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This just in: Mayor Rob Ford against the Washington football team changing their name because "To me that’s ridiculous. What are we going to call the Cleveland Indians? The Cleveland aboriginals next?"
I think racists genuinely think that arguing “if we have to fix one racist thing, we’ll have to fix all the racist things” is a compelling argument. Racists: stupid, racist, incredibly lazy. Fuck’em.
this is an interesting point, although mathematically inaccurate: assuming the women:men, 0.78:1 ratio is correct, men make $1.28 for every woman’s $1
White people are still the ~standard so that’s not so revolutionary.
A white man makes $1.34 for every dollar that a black man makes
A white man makes $1.52 for every dollar that a latino man makes
A white man makes $1.24 for every dollar that a white woman makes
A white man makes $1.44 for every dollar that a black woman makes
A white man makes $1.67 for every dollar that a latina woman makes
That’s some bullshit right there.
We have never played Eau Claire, Wisconsin before and are pleasantly surprised by the show’s good reception. At this time we had our trusty burlesque tour bus, but not enough extra cash for motel rooms. We cast about for audience members willing to take us home, but the only serious offer comes from the guy dressed as a vampire, down to bonded fangs and red contacts. He’d come to the show direct from his job at a haunted house. I’ll call him Ezra.
Back at his house, a mopey blonde Goth materializes. She is never introduced, and the only thing anyone hears her say, several times, is “He’s not my boyfriend.” Meanwhile Ezra explains to Corey: “Just so you know, I’m going to be hitting it tonight.”
However! Would we like to smoke some shisha? He has a large hookah. This, and attention from the cuddly tabby cat, seem like excellent distractions from the surroundings. So much mold and dust have been tamped down into the carpet that it may actually be composting. Come back next spring and the carpet will have extruded another, smaller carpet. Both couches look as though they were rescued from someone else’s porch. There is an empty room upstairs where a housemate recently moved out, but no one opts to sleep there. Without carpet, the dust has nothing to glom onto and has tumbleweeded around the room, forming drifts along the air currents.
Now, what flavor of tobacco would we like? Strawberry, green apple, cherry? Our bassist walks inside just as Ezra holds up two packets and says “Crystal meth, or PCP?” He doesn’t stay long enough to find out that the actual choice was between orange and watermelon. It doesn’t help that Ezra is still wearing red contacts and doesn’t seem to have any trouble speaking with his fangs in. Green apple tobacco, we say.
There is only one bathroom, upstairs across the hall from Ezra’s room. Judging by the noises, both he and Not-My-Boyfriend have been replaced by Lovecraftian beings who are engaged in sexual congress while eating linguine. The house is ours.
What worries us about the bathroom is not that the linoleum is peeling at the corners. It’s the way its gently cupped edges hold crusty masses of matted hair, hair of a vague dark mousy color, hair drawn from the bodies of anyone who has inhabited this room in the past year. Including, we fear, us. Like the carpet downstairs, the hair mats are composting. Standing on the stairs in a stranger’s house at three in the morning, it all comes together: something deeper is afoot. Clearly the Old Ones are using this house, this hapless couple, as a channel to manifest one of their own from the beyond. Soon every microbe and dust mote and hairball will vibrate to the same eldritch frequency. The stairs will skew into non-Euclidean angles. The house will be engulfed in cold fire from the stars.
I shuffle into the bathroom. Ezra had mentioned that there was something wonky about the handle of the toilet. This turns out to mean that the handle is long gone. I flush the toilet by yanking gingerly at a length of chain that I pray remains connected to the rest of the mechanism. After all, there are people in line behind me. In keeping with the night’s theme, there is a novelty hand soap dispenser shaped like a brain. There is no soap.
The bassist and I, plus one or two other germophobes, plead hunger and lack of floor space. We flee to a gas station down the street and then to the bus.
Next morning, Not-My-Boyfriend has vanished and Ezra is back to a standard eye color. No Lovecraftian monsters, just a sleepy cat. We bid them farewell and press onward.
We’ve returned to this town several times since then. Ezra always comes to our show wearing a different outrageous ensemble, and we’re always happy to see him. He’ll offer us a place to stay, and we’ll make some excuse and politely decline.
Okay, but the thing is, all these love triangles we see aren’t actually love triangles. A triangle would be if character A likes character B likes character C likes character A.
None of this B can’t choose between A or C crap.
These are just love angles.
this has bothered me for years
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