#aliquote
Link
#Irpef, 3 #aliquote nella #riforma targata #Meloni #news #tfnews #cronaca #flattax #economia #italia #9marzo
0 notes
Text
"Do you have rice at home?"
What a weird question. Emmet turned to Briosa and nodded, an eyebrow crooked up to make a confused expression.
Why?, he signed.
She shrugged over the back of her seat: "You know," she replied vaguely, not answering, and added: "Do you have butter, shredded cheese?"
Emmet nodded again, more puzzled.
"Mushrooms?"
He shook his head. She clicked her tongue.
"Zucchini?"
That he did have, yes.
Briosa hummed loudly.
"Do you have broth cubes?" she asked. Her hand rose from beneath her chin and made a gesture as if holding something small between her index and thumb: "Like the uh, the ones that you put in boiling water and it makes stock broth?"
Did he have those?
He shook his head, struggling to find the right signs: Broth... Powder.
"Oh, that's still fine."
You... Need? Thing?, he asked. The vagueness was tiring him out more than the already long day had.
Briosa hummed for a long while.
"Are you hungry?" she didn't answer.
Emmet raised a hand to give an exhausted half-half gesture.
"Same," she replied - which was strange, because according to Briosa she was never hungry. She turned off the last computer still on: "Let's go."
Home sounded awful. Home sounded empty and soulless. Home sounded like Crustle yelling because he had missed feeding time by 1 minute and already trying to rip open the food cabinet to forcefully get his supper like a big cement baby, and that did make him chuckle a little and give him the strength to be on his way.
His head pulsed a bit. Mawile must have been as tired as him, because Briosa held her in her arms like a little kid as they walked down the street at a pace that was clearly not up to the shorter man's standards.
Emmet yawned. Goodness. So tired.
Briosa skipped a little at his side.
"There's some foods you absolutely cannot eat at dinner," she began unprompted, but her squeaky voice was a welcome distraction from the noisy quiet, "Not because there's some actual rule - technically there is but I call bullshit on that, it's all food - but because they're so heavy on the stomach that if you do eat them you'll be dreaming of green Raticate and pink Donphants like you got five shots of ketamine before bed."
His head snapped to face her with eyes wide from vague concern.
"I don't actually know if that's what ketamine does, I've never had it," she added, oblivious to his look.
"That's not how you pronounce that," Emmet managed to deadpan.
Mawile translated him sleepily.
Briosa turned to face him, the corners of her otherwise perfectly straight mouth pointed downwards and her forehead creased in puzzlement: "Pronounce what?"
"Ketamine," he replied - the last syllable making a 'meen' sound.
"Ketamine?" she repeated - the last sillable making a 'mine' sound, like the possessive pronoun or the place where miners work.
"Keh-tah-meen," he sounded out carefully so that she could easily read his lips.
Her brows furrowed over her crooked nose: "Ketameen?" she said correctly with a tinge of disgust. Being treated with a nod, she scoffed: "That sounds stupid. It's not a 'meen'-ending word, it sounds too stupid. It could be if it ended in 'a' but otherwise it sounds way too silly for me. I'm gonna keep calling it ketamine."
"That's wrong."
"Well, it sounds better."
Whatever makes her happy.
Emmet blinked heavily.
"Why are we talking about ketamine?" he muttered. The streetlights were too bright.
"We aren't," Briosa replied as soon as Mawile had translated him in sign. "I'm just trying to keep you awake and you derailed the conversation with what is the right way to pronounce ketamine."
"I am awake," he mumbled back.
"Are you?"
He showed her his tongue - immediately covering it with his hand. An awfully unprofessional thing to do: Briosa wasn't Elesa, even though her name ended with the same syllable, and as far as he knew they weren't quite considerable friends.
How had he even thought of confusing them enough for a mistake in etiquette like that? They were nothing alike, in looks and sound.
The substitute didn’t seem that bothered, proceding without a care: “Is it ok if I ask you for some food for my lads while I’m at yours? I’ll pay you back. It’s just because otherwise they’re gonna eat at 2 AM.”
Emmet nodded without really paying attention; only when the words swam from his ears into his brain and began being digested did he narrow his eyes and stop right where he stood.
He turned and looked behind himself.
Briosa only noticed his sudden stillness after a dozen or so steps, when Mawile pointed her back to the flabbergasted man in the middle of the street.
“You good?” she asked.
He pointed to the direction from which they had come silently, in deep thought. He blinked, then finally turned back to her.
“This isn’t the way to your house,” he noted.
“It’s not.”
The matter-of-fact tone didn't help.
"Why aren't you? On the way home?"
"I'm following you."
"Why are you following me?"
"I'm going to your house."
"You're coming to my house?"
"I'm coming to your house."
"Why are you coming to your- my house?"
"To cook you rice with zucchini."
"Why?"
"For dinner."
Emmet took a moment to pause and ruminate on all that.
"Did we agree on, on that? That you were... Coming to my house to cook?" he asked, because he genuinely didn't remember if they had.
"No."
Ah. Made sense.
A slow roundhouse kick that was probably meant as gentle (and while it did not send him hurtling across the street, it was still imbued with a discreet amount of strength that made him wobble on his unsteady knees) hit him with the back of the foot square in the ass and propelled him forward a little bit.
"Come on, let's go," the man (when had she gotten back at his side?) egged him on, much like a father dragging his noisy tired child out of the supermarket by an arm with as much vague kindness as possible: "You're sleeping on your feet like a Rapidash and you need to get some food in you."
He was too tired to complain or make a comment about that first part, and could not argue with the second.
He was really hungry.
Excadrill seemed perplexed when Briosa snuck under his arm as soon as the door was opened and made a beeline towards the kitchen, but Emmet just waved a hand, letting her know all was fine.
“She’s helping,” he told her with a yawn: “Said she’ll make dinner.”
The Steel mole looked back at the room the small vaguely antropomorphized Electrode had disappeared inside of, not very certain whether or not leaving someone like that in the vicinity of gas outlets, fire, sharpened blades and various more or less dangerous tools at her whims’ disposal; but she did consider, turning once more to the man trying to slip his shoes off while Archeops was nibbling at his wrist to shake him out of his tardiness, that was a risk she was willing to take if it meant her ward would eat before collapsing into uneasy sleep.
Footsteps stampeded heavily all the way back out of the kitchen, and Briosa appeared from the doorframe.
"I don't know where anything is," she said very flatly.
The light that came from the room hit the side of her frame, almost painting a yellow line where it landed, making her look something akin to incomprehensible in the dim sorroundings.
Emmet managed to blink slowly.
"I did find the refrigerated foods and knife and the tap water," she continued as if to reassure him she wasn't a complete cretin, "But I don't know where anything else is and I thought maybe I shouldn't slam open all the cabinets of some house that's not mine to find the rice jar."
Her boss raised a finger in the air to ask her to wait a moment; he stood slowly, heavily, and wobbled on his socked feet over to her.
He didn't have a rice jar, but he did have a box of rice, as well as a rice cooker. He provided Briosa with a pot, some oil and a plate at her request: she struggled to pour the grains into her small palm six, eight times, each fistiful dropped in the plate, cursing softly in what seemed like gibberish, and he watched her absolutely transfixed by the motion and sound similar to rain.
Something vaguely pinchy pulling at his leg snapped him out of it.
"Durant," he assumed as he croaked without looking, leaning down a big to pet lightly something vaguely metallic but not at all like his Bug's carapace, "I'll get dinner. Hold on."
A tongue clicked loudly while he reached for the pantry under the silverware that held the Pokémon food, and a large blackish mass delicately helped him get the bags out. Mawile's large mouth was a little clumsy, since the stem connecting it to the back of her head was quite thin, so Emmet ended up reciprocating her help to save her some of the strain.
Above himself he could hear the gas sparking into fire on the stove.
He nudged Briosa with an elbow to get her attention while remaining crouched - it was a little surreal to be looking up at her as he signed: Zucchini?
"Water," she replied. "I need to boil it. Also I think we forgot the broth powder."
Why boil?
"For the rice."
