STOP
If ur white and like this post I fux with u
^absolutely
5. It’s hard to be offended when white people jokes involve bland food/tourist dads in socks and sandals/white girls in yoga pants obsessed with pumpkin spice/suburban PTA moms and other harmless and mostly true stereotypes while jokes about POC involve them being called thugs/criminals/slurs/uneducated/illegal immigrants.
i fucks with u heavy if ur white and you reblog this
6. They’re usually really fucking funny and don’t perpetuate stereotypes that will ever affect me economically, politically, or cause me any true harm, let alone create risks that “justify” my murder and/or death
Waits for my white mutuals to reblog😌
yesyesyesyes
7. if I expect dudes not to “not all men” me how can I rly “not all white people” since it’s asking for the same exemption
You know, the Richard Spencer getting punched thing has made it VERY clear which groups of people I’m not actually safe around, if push comes to shove. People who had SAID that they’d defend Jewish people, or even promised that, if shit hit the fan, they’d hide me, have said that this was inexcusable, and now I’m not wasting emotional energy on them. Because they won’t.
If you think you’d have hidden Jews during the Holocaust, but think that punching Richard Spencer was “inexcusable,” then you’re kidding yourself.
The reason that people are concerned about vaccines causing autism is because they’re not thinking of the long-term. Here’s the truth: when you are choosing to not having your child vaccinated because you’re afraid of autism, you are actively choosing death over a neurodevelopmental disorder. Let me phrase that in another way – you are either picking autism or death. It doesn’t have to be the death of your child. It can be literally any child. And death is the worst case scenario. Autism is not the worst case scenario. Death is always and will constantly be the worst case scenario.
There are children who are too young to get vaccines. There are kids who have compromised immune systems that cannot get vaccines. Your child getting vaccinated prevents these illnesses from spreading and keeps those children safe. It’s called community immunity and it’s important to maintain that so people don’t die.
tl;dr - Stop being a selfish asshole and get your kids vaccinated. There are worse things in the world than autism.
And before anyone starts coming to my inbox screaming about how “I don’t know how bad autism can be”, I know. Not only do I have a neurodevelopmental disorder, but I also had a friend with a severely autistic brother that could not talk when he was fifteen. I know. And even after witnessing him and being through my own shit, I would still get my kids vaccinated because I want them, and other kids, to live.
WTF, people.
Why the fuck do you think that your fear of autism (ungrounded, btw), beats someone else’s RIGHT TO LIVE?!?!
You don’t want to vaccinate your kid. Goody gumdrops.
You expose your godchild - who’s too young to be vaccinated.
You expose your sister-in-law - who is going through chemo (because having cancer isn’t bad enough), and immunocompromised.
You expose everyone they come in contact with - BECAUSE MEASLES STAYS ACTIVE FOR UP TO TWO HOURS ON SURFACES AND IN THE AIR OF A SPACE.
Number of people killed by symptoms associated with autism diagnoses: 0.
Number of people killed by measles in 2015: 134,000
Number of people killed per annum before vaccination became widespread in 1980: 2,600,000 (paraphrased from WHO).
Measles is not harmless. Researchers noticed that after the measles vaccine came out, kids started dying less from other diseases as well. It turns out that measles suppresses your immune system for YEARS (and no, no amount of vitamin C or zinc is going to make up for that).
i used to get self-conscious over the smallest things but friends let me tell you that today i had to smuggle a furious 8ft python onto the bus during the school rush and not a single person noticed. not one. if people don’t care enough to notice a shopping bag writhing and seething with barely-contained reptilian hatred then i promise you that no-one will pay any attention to that blemish you’re fretting about or how you’ve done your hair
sorry not sorry @kentparseparson and i came up with this ridiculous headcanon that definitely needed to be shared with the world
one of the frogs (probably chowder *war flashbacks to 3.15 blog post*) accidentally calls jack “dad”, oops
inevitably, it becomes a SMH meme so fast, they all start calling jack “dad”
except bitty. bitty is 100% banned from calling jack “dad”.
anyway jack gets??? so used to people calling him “dad” by the time he graduates that when some random kid is talking to their actual father like “hey dad” jack turns around like “yeah???” and the falcs are like ??? you’re not a dad ??? right????
you’ve clearly never met the samwell men’s hockey team
SMH gets out to one of jack’s games and literally all of them are wearing shirts that say “jack zimmermann is my father” and made signs like “go dad!!!!”
falcs: aw look jack ur kids are so supportive that’s beautiful (((:
jack: i have no friends in this world
and you know the falcs join in after a while of course
marty: hey dad can you pass me my water bottle
jack: you are literally older than me
tater: wow dad you playing so great, hoping i’m being big hockey star like you when i’m being grown-up
jack: go away tater i’m trying to eat my pb&j
kent somehow manages to get hold of a “jack zimmermann is my father” shirt
which marks the day that kent is also 100% banned from calling jack “dad”
bitty and kent bond over this and become best friends
it also marks the day that the jack “dad” zimmermann meme continues to spread from samwell to providence to fucking las vegas
everyone on the aces start calling him “dad”, too
aces player when jack checks him: what the fuck dad, i thought we were cool
aces goalie when jack scores: dad is that any way to treat your son
jack: *so dumbfounded he forgets how to play hockey for a minute*
the aces starting buying jack so much “#1 Hockey Dad” shit
when the aces win the cup one of them is like “i want to thank my dad, jack zimmermann, for always supporting me”
bitty is laughing so hard he falls off the couch
meanwhile jack is just like “he did not just…. say that…. on TV. bitty– bitty stop laughing you’re supposed to love me bitty please”
espn is confused. baby daddy!jack rumors arise. as does the new “Jack Zimmermann Is My Baby Daddy” meme (and shirts).