Sitting on his knees so he could peek over the counter, he pointed at the rice cooker; she looked at it, then turned back to him with a completely blank expression.
Rice cooker, he explained.
"Ah," she replied, and made no motion towards it.
For cooking rice, he continued.
"Yeah, I figured." Briosa checked around the station for a moment more: "Hm, yep, we missed the broth powder."
His brows furrowed: Why powder?
"For the rice. You gotta boil the rice in broth to cook it."
Emmet blinked: Rice cooker, he repeated.
Briosa blinked: "Hm," she noted.
Her boss pointed back to the utensil.
Use rice cooker.
"I don't know how to use that."
I teach you.
"That's gonna take longer than just letting me boil the rice," she waved her hand, her stoat fingers grazing his nose with a certain resolution to the movement that told him not to worry: "I know what I'm doing. You do what you gotta and try not to fall asleep. If you need me to do something or you gotta tell me something just punt your elbow on my shoulder."
Might hurt.
Briosa smiled, toothy grin not nearly as terrifying as usual: "You're a wet noodle when fully awake," she laughed, sounding like a repeatedly squeezed rubber Ducklett: "You won't hurt me."
Then she turned to wash the zucchini a bit in the sink, humming something. Mawile slowly dragged a bag out of the kitchen, struggling a bit; Emmet carefully placed the powdered broth next to the stove where it could be easily seen and raised the other end of the heavy sack to help the little Fairy bring it all the way over to the livingroom, others following behind them in mid air, held floating in the air by Chandelure's helpful Psychic - to keep it away from Crustle’s impatient grabby claws as well.
It took him a hot moment to realize he would have needed seven more bowls (the other twelve already fetched by their respective owners, thankfully); he then also realized that other than Mawile, the six guests were not actually there.
Briosa was chopping a zucchini very slowly and heavily when he came in to ask her for her team, which sat in their Pokéballs on their counter a little closer to the kitchen door. Emmet saw it fit to collect them without bothering her, noting distractedly that she seemed to be singing and deciding, against his will, to listen in.
“... Amministra-zio-ne, e liquida-zio-ne, rateizza-zio-ni anti-previden-zial - misura came-ra-le, calcolo dell’IR-PES, scarico dell’I-VA, misura cata-stal...”
The tempo of her chopping increased to a horrendous degree immediately after as she vocalized quietly; Emmet watched her cut through the vegetable with admirable technique and fury for a moment more before deciding he did not want to have her turn around a little too fast and get that blade flying right in his eye socket, and went right back to the livingroom where his brother’s Bug was starting to scream his little bulbous eyes off in hunger.
Knowing full well how big, bulky, destructive and aggressive ‘the lads’ could be in battle, he was somewhat surprised to see their politeness outside of their Pokéball when he first released them. Their sizes did cause bit of a stirrup, especially among those who hadn't seen them before, and Emolga's heavily deformed scarred grin certainly did not put anybody at ease - but Seismitoad croaked very gently, as a kind greeting, and Bisharp bowed in an incredibly courteous manner; Klinklang did seem a little more than uneasy at the sight of Heatmor, trying to scoot behind Excadrill and to drag the much more relaxed Durant with it, but the Fire type seemed just as scared of the hunk of metal as he hid behind the only lady of the team.
Speaking of Conkeldurr - the poor girl was trying her hardest to shrink in her shoulders as soon as she noticed where she was, eyeing co-workers and new curious faces with a sheepish kind of apprehension, large rough hands playing with one another.
"Hello," Emmet welcomed them too tired to stop Boldore from running into the newcomers repeatedly. "I live here. You eat here tonight."
Cryogonal made a horrifying sound not too far from Candelure' worst cough.
He gave her a thumbs up: "Yes."
It struck him very suddenly that roughly three out of six out of Briosa’s team effectively could have been considered full ass human people by size, and that while one of them was indeed an enormous bulbous frog he should have probably just let Conkeldurr and Bisharp sit on the couch.
It also struck him that Cryogonal (from whom Haxorus was inching away) was a pure Ice type.
“We don’t...” he muttered, turning around to check on the bags. He stared at them for a second or so before remembering the rest of his thought: “Have Ice type food. Food for Ice types. Uh...”
Mawile’s little hands moved quickly to tell him something.
He blinked a couple times, trying to understand before giving in, pointing at his hand: “I cannot - three finger sign, I’m not. Fluent.”
The little Steel Fairy nodded apologetically and chittered as she repeated, slower so that he could try the signs out himself to properly translate them: No problem. C eat nothing or anything. C eat wood if want. No worry.
The chittering was probably so that Cryogonal could listen in herself and assure Emmet of the veracity of the statement with another ghastly shriek.
Which she did.
That got her another thumbs up.
It took a while, to properly get everybody their bowl of dinner, and he had to be helped a couple of times - mostly by Mawile, who seemed the most well-versed in reading written symbols.
He was so, so tired.
In the end they had managed to split the food around more or less evenly: both Durant and Excadrill had graciously declined the portion of Steel-specific food that should have been mixed with their other ones so that Bisharp and Mawile could have it, since they had nothing for Dark or Fairy types, and Emolga was more than fine getting only Flying-specific (Archeops wasn’t necessarily keen on that, but very wisely had not argued with the rat that looked like he had been through a shredder and survived) since Eelektross’ size demanded quite a bowl for him; Seismitoad had at one point striked up a conversation with his fellow Ground type regarding, Emmet imagined, which types of dirt tasted better, whereas Heatmor was still snout-deep in his can of beans, apparently eating them one at a time to better savor them, as normal Fire-specific food didn’t account for his digestive troubles.
Even Cryogonal had managed to snack around without causing an excess in panic. Gurdurr seemed to be the only one a little embarassed, glancing every now and then to the much bigger Fighting type in the same manner an elementary-schooler glances at a substitute teacher he may or may not have a puppy crush on.
It was relatively quiet, in the end. A lot of crunching and munching, and unintelligible words, but it was quiet.
Emmet shook himself a little when small teeth gently bit down on his arm: Mawile looked up at him with a slight concern, her little hands pulling at his pants to make him sit down properly instead of squatting on his toes.
“Hm?” he asked her - or, well, tried to - as he felt his head strangely light.
The Fairy insisted he take a seat first before explaining: No sleep yet! Rice not ready. Ready soon. Stay awake.
“I am Emmet. I am awake.”
Before no.
“Yes I was.”
Mawile pointed at Boldore: Called you, she explained. Food stolen. You asleep! No answer. Crab say shut up.
At that, he looked up to the three Bugs.
Durant and Galvantula both followed his gaze: Crustle turned his bulbous eyes in two completely different directions to try and feign ignorance.
That clearly did not work, as a perfectly straight finger pointed right at him.
“Bad boy.” his trainer’s brother decreted. Crustle (who by law knew any word he could have said could have been used against him) chirped out an indignated whine in protest. “No. Give Boldore some of yours.”
Bugs cannot quite huff, though the crustacean definitely did try; with no other option, he haughtily shoved what still remained in his bowl to the block of rock he had stolen the lunch from in the first place, who made a crumbling sound similar to a piqued ‘thank you’ and very slowly helped himself to the rest of his supper while the other retreated in his cement house as though he were the offended party here.
Well, that was solved.
Emmet rubbed one eye with his hand to shake the sleep dust off of it.
A three-fingered paw pulled at his shirt again: “I am awake,” he reassured Mawile, “I am not falling asleep.”
She did not particularly care about his blatant lies at the moment - not as much as she cared about getting him off the floor, at least, as evidenced by how she tried to pull him onto the couch despite her obvious size disadvantage. Bisharp, noting her struggle, quickly put aside his own bowl and rose to his feet, metal arms outstretched to catch the man in them.
“No thanks,” Emmet stopped him. “Can do it myself.”
Alright, he thought, time to stand up.
After a whole minute he had not moved an inch.
Bisharp, with as extreme a tenderness as a creature composed partially by sawblades could muster, gently slipped his hands under Emmet’s arms, lifted him into the air as one might lift a cat, and sat him on the couch.
“Thanks.” the human peeped.
Seeing the Dark type bow a little in response while Archeops blatantly laughed at him gave him some weird new kind of mortification to feel.
Maybe if he focused on the incomprehensible sounds somewhat reminscent of words coming from the kitchen, he would manage to trick himself into not thinking about having had to be picked up like a bag of cement because his joints didn’t respond.
From the door connecting the two rooms he could see Briosa perfectly still before the stove: a vacant look seemed to dwell in her eyes as her lips moved quickly, and perhaps most concerningly she was holding a kitchen knife in her right hand, bits and pieces of zucchini still stuck to the blade, with a grip that could have concievably crushed a piece of wood into shavings or caused a small enough pumpkin to explode under the pressure.
Not a very reassuring sight.
But it did immediately cancel his embarassment.
“... E il carica-to-re svuo-te-rà, sul-le aliquote della-li-bertà...”
Very suddenly, she began banging her fists against her hips in asynchrony, large knife very much still grasped tight in her palm, as if her body was a drumset and she were playing it after getting a dose of pure sugar injected in her veins.
“Ed il so-cio scompa-ri-rà, sul-le aliquote della-li-bertà...” she continued unperturbed by neither her own choreography nor the possibility of accidentally stabbing herself for that matter.
The rest of the chorus turned a little garbled from her furious headbanging, the movement so violent and so spread out through her entire frame (her torso and pelvis were oscillating in tandem back and forth to lend more strength to the motion, making her look a little like one of those bird-shaped toys that are constantly quickly dipping their beaks in the water, rising out of it, then diving back in for another sip) that it made him fear for a moment she would slam her head on the counter and either knock herself out or destroy it completely, with a higher chance of the latter.
Emmet turned back to Mawile, who had climbed the couch to sit next to him.
“She is always like this?”
She followed his finger with her gaze as he pointed to the kitchen.
Then she nodded.
“Man.”
No like silence, the Fairy explained.
"Aaah. So she talks."
The little beast waited a moment, then waved a hand in the air in a sort-of-yes-sort-of-no kind of gesture: Talk, no really. No hear voice. Feel mouth move, remember how voice sound. But no hear.
Emmet tilted his head: "She can't hear her own voice?"
Mawile nodded.
He clicked his tongue in thoughtful aknowledgement and blinked.
That was such a weird concept, not being able to hear yourself. It was the sort of obvious thing one never ponders on at all: so he had always assumed she could, without really thinking about it enough to question whether or not that was possible. And even if he had found himself reflecting on it in a sudden burst of curiosity, he would have probably still rationalized that she could, maybe by feeling the vibrations in her neck as she spoke.
But that would have meant keeping her hands on her throat all the time, he reasoned, and it would have been really bothersome for someone as prone to action as she was.
He wondered, suddenly, if she knew how squeaky she sounded.
Probably not.
"Could she hear herself?" he asked. "Somehow?"
Yes!, Mawile nodded enthusiastically.
Emmet blinked again. From what she had told him, he hadn't expected that could have been a possibility.
Headphone! Microphone!, the Fairy continued without needing any prompting. Ear implant! But no wear for long. Hurt ear. Or yell!
"Yell?"
If loud enough! Like before!
Did that mean she had been yelling?
This whole time?
Oh, Emmet suddenly thought: yes, actually, she must have been. The kitchen was a room that in some strange way never let any noise escape it; no matter how much the oil could have sizzled or how agonizingly the blender could have screamed, their agony remained hushed into silence between those walls. It was very nice, by all means - he still remembered having to retreat in his closet to escape the noise of his uncle in the kitchen so it couldn’t make him feel like there were Stunfisks flapping around in his veins - but it brought along the slight side-effect that if they had to set a timer that wasn't the oven's (which turned the machine off as soon as it was done) they would have to put it in the livingroom, or they'd never hear it.
For him to be able to listen to her, Briosa must have been belting the hell out of her incomprehensible song like tomorrow wasn't planning on being a thing.
“Verrry loud,” he commented, slowly.
Mawile nodded, whirring her tongue to imitate him as she signed: Verrry loud.
Some minor inconvenience must have happened, because Briosa shouted something irritated, possibly profanity of some kind.
Emmet leaned his head on the back pillows.
Now she was singing again.
“Al-me-no-fi-no-a-do-mat-ti-na-ti-pro-me - tto-che, sarò la fa-ccia, di-cui-hai-più bisogno...”
This one was much calmer. More melodic. The way she pronounced the words had a strange cadence, quick yet slow - it was hard to explain. He blinked, feeling drowsy all the way into his marrow.
“Me-glio-non-di-re-nien-te-aspet-tando-il-mat-ti-no, sor-rido, se-pen-so-al-no-me-che-tu mi-darai do-ma-ni...”
Huh. This verse had a completely different rhythm. Weird.
Maybe the author was part of some avantgarde musical genre he didn’t know.
He felt something lukewarm pulling his forehead back and realized his eyes were closed. When had that happened? Chandelure chimed at him something that sounded like ‘don’t fall asleep yet, you still have to eat’.
Ah.
So it wasn’t the song’s fault for having different-sounding verses.
He mouthed that he wasn’t asleep, voice barely leaving his mouth. He hadn’t even noticed he’d dozed off.
“... che, orati-mangida-den, tro, piccolo-pianeta-spen, to, come-una bri-ciolaal-ven-toe-un-bu-co-ne-roe-un-oc-chio-blu,” Briosa was continuing.
He wondered how much of it he’d missed.
“E, so-no-po-co-più-di-un-jamais-vu, tra tutte queste persone, nella-mia-testa-io-gioco-a-tabù, perdo-se-dico-il tuo no - me...”
A pinch at his leg.
Ow, he murmured, furrowing his brow; Durant chittered worriedly at him, nudging him to spur him into action. His eyelids felt horribly sandy against his sclera as he rubbed them with as much vigor as possible to shake any tiredness away.
He was not tired. He was not sleeping.
His knees popped when he straightened them to tense his legs.
He was not about to fall into a nap again.
“Io ti terrò la mano, tu tienimi l’anima...”
He bent down to grasp his feet.
“E pure se non sai chi sono non lasciarla mai...”
Maybe, if he went to check on Briosa, he would avoid knocking himself out on the couch for the next five hours.
He stood as though he were made of lead.
Following her saccharine voice, he slowly began wobbling towards the kitchen.
“Ve - di, ci sono, dei-ri, cordi, che-mi de - vi, sei grande, ma-ti, chiamo-an, cora ba - by,” (oh, a word he recognized) “Ho gl’occhi rossi ma non te ne accorgi, ti guardo mentre dormi, ma solo ieri-”
Her nose stuck out so much when you looked at her from the side. It jutted out from her forehead out of nowhere, somewhere a little above her eyes and almost right below her eyebrows, and then it came right down like a straight wall. It wasn’t perfectly straight, because there was a dent where it had likely been broken and incorrectly healed; so more than a wall it was like a waterfall interrupted in the middle by a rock. Despite the contrast with the rest of her more graceful features, it fit everything about her like a glove. Emmet’s nose showed no signs of harm and pointed outwards instead, like half the head of an arrow. What weird things to notice in the split second between two verses of a hook.
“-C’e-ri, nei giorni ne-ri, quelli che piove troppo fo-rte per stare in pie-di,” she sang: “E fottevamo anche la morte volando legge-ri, m’hai chiesto dimmi cosa te-mi, in che cosa cre-di, la mia risposta sei tu.”
She hummed loudly, thin lips pursed tight, tilting her head with the melody.
“La mia risposta sei tu...” she repeated while stirring the mass of rice in what little broth was left.
Emmet stared.
She had a nice voice.
When she turned to the door - maybe to call for him - she had a startle and flattened herself closer to the floor, little eyes blown wide and hand grasping the counter. She looked like she had a heart attack.
They simply stared at each other for a moment, before Emmet remembered she couldn’t have heard him come in and likely had shat her pants.
Whoops.
Briosa was quicker: “Hello!” she grinned apologetically. “I was really really loud, wasn’t I.”
Her boss shook his head, smiling back: No problem. You sing nice.