(bitty buys 3)
(shity has a crop top)
and if you think bob and alicia zimmermann are innocent during this whole strange phenomenon you’re very wrong
both of them totally get in on the baby daddy rumors. bob fuels the flames “well he did bring that one person over here that one time…” alicia starts asking when she’s going to get to meet her grandchildren, jack.
also bob wearing one of the “jack zimmermann is my father” shirts
jack: ok but dad you’re literally my dad ??? stop ??? why are you like this ???
every week there’s a new rumor over which hockey player jack zimmermann has a child with
SMH does their duty and makes sure to report to jack every time they find a new one
“hey jack why didn’t you tell us you had a kid with sid crosby bro that’s not a secret you keep from your bros”
the week it’s jack + tater, jack gets nearly simultaneous texts from ransom and kent like
“🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪 right in my BACK, zimmermann, i’ve never been so BETRAYED”
kent and ransom form a Personally Betrayed By Jack Zimmermann For Taking Our Man support group
high school au where every time katsuki yuuri walks past viktor nikiforov gasps and softly whispers ‘i’m gay’ to which his entire lunch table responds with a chorus of ‘we know’
‘i hope someday he’ll notice me,’ thinks yuuri wistfully, sitting three rows behind VIKTOR NIKIFOROV in calculus while viktor is mentally rehearsing his WILL YOU GO TO PROM WITH ME? invitation to katsuki yuuri, the love of his life, via interpretive dance
obviously (obviously), yuuri hears through the grapevine that viktor nikiforov has a crush and spends the rest of the term moping. little does he know that viktor is at this very moment drawing little hearts around the cyrillic for ‘yuri nikiforov’ in his english lit notebook. yuri plisetsky, a freshman, wishes he could transfer schools
this all comes to a head in the most Extra™ manner possible when viktor discovers to his horror that KATSUKI YUURI, THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE, has been despondent for a month thinking that viktor likes someone else. viktor immediately takes action to correct this misunderstanding and by action i mean he approaches yuuri during lunch period and by ‘approaches yuuri’ i mean he spots yuuri across the packed cafeteria and rushes towards him shouting ‘move i’m gay’ as the masses part before viktor like the red sea
‘yuuri, sweetheart, why don’t you just ask him out?’ says christophe sympathetically, trying to nudge True Love™ in the right direction and also help out his best friend viktor, whom christophe loves & supports & wants to see happy
‘i don’t think he knows i exist,’ yuuri admits
‘ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME,’ yuri plisetsky shouts, flinging his phone at the wall
also viktor definitely turns up at yuuri’s house in the middle of the night to throw pebbles at his bedroom window. that is a thing that happens
viktor shows up outside yuuri’s bedroom window with a boom box to sing l-o-v-e by nat king cole loudly and off key until yuuri runs outside to tackle him
yuuri brings viktor a slightly squashed flower he picked from the field on his way to class and viktor cries bc it’s so romantic even though yuuri literally walked up to him with the line ‘i found this on the ground and thought of you’
“Our men and women in uniform, our intelligence and homeland security professionals, and our citizens should feel secure in their knowledge that the critical decisions made by the NSC are free from political considerations. The American people deserve a national security policymaking process that inspires confidence, not cynicism,” said Murphy in a House floor speech.
CALL THIS WOMAN’S OFFICE AND SAY THANK YOU. ENCOURAGE HER TO PUSH HARD FOR THIS BILL. CALL YOUR LOCAL CONGRESSPEOPLE AND ASK THEM TO SPONSOR/SUPPORT IT!
so, the “pretending we’re married/together” trope is a great one but i think in chirrut and baze’s case, reversing it could end up in some of the funniest shenanigans ever
baze and chirrut, the most married couple to every marry - undercover and pretending they’re NOT married
maybe they’re trying to infiltrate the gang of an imperial stooge arms dealer on jedha, go in together and act as if they’ve never seen each other before, and bring down the operation from the inside. they’re working together because honestly, you need two people to do a job without even needing verbal communication, even when one of them is blind? you go to baze and chirrut
but asking them to act like strangers is impossible. they keep slipping and calling each other pet names. almost forgetting to sleep in separate bunks, and unable to sleep when they do so. freezing halfway through absent-minded displays of affection, before hamming it up and pushing each other away, “uhh what are you DOING” “GET OFF OF ME, YOU’RE NOT THAT IRRESISTIBLE” “SINCE WHEN!?”
having one of their normal arguments at a critical moment during an ambushed weapons drop when one of the marks roars in frustration, “would you two just FUCK and get it over with”
without thinking chirrut says, “that never works when he’s in a mood like this” and there’s a pregnant moment’s silence. then their contractor arrives and baze has never been more glad for a firefight to kick off
they agree never to take another job like it again. too damn difficult
like. I love theology discussions, but I love my brand of theology discussions. highlights include:
top 5 punishments from back when God was fun
Jesus and the disciples were a bunch of punk ass kids and that’s awesome
yes, I fully stand by the fact that I just called Jesus punk. Jesus was totally punk.
fuck every single author that portrays Satan as a revolutionary. Satan is a child throwing a temper tantrum and I have no patence for him
let me tell you every single detail of exactly how I think the Christ story would play out in modern day
reasons why I am crying over Judas Iscariot right now at this exact moment
the Bible may not have said Adam and Steve, but it definitely said David and Johnathon
the fall of humanity was inevitable and God’s fault for making us so damn curious. it would have happened with or without Eve. leave your sexism at the door.
I want to bring Peter to a modern Catholic Mass because he would recognize literally nothing about the church he started
angels are horrifying creatures and I want to have sex with one