Expression losing any mortification, she flipped her wooden spoon to tap her chin with it a few times as though she were thanking a deeply captivated audience - giving a ‘youch’ and a ‘porca puttana bastarda’ when the heat carried by the utensil scalded her a little.
He wasn’t sure what that second thing meant, but it made him chuckle.
Briosa turned back to the pot and twisted her mouth: “Ok, since it’s almost ready, do you want me to put...” she rocked in place for a moment, hand waving a little, “A sensible person’s idea of a good amount of cheese and butter, or my idea of a good amount of cheese and butter?”
Second, he signed.
“Gotcha.” and she got her big knife back in hand and grabbed the brick of definitely softer butter like she was going to squeeze it between her fingers and annihilate it completely: “Drown it in dairy it is.”
Emmet wheezed weakly.
He fetched a couple plates and forks to set on the table, slowly, so slowly. By the time he found the glasses and started checking for a bottle that still had some water before pikcing one and putting in the sink to fill it, the rice had completely dried up, and Briosa was stirring it with butter and shredded cheese with such a focused gaze and furiously quick hand that an inattentive onlooker might have thought she was busy making merengues instead.
(They had tried exactly once, and in the end they’d both ended up with aching wrists and a bunch of half whipped egg clears despite their best efforts. In the end they had made sweet white omelettes that weren’t as bad as they could have turned out to be.)
“You wanna lick the spoon?”
Before he could even register the question he had already clamped the wooden utensil in his mouth.
Clearly the correct course of action: that tasted great.
Must have been all the cheese.
Now he was salivating.
“This’ll kill you,” Briosa assured him with a calm tone. “If you’re not gonna be sleeping after this I might have to punch a hole in your head.”
He gave her thumbs up. A good last meal either way.
They ate in silence, fairly quickly. Had he really not noticed how hungry he was up until now? Dragons. He shouldn’t skip meals. But maybe it was just because this rice specifically tasted so good. Why, he couldn’t really tell. It was just rice and zucchini. Drowned in dairy, but still rice and zucchini. It wasn’t even that hard to make. He probably could have made it on his own.
Maybe it was because he’d fasted the whole day.
He stood and fetched a second portion. Briosa was eyeing the pot like a Braviary waiting for the right moment to strike a Basculin.
When he motioned for her to hand him her plate she shook her head: “I’m not hungry,” she claimed, though he never quite believed her when she said that, even when she sounded so honest - maybe she was trying to convince herself, but as to why he couldn’t tell, “It’s just gluttony. Keep that in a tupper or something, I made a lot for that especially. And!”
Her index waved a little in the air, possibly to distract her boss from how she was standing to wash her dish and everything before he might object: “And, when you warm it, do it in a pan. With some oil. Gets all crunchy like popcorn. Good shit, let me tell you.”
Emmet nodded. You know a lot, he signed back once both his hands were free.
“My dad always fries his rice instead of putting it in the microwave.”
I see. It was very good.
She smiled at him weirdly.
“You gotta do it like this,” and she signed ‘very’ back at him - though her index and middle fingers paused for a moment after parting, dipping just a second towards the floor before she finished the sign.
He tilted his head: he’d been fairly sure he’d learned how to sign that correctly. Nevertheless, he imitated her.
“There you go!” she grinned. “It’s too weird when you say it with no gemination.”
Twin?, he asked, even more confused.
She spelled the word quickly: “Gemination - doubling letters in a word to make a longer or stronger sound. Like rubble or throttle or bottle. In this case it’s over-gemination because no letter in ‘very’ is doubled but that doesn’t matter. You geminate it. It doesn’t feel right if you don’t.”
How do you know?
“Know what?”
Gemination.
“Ah. Your mouth.”
He pointed at it, surprised. It likely looked a little comical, since he had taken a rather big bite at that moment.
Briosa smiled a little wider: he watched her clearly mouth the word twice, slowly.
“The eh sound opens it a little wider than the ee sound,” she explained, and mouthed it again. “The R by itself has a shwah sound, a sort of ‘uh’ - that’s really weak, so it gets replaced easily by a different one. If you stall it after an eh sound, the lips remain in a similar position, and you can see how they flatten more once the ee sound comes along.”
He looked more carefully as she repeated the motion once more before gulping down his last forkful and imitating her, trying to feel the sounds on his lips. Huh! That was true. He could tell the different shapes made by the vowels. Curious.
Verrry interesting, he signed. The stalling made her grin. Where did you learn?
“Phonetics class in college I had to take to meet the right amount of credits. I actually chose it mostly because the professor was deaf too, so.”
Emmet clicked his tongue, understanding; Briosa clicked it back in affirmation.
Who knows where they’d picked that up from.
He leaned his strangely heavy head on his crossed arms, splaying himself on the table with a sigh. He felt comfortably warm, at ease; he grumbled a protest when a smaller hand slipped his empty plate and dirty silverware away to wash it in the sink, but didn’t quite manage to coax himself to stand up fast enough to stop her from doing his dishes. He did manage to seize the still half full pot before her, emptying its contents into a glass container and managing to hold onto it long enough to squirt some dishsoap in it - not to clean it, because Briosa twisted his arm behind his back without breaking a sweat (without hurting him either) forcing him to hand it over to her.
You should not clean, he pouted once he had both his hands free again: My house. I’m host. You’re guest. I clean.
“I invited myself over though.”
And cooked.
“And ate also.” and she kicked his hip gently to get him out of the kitchen: “Get your pijamas on while I’m busy, you’re going straight to bed once I’m done.”
You’re not my dad.
She stared directly into his eyes with a face so blank it almost made him laugh.
“Do you want me to adopt you,” she said like it was a threat.
Emmet’s entire body began shaking to contain a giggle. He shook his head.
“Then wash your teeth and put on your jammies.”
He wheezed in her face.
She snorted back.
“But seriously,” she chuckled, “Go get changed. The rice is gonna hit soon and you’re not gonna be able to move a muscle for the next three hours otherwise.”
Alright, fair.
He didn’t notice it, but the Pokémon chatting about in the livingroom were all greatly relieved to see him stumble into his room giggling to himself like a kid.
Flannel felt good on his arms. It was soft, warm, loose... It seemed like forever since he had last worn those pijamas. They were awfully comfortable. He had to make an effort to change into them more often when he came back home. They were much better than a dirty button up and dress pants.
(He hadn’t called before eating. He should have called now.)
(One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.)
“If you’re naked stick out your leg!”
The sound of Briosa’s voice shouting from the corridor made him almost throw the Xtransceiver into high heaven, fumbling to catch it so that it didn’t shatter on the floor and hastily closing the call before she could hear the ringing and ask about it.
The fact that she was deaf dawned on him a second too late, but that was done.
(And he hadn’t replied, anyways.)
He settled the gadget on the nightstand, trying to pull himself out of the spiral he’d almost been sucked in; without even thinking he proceeded to stick his leg out through the doorway.
There was a beat of silence; then: “I said naked!”
Emmet cawed out a laugh.
His head peeked through as well. Briosa looked at him, face plain, coat in her arms and hat in hand.
“I thought you’d passed out,” she noted.
Nope, he signed back. Still awake.
“Not for long!”
Sounds evil.
Her brows furrowed: “What’s that mean?”
You sound like you’ll knock me out.
She thought it over a moment before squeaking a chuckle.
It would be verrry easy, he shrugged.
“It would!”
He accompanied her back to the livingroom. The various bags of food had been transported away, the bowls had disappeared back into their cupboard, Crustle still refused to grace the room with his handsome face, and Gurdurr hurriedly scuttled away from Conkeldurr despite having barely come close enough to graze her, deathly embarassed by his crush and round nose redder than usual; Cryogonal shrieked something in his general direction as greeting.
He gave her thumbs up.
“Alright my beautiful death machines,” Briosa called with a tone so affectionate it felt as though her mouth was dripping cotton candy: “We’re goin’ back home! Time for the circus trick.”
She patted her belt a few times, looking for her set of Pokéball. Emmet helpfully pointed them to her from where he’d laid them on the table; Mawile took that as an opportunity to gently bite her shirt as she collected the spheres to rapidly sign something at her and direct her attention over to Heatmor, who was fidgeting rather nervously with his yellow claws.
Once he had her undivided attention, he pulled the sweetest pair of Baby-Doll Eyes he could muster, wiggling demurely as though whining.
Briosa smiled: “Go on, give her a snuggle,” she allowed.
In a second the Fire type wrapped Durant in a tight hug, rubbing his snout on her with a concert of thrilled chirps; the Steel Bug for her part clacked her mandibles rather happily as though to remind him they were going to see each other tomorrow at work anyways.
The beasts who hadn’t visited the station in quite some time eyed the exchange with genuinely dumbfounded gazes.
It probably felt a little like beholding a glitch in nature itself.
A brief whistle tore Heatmor from his friend; he waved her bye one last time before a reddish ray sucked him right back into one of the six balls being juggled by his trainer, followed suit by each of his associates while Mawile latched herself onto her aidee’s elbow.
Emmet followed the trajectory of the flying spheres without trying to keep up with their increasing speed, head heavier than lead lolling back and forth until all six were caught with a fluid graceful motion between the fingers of the Substitute, the little Fairy swinging from her arm leaping onto her head and landing perfectly balanced - thanks to her main maw acting as counterweight - right on her buzzed mousy hair with a little flourish, like an olimpic gymnast.
He weakly waved his hands in a silent applause. Mawile bowed deeply, proud; Briosa curtsied and thanked him by grazing all ten fingertips to her chin.
Must teach me, he signed as he forgot to stifle a yawn.
“Maybe when you’re not falling asleep on your feet.”
Agreed.
Galvantula gently nuzzled her leg.
“Ye, ye, I’m leaving him to y’all now,” she assured the Bug. She saluted the rest of the beasts as she slipped her coat back on hurriedly and helped her aide back down into one of her pockets: “Thank you for not mauling me!”
A chorus of noises she couldn’t hear bid her farewell.
Socked feet accompanied her to the door. Emmet stalled for a moment before opening it; his fingers drummed on the knob under eyes of rotten green waiting patiently for him to send them on their way.
Instead he turned towards her, hands a little sluggish as he signed: Thank you. For rice. And company. Elesa does this, usually. When she can.
“That’s nice to know.” Briosa noted.
Not always. She comes, not always. I mean that. Always nice, when she comes. But doesn’t come always.
“Yeah, I imagined you meant that.”
Sorry. Verrry tired.
“I can see that.”
I am... Bothering?
“Not at all! You just kinda look like you’re melting. You should go sleep.”
Will do.
Briosa smiled. It was the most angular smile he’d seen on her yet, and it fit her like a glove. It made him think like the smile that made Elesa’s eyes too small and her face too round. It was sweet.
“Next time I’ll make you a soup,” she said. “And if I remember them I’ll sing you some songs from old cartoons to keep you awake.”
He liked the idea of a next time.
He gave her an ok; she tilted her hat at him.
“Goodnight.”
Goodnight.
Then he closed the door behind her; tucked his and his brother’s partners to bed; turned off the lights; crawled under the covers.
He slept well.
#pokémon#submas emmet#too many pokemon to tag... its both the twins teams + briosas as well#briosa pokemon#random writing#MAN this has been in my wips for a LONG while idk how or why i powered through tonight to finish it but im glad#feat. Sulle Aliquote Della Libertà (by nanowar of steel) and Ricordi (by pinguini tattici nucleari) aka the songs briosa sings#ricordi is such a submas song to me (stripped of any romantic undertone in there)#its written from the persective of someone whose loved one suffers from alzheimer#and the verses briosa sings are the ones that i feel are most connected to ingo and emmets situation#(tho first one is more abt elesa n briosa being there for emmet - 'at least until tomorrow morning i promise ill be the face you need most')#theyre written weirdly bc i was trying to recreate the songs rhythm btw you should look for the proper lyrics. its a great song trust me#sulle aliquote della libertà is there only because of the dramatic comedic timing#it has no special meaning its a song abt how to commit tax evasion gdhsgdhjsgaj#also! the spoon thing. my mom always asks if someone wants to lick the spoon/licks it herself after she makes rice. its tastey#i NEED to reiterate that briosa doesnt Know she and emmet are friends at this point#so in her mind shes doing this for her boss who shes come to know better and enjoy and who she knows is Going Through It#elesa asked her to look after him as in 'make sure he doesnt work himself to death'#and briosa went 'got it chief' and overachieved spectacularly#emmet: mmm. briosa never says im her friend. maybe she thinks its obvious#briosa (who made him dinner n kept him company n ensured he took care of himself): this is a normal boss-employee dynamic
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
Lusty teen peeing and playing with piss
eu fodendo essa delicia casada marido filmando
Agustina y Emiliano
Thot in Texas - Squirtin Grandma Creampie Granny and Make Her Squirt
Step Sister Gets Hard Fucked By Brother on Her Birthday
Horny teen gets naked on the grass and wait for an old dude
She takes hardcore pussy and extreme anal banging
Jayden Jaymes shows off her hot ass & fucks a lucky stud!
Real sex of desi college students
White Thot Loves Long Skinny Dick
#scattergun#skywriters#Brixey#deflux#dropsywort#Mullane#fore-vouched#heartinesses#SLAM#contains#Brynmawr#fishnet#stow-boating#signalize#alethiologist#snotty#aliquots#concomitate#tictocs#fields
0 notes
Text
Flat tax: a chi conviene e come funziona la riforma voluta dal centrodestra
La proposta di riformare il sistema delle aliquote, anzi di unificarlo, rivoluzionerebbe il sistema contributivo, almeno nella sostanza. In pratica la stessa percentuale di tasse che paga chi guadagna 1.000 euro, la pagherebbe anche chi ne guadagna 500.000.
Le attuali aliquote Inps prevedono che in base all’aumento dei guadagni ci sia una percentuale crescente, cioè chi guadagna di più paga una…
View On WordPress
#aliquote tasse#Berlusconi#centrodestra#flat tax#Giorgio Consolandi#INPS#meloni#redditi poveri#ricchi#Salvini#tassa piatta#tassazione
0 notes
Text
-----
Perfetto, prima si diceva che i politici tasserebbero pure l'aria se potessero.
Ci stanno riuscendo determinando la quota di CO2 immessa procapite.
Scaglioni di tasse per consumo di acqua e aria con aliquote diverse e la relativa quota di CO2 emessa. Arriveranno a questo.
Mala tempora currunt.
83 notes
·
View notes
Text
It’s almost half past eight when the door opens and breaks Max’s focus.
Usually, people don’t come into this room. It’s too noisy, too hot when it isn’t completely freezing outside.
Lewis comes by occasionally, uses the nanodrop for his DNA samples. But his project is on the tail-end, and he’s too deep in the writing phase to even be on the lab cleaning rota. Max knows he was meant to stay, that Toto wanted to build a part of the group around him and his expertise. But funding runs out quickly; what was hot five years ago, may as well be old news today.
But it’s Daniel who pokes his head in, smile wide as he spots Max in the corner.
“There you are, Maxy.” He says, pushes the chair closer to Max before sitting down. “Alex said you’d left, but your stuff was still in the office, so.”
He doesn’t have a lab coat on, but always he doesn’t wear it. Max doesn’t know still if it’s an Australian thing, or because he is a pharmacist maybe, but also Oscar does it.
“But I have my gloves on today, Maxy.” Daniel said yesterday when Max had commented on it, trying not to stare at the lovely white tee shirt Daniel had been wearing. He wiggled his fingers as a tease, the bright pink gloves Seb had brought as a joke. He would have to at least be a large to escape the bright blue nitrile hell Max and the other mediums were saddled with. “Don’t get used to it though, just Oscar’s apparently shit at aliquoting piss I’ve learnt.”
“So what are we doing tonight, Max?” Daniel asks now. He is sitting on the chair the wrong way; elbows on the back of it with his chin in his hand. He couldn’t sit like that, Max thinks, at least not for very long. Not like Daniel can, like he does in their shared meetings when Christian and Zak remember they have a grant together.
“The university said the power would be out for a while tomorrow, so I of course have to shut down the MS,” Max says, huffs when he has to turn back to the computer.
The email had come Wednesday night, barely any information except for the notice of a power outage within eighty hours. Max had used the reply-all function to tell them to go suck an egg, turned off his phone and gone for a run.
Checo should of course be the one to do this, senior to Max in every way but one. But last time Sergio had been in charge of shutting down the systems, Max had come in the next day unable to complete calibration, and they had to replace two different parts.
It’s a new instrument too, and always he can be – the mass spectrometer can be a bit fussy when you have to shut it down. But Max has been working with mass spec since undergrad, was the second author on GP’s Nature Communications paper. Had come to Christian’s lab for this very instrument, so he of course knows it best.
“Always they say we are a part of a core facility, and still, they do this,” Max says. He’s already discussed it with GP and Jonathan how it isn’t okay, with the facility manager who hasn’t touched probably a mass spectrometer in his life.
Daniel also hasn’t worked with MS by himself before, but he would of course understand, would know it isn’t okay to do this.
“Was the Friday bar alright?” Max asks. He had gone too for a bit, shared the last dregs of gin with Charles, pouring the tonic directly into the bottle to get the most of it. “George said he made a quiz, but to me it sounded very boring. There was a part, I think, where you had to spell out chemicals’ names.”
Daniel laughs, and it sounds so loud in their tiny room for two. Daniel has of course always had a very lovely laugh, but it sounds even better like this. The two of them only. Max likes it like that the best.
“Yeah ah, George kinda went to town on the goon sack instead,” he says. “I reckon Alex had to carry him home.”
“George drank the wine?” Max asks. “No! But that is so old, it’s been in the fridge since Liam graduated.”
“He went for the sangria too, it wasn’t even good fresh.”
“Always George should not be in charge of this, of drinking and parties,” Max says, remembers the nightmare his grad party had been. “You are of course very good at it, how to make it a good night.”
“You think so?” Daniel says, soft, hesitant. Max looks up from the instrument with a frown, touches Daniel’s hand where it’s been hovering in the air, like he didn’t know if he could touch him. Always he can. Max should tell him this, maybe.
“Yes, Daniel.”
“Then, would you go somewhere with me tonight?” He asks, closes his hand around Max’s. It’s different to work like this, one-handed and typing slow. But Max doesn’t want to pull away, keeps his hand in the warmth of Daniel’s.
“I think I am too tired for the club, Daniel.” Max says softly. He has gone before, after the Friday bar. But he cannot do it tonight, his body is too tired. He doesn’t think he would survive if he did, considers already if he should take the bus home and leave his bike behind.
But to his surprise, Daniel laughs, squeezes their hands together. “Nah, I was thinking we could maybe go get some food? You said you’ve been craving like, tacos, and I’ve found a place down by one of the bridges that I thought we could try. If you wanna, of course.”
Daniel has only been in the city for five months, but already he has made friends in high places, in the low ones too.
“I would love to, but always I don’t know how -“
“Hey, we’ll just leave whenever you’re done, no rush, Maxy.” Daniel says.
Max nods, “Then it of course sounds very lovely. It will not be that much longer, I think.”
“I’ll be here,” Daniel says softly.
He pulls his hand from Max’s, the loss of touch, of warmth is sudden, but Max knew it would happen. But Daniel doesn’t leave.
He doesn’t go back to the office to work on the paper Max knows has to be sent back with major revisions, doesn’t go over the postdoc application Zak isn’t supposed to know about. He pulls out his phone instead, plays one of those indie rock albums that Max has come to like.
It’s very nice, Max thinks, his own earphones still dead in his ears.
The MS does finally shut down, leaves the room almost quiet except for the music.
They’re in the basement to get their bikes, Daniel will go in front because he knows where they’re going. He wears a helmet now too, one of those fancy Hövding airbags that will inflate if he crashes.
“So I won’t mess up my hair, baby,” he had said, the collar loose around his neck when he came into the office to show it off. Max doesn’t care, thinks he looked cute in Max’s borrowed helmet, but this is good also.
“Hey Maxy,” Daniel says now, one leg swung over the bike. “Would it be cool with you if this was a date instead?”
Max almost stumbles over the pedals, but he doesn’t, corrects himself so he’s upright and staring at Daniel, who watches him back almost shyly.
“It would of course be very lovely, I think, if this was a date,” he says, faint.
Daniel's lips stretch into a wide grin, and Max cannot help but return it.
“Cool, let’s do that then.”
123 notes
·
View notes
Text
Ogni volta che si parla di riforma fiscale salta fuori che la sx e' un Dracula che dissangua i contribuenti mentre la dx e' una cornucopia da cui escono monete d'oro per tutti. Nessuno di quel campo politico sa rispondere con proposte incisive ma lo fa sempre con argomenti stantii, come la progressivita' delle imposte e la lotta all'evasione fiscale ma sempre rimanendo nelle nebbiose terre di Odino. Un enorme fumo senza un pizzico di arrosto. Allora provo a consigliare qualcosa di molto concreto e di sicuro successo per le casse dello Stato nella speranza che qualcuno raccolga l'idea..
Aliquote progressive (cosi si rispetta la Costituzione) a partire dal 15% per i redditi fino a 30mila ( A differenza del 27 attuale) , 20% da 30a50 mila, 30% per i redditi sopra quella soglia.
Come si vede, un taglio fiscale doppio rispetto a quanto propone la dx con la sua flat-tax al 20%. Poi, pero', le misure per rendere veramente equo a reale tra tutti i cittadini questo poderoso taglio fiscale:
- Uso del contante fino a 100 euro, per il resto, obbligo di carta o assegno.
-Obbigo per le banche di mettere a disposizione di Agenzia Entrate i loro archivi e trasmettere comunicazioni trimestrali dei movimenti bancari di tutti i conto/corrente.
- abolizione del sostituto d'imposta. Anche i dipendenti pagheranno le tasse con la dichiarazione dei redditi.
- pene senza condizionale o benefici di legge per gli evasori sopra i 20mila euro di imposte (irpef e iva).
-istituzione di una banca dati nazionale dove si preveda l'inserimento debitorio dei cittadini che non pagano tasse o imposte pubbliche e che faccia divieto a certi esercenti commerciali ( concessionari, oreficerie, agenzie viaggi, compagnie aeree e ogni sorta di bene durevole) vendere a chi risulta in questa banca dati, fino ad estinguimento del debito maturato. Sei in difficolta' e non paghi? Bene, lo Stato si fa carico per agevolare il pagamento, anche rateizzandolo per anni ma non e' possibile vedere gente che deve dare migliaia di euro allo Stato e si compra il Suv o prenota vacanze alle Maldive, tanto sa che non rischia praticamente niente.
Prova a dire queste cose, sx del cavolo!! Il popolo ti gira le spalle su queste proposte? Forse..ma nessuno potra' dirti che sei un "vampiro", sempre pronto a mettere le mani nelle tasche degli italiani e bastera' a prendere consapevolezza che il problema degli italiani non e' la pressione fiscale ma proprio il concetto di pagare tasse. Un popolo che vuole tutto senza voler dare niente. Insomma, un popolo di merda ( quest' ultima ipotesi mi convince piu' delle altre).
@ilpianistasultetto
62 notes
·
View notes
Text
(the following is written from a US Nationalist perspective—“lax safety standards endanger the US' nuclear stockpile and thus our National Security!” etc. Still, this describes some remarkable events)
Technicians at the government's Los Alamos National Laboratory settled on what seemed like a surefire way to win praise from their bosses in August 2011: In a hi-tech testing and manufacturing building pivotal to sustaining America's nuclear arsenal, they gathered eight rods painstakingly crafted out of plutonium, and positioned them side-by-side on a table to photograph how nice they looked.
At many jobs, this would be innocent bragging. But plutonium is the unstable, radioactive, man-made fuel of a nuclear explosion, and it isn't amenable to showboating. When too much is put in one place, it becomes "critical" and begins to fission uncontrollably, spontaneously sparking a nuclear chain reaction, which releases energy and generates a deadly burst of radiation.
The resulting blue glow — known as Cherenkov radiation — has accidentally and abruptly flashed at least 60 times since the dawn of the nuclear age, signaling an instantaneous nuclear charge and causing a total of 21 agonizing deaths. So keeping bits of plutonium far apart is one of the bedrock rules that those working on the nuclear arsenal are supposed to follow to prevent workplace accidents. It's Physics 101 for nuclear scientists, but has sometimes been ignored at Los Alamos.
As luck had it that August day, a supervisor returned from her lunch break, noticed the dangerous configuration, and ordered a technician to move the rods apart. But in so doing, she violated safety rules calling for a swift evacuation of all personnel in "criticality" events, because bodies — and even hands — can reflect and slow the neutrons emitted by plutonium, increasing the likelihood of a nuclear chain reaction. A more senior lab official instead improperly decided that others in the room should keep working, according to a witness and an Energy Department report describing the incident.
Eight rods of plutonium within inches — had a few more rods been placed nearby it would have triggered a disaster.
(Los Alamos National Laboratory/U.S. Department of Energy)
[...]
In 2005, shortly before the profit-making firms wrested majority control of the laboratory from the University of California, the lab's "nuclear criticality safety program did not meet many of the" nuclear industry's standards, according to a DOE report in 2008.
[...]
A bonus was also offered if the laboratory started meeting basic criticality safety standards. But Bowen said that, in his view, meeting minimum requirements shouldn't need and didn't deserve bonus pay.
The new corporate group promised to bring the lab up to the required safety standards in 2007. But that September, when members of the Defense Nuclear Facilities Safety Board inspected plutonium vaults at PF-4, they discovered much more material present than inventories showed, posing new risks of spontaneous fissioning if some of it became too tightly packed together. So in September 2007, the lab shut down PF-4 for a month and told DOE it had created a Nuclear Criticality Safety Board to analyze and fix the lab's persistent problems.
In 2010, when the Energy Department did a checkup, however, it found "no official notes or records" the group had ever met, according to an internal Energy Department report. The lab's promised date to improve criticality safety had slid to 2008, then 2010, and then to 2011.
[...]
In one photo, obtained by the Center, two of the rods are touching each other as they rest on a roll of duct tape. In another, eight rods are clustered tightly enough to fit within a pencil's length, propped up against a pyramid-shaped stick with black and yellow candy stripes to indicate "caution." Workers had forged the plutonium rods as aliquots — samples that could be useful to researchers in the weapons program and to teams trying to perfect the conversion of weaponized plutonium into fuel for civilian power plants.
Reaching into the box was dangerous, said Don Nichols, the NNSA associate administrator for safety and health at the time, because the water present in human bodies reflects neutrons and slows their speed, increasing the likelihood that those emitted by plutonium will collide with the nuclei of other plutonium atoms and emit more neutrons, triggering a nuclear chain reaction, with its accompanying release of energy and radiation.
(29 June 2017)
death to america
#all of the people working there should have died#us military#us nuclear weapons#my uploads#my uploads (unjank)
47 notes
·
View notes
Text
Provenance mysteries: Diodori Siculi historiarum libri aliquot, qui extant, opera & studio Vincentii Obsopoei in lucem editi
The fourth provenance mystery of 2023 features Diodori Siculi historiarum libri aliquot, qui extant, opera & studio Vincentii Obsopoei in lucem editi, printed in Basel by Johann Oporinus in 1530.
This work of Greek history by Siculus Diodorus, the ancient Green historian, is in Greek with a preface and opening poem in Latin. According to an auction record, this was the first edition to appear in print of Diodorus’s history in its original Greek. This edition consists of books 16-20 of the original forty books of Greek history written by Diodorus. It was edited by Vincentius Opsopäus (d. 1539), who is best known for writing De arte bibendi, a guide to drinking.
As can be seen on the title page, the book has many contemporary inscriptions. The first reads: ‘Thomas [L?]enerus dono dedit Rodol[?]’ and the second ‘Guielmi Fulconis emptus a prope/hta Cantab’ followed by a price paid for the book; as per the inscription, the book was purchased in Cambridge. Although the first inscriber has not been identified, it is possible that the second inscription refers to William Fulke (1538-1589), a Puritan divine and the author of at least one work on mathematics.
The longer inscription, in Greek, is a transcription of a poem ascribed to Theocritus, the Greek bucolic poet, and it is from his Idylls, number IX, line 31. The inscription is signed ‘Broughton’, and the hand is very similar to the British Library’s Royal MS 1AIX, The book of Daniel translated into Greek by Hugh Broughton. Hugh Broughton (1549-1612) was an English Hebraist, preacher, and translator who wrote A concent of scripture in 1588; he was a fellow of Christ’s College, Cambridge.
While I think it is safe to declare that the Greek inscription is in Hugh Broughton’s hand, there still remains the mystery of positively identifying Fulke’s hand, and identifying the inscription at the top of the title page. I have not found any evidence of what books Fulke or Broughton may have had in their personal libraries, nor what happened to them.
The book is bound in a Cambridge binding, with Oldham roll (SW.b(3)), as identified for me by David Pearson in 2021. As can be seen here, it is heavily damaged and the book as a whole requires conservation. If you would like to sponsor its repair, please get in touch.
As this mystery is literally all Greek to me, I relied on my colleague Kostas Tsilikas to identify the Greek text.
As ever, if you recognise this hand or have further comments please get in touch: [email protected].
Renae Satterley
Librarian
September 2023
#library#law library#mtlibrary#inns of court#libraries#rare books#history#books & libraries#london#rarebook#marginalia
25 notes
·
View notes
Text
Tuning a Bluthner Grand Piano dating from 1894 in Haughton, Bridgnorth. This instrument uses the Bluthner patent action and Aliquot stringing
#bridgnorth #bluthner #music #musicians #heughton #grandpiano #piano #pianist #pianotuner #pianotuning
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
standing at work innocently minding my own business aliquotting some paraformaldehyde for next week. finish aliquotting and look down at my tubes of paraformaldehyde and my brain says "my beautiful daughter paraformaldehyde" okay
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
That Researchin' Maritime Life
We've got a bit of downtime - there's a trawl going down to 5000m right now.
I've rotated and freshened up the sea cucumbers, packed away the echinoderms (starfish, sea cucumbers, sea urchins, brittle stars, feather stars and sea lilies), thrown a few buckets of seawater in the cold room (including the smaller pails seen below, I'm refining my holothurian rescue plans), and had a snack because This Machine, She Runs On Heavy Fuel.
This is actually a very comfortable ship to live on. Each cabin has a private ensuite, so you're not clambering down the bunk ladder and teetering out into the hall in search of the head in the middle of the night (I have been very spoilt and have only had one voyage like that). The mess has plenty of room at mealtimes. There are two lounges ("quiet" and "you're allowed to make noise and have informal meetings" respectively), and my favourite beanbags in the world.
There are, however, some drawbacks to marine research as a specialty (apart from the lack of job security, she says, as a short term contract taxonomist), and using a laboratory on a boat.
What drawbacks, you may ask.
Well, after my shift ends, I've been known to totter wearily into an online chat with mates and just drop random observations (you may note a somewhat laissez-faire attitude to punctuation).
For example:
you know it's amazing, you can be totally fine working in the dirty wet lab and you'll leave for five minutes and it's like your olfactory filters completely reset and then you get back down there and the nose is shouting at the brain "BOY HOWDY IT SURE DO SMELL LIKE FISHY PRAWNS IN HERE HUH JUST GOTTA SOAK IN THAT BRINY AMBIENCE"
summation: the science smells bad.
related outcome: the scientist also smells bad.
Yuuup, the smell is a whole freaking vibe. We can't dump too much seawater down the sinks that go into the grey water holding tank, we can't open the chute in the lab if there's an operation in progress (i.e. a trawl, a tow video, a Baited Remote Underwater Video, a fish trap) (which has been the case more often than not), and the same restriction is in place for simply tipping buckets over the side
That means that buckets of filthy seawater, sea cucumber guts, discarded excess critters, banged-up prawns and so on... just have to sit in the lab for a bit.
I've got a very sensitive nose. I have never been good at filtering out unpleasant smells, and yet somehow I kind of adapt to the lab odours... until I head up to the mess, and back down again.
(side note: we do actually clean the lab very thoroughly between trawls, and it does not smell all the time! It's more when you have to take a break in the middle of processing and then come back to it.)
What I do not adapt to is how bad I smell. By the end of the day, if I've been racing around in my coveralls, especially if I've been carrying heavy things, I will stink to high heaven.
(I will be quite self-conscious standing next to anyone.)
That shower is... so good.
But showering every day raises an issue. It's not what I normally do. Now, I realise there are some people who will find that horrifying (and most of them are from the US for some reason), but every second day, or when I need to wash my hair, or after a workout or, on a hot day? Yeah, that shower is good.
Every day? My poor skin is dryer than shoe leather, and I use a very gentle shower gel.
Shower Discord thoughts:
have been speculating on how one transitions from "I own body moisturiser but only occasionally remember to use it" as a terrestrial organism, to "I am pretty sure I could start a black market trade by subdividing this half-tube of Body Shop Hemp Hand Cream into small aliquots" as a person who is
1) at sea (the briny sea! The salty [drying] air!)
2) when not outdoors in the salty air, indoors in the drying A/C
3) regularly shoving one's hands into 100% ethanol and... usually... nearly always... wearing gloves while doing so
I mean this cream is the good shit
like basically liquid gold
which... could also be distributed in aliquots
okay. have decided: will not trade Body Shop Hemp Hand Cream for less than the equivalent volume of liquid gold
On later reflection, while I continue to believe that this asking price is fair, I may be pricing myself out of the market, if for no other reason than the simple lack of gold on board the vessel, regardless of phase.
I have decided that it doesn't have to be liquid. Melting gold on a moving vessel far off the continental shelf is an untenable safety risk. It just means that we will have to try to match the quantities by weight.
And that means using the scales in the clean wet lab, because the balances in our lab are not up to that sort of task.
And that means that I have definitely thought about this far too much, and I should go do something else (mainly clean my teeth and get ready for bed - need to get the energy for tomorrow's science-ing!).
We're still doing a fair bit of transiting and deeper sites, so I plan to try and knock out some taxonomic work on the few crinoids that have made it into the lab, and maybe set aside some time for the Sea Cucumber Salon.
Cukes gotta get their glamour shots, dammit.
#marine biology#boat thoughts#life at sea#holothurian naughty corner#RVInvestigator#Gascoyne2022#liquid gold is a safety concern#safety first at sea#moisturiser economic analysis#marine biologists do not need to lick the science because smelling the science is quite enough thank you and goodnight
86 notes
·
View notes
Text
What have you done today for your lord that did not raise you as an accountant who wakes up in the morning to find that all tax aliquots have changed? I didn't do anything, in fact I did, I removed a calcified egg from the anus of a chicken to prepare it for tomorrow's lunch
18 notes
·
View notes
Photo
Large Sheds, plate 21 from "Regiunculae et Villae Aliquot Ducatus Brabantiae". ca. 1610. Credit line: Harris Brisbane Dick Fund, 1933 https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/415295
#aesthetic#art#abstract art#art museum#art history#The Metropolitan Museum of Art#museum#museum photography#museum aesthetic#dark academia
3 notes
·
View notes
Photo
Charles de L’Écluse (1526-1609)
Rariorum aliquot stirpium per Hispanias observatarum historia (Antwerp: Christophori Plantini), 1576
Bibliothèque nationale de France
20 notes
·
View notes
Text
Hai già visto questa "spiegazione" della flat tax?
Questa è l'ennesima metafora usata non per semplificare, ma per mistificare il messaggio. Ipotizzando però che chi l'ha scritta sia in buona fede, dietro a questa metafora si nasconde una enorme ignoranza su come funzionino le percentuali.
Ma le percentuali sono parte del programma di quinta elementare. Non esistono scuse per non capirle.
Per riprendere l’idea del ristorante vediamo come funzionano i sistemi di tassazione. Il pagamento alla romana implica che tutti paghino la stessa cifra a prescindere da quello che hanno ordinato.
Questo significa che tutti pagano lo stesso valore assoluto:
- Tizio, con un reddito di 15'000€, paga 2'000€. - Caio, con un reddito di 50'000€, paga 2'000€. - Sempronio, con un reddito di 1'000'000€, paga 2'000€. Passiamo alla vera flat tax.
Ossia, tutti pagano la stessa percentuale.
Prendiamo come riferimento l'Estonia, dove la flat tax è al 20%:
- Tizio, con un reddito di 15'000€, paga il 20% che corrisponde a 3'000€. - Caio, con un reddito di 50'000€, paga il 20% che corrisponde a 10'000€. - Sempronio, con un reddito di 1'000'000€, paga il 20% che corrisponde a 200'000€.
L'attuale sistema italiano, complicato da deduzioni e detrazioni, è più o meno così: - Tizio, con un reddito di 15'000€, paga il 23% che corrisponde a 3'450€. Se guadagnasse dieci euro in più, l'aliquota diventerebbe 25% per tutto ciò che eccede i primi 15'000€, fino ad arrivare a 28'000€ di reddito.
Cioè: sui primi 15'000€ paga il 23%, ma su quei dieci euro in più paga il 25%. - Caio, con un reddito di 50'000€, paga il 28.8% che corrisponde a 14'400€. In realtà, fra i 28'000 e i 50'000 l'aliquota è del 35%.
Essendo sul margine, se guadagnasse qualche euro in più, l'aliquota diventerebbe 43%. - Sempronio, con un reddito di 1'000'000€, paga il 42,29% che corrisponde a 422'900€. (Questo è solo il calcolo per l'IRPEF, mancano ancora le addizionali comunali e regionali, l'INPS e le imposte pagate dal datore di lavoro!)
Facendo due calcoli veloci, basta un solo Sempronio per pagare le imposte di 122 lavoratori come Tizio. Tuttavia, il suo stipendio è 66 volte quello di Tizio. Dunque, la flat tax è migliore o più giusta?
Dipende. Adam Smith, il padre dell'economia politica, sosteneva che ha senso una tassazione progressiva, a patto che la forbice fra le aliquote non sia troppo alta.
Se fosse in Italia nel 2022, riterrebbe eccessiva la differenza di aliquote: dal 23% al 43%!
L'ideatore della flat tax moderna, Milton Friedman, la flat tax non è solamente più efficiente, ma anche più giusta.
Con una flat tax, tutti pagherebbero la stessa aliquota, indipendentemente dal livello o dal tipo di reddito.
E i più poveri? Milton Friedman aveva trovato due soluzioni per loro:
1. Una "No tax area", ossia una soglia sotto la quale non si pagano imposte. Viene applicata oggi in Gran Bretagna, dove non si pagano imposte se si ha un reddito inferiore alle 12'500 sterline.
2. Una "Imposta negativa": se un individuo ha più detrazioni del suo reddito, o se non ha abbastanza reddito, anziché pagare le imposte ne riceve una certa quantità. In questo modo, si evitano bonus, sussidi e integrazioni del reddito con meccanismi complicati e inefficienti.
La metafora che circola sul web già da alcuni anni è del tutto fuorviante e faziosa, inventata per denigrare una forma di tassazione mistificandola anziché provando a spiegare perché sarebbe sbagliata.
Ora che sai cos'è davvero la flat tax, puoi farti una opinione e decidere se approvarla o meno. In maniera razionale e logica, come dovrebbero fare le persone istruiti e civili.
P.S. Ricordati di spiegare a chi condivide questa metafora errata il vero senso della flat tax. Magari la condividono per disattenzione o eccessiva fiducia in fonti maliziose. Presenta la versione reale dei fatti: se ancora insistono sulla metafora, è perché preferiscono credere alle mistificazioni per giustificare la loro ideologia.
@TweetDiPopolo
-----
POINT OF VIEW
98 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
the-person-from-porlock
Sour Cherry
blindedbythesparks
strawberry lipstick state of mind
bklederalmere-blog
Heren en Dames jassen online
farsamsangini-blog
Farsam Sangini
hie-iss
Untitled