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grison-in-space · 8 months

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Currently rereading Eric Flint's 1632 and reflecting on just how influential Flint was to me and my approach to both praxis and politics as a teenager. I found Flint when I was about thirteen or fourteen, around the time I found Pratchett I think, and he's left an equally wide thumbprint on my soul. Isn't that the most wonderful thing about stories, that people you've never met can help shape our adult selves? Mother of Demons I often recommend for its SFF worldbuilding--Flint built a species with at least four genders, only some of which are reproductive, and associated "normal" sexual orientations, and then proceeded to write in a textually intersex character and queer the hell out of it.

1632, though, is the one where a little West Virginia town in 2000 gets picked up and dropped in the middle of Thuringia, Germany in the eponymous year--right in the middle of the Thirty Years War. The local United Mine Workers of America chapter plays a major role, particularly its head.

As I write this I'm listening to the scene where the little town of Grantville, having admitted after a few days that they are probably not ever going home, is crowded into the high school gymnasium listening to the mayor lay that reality out and suggesting an interim council to help the town set out a sort of constitutional convention so they can work out what on earth they're going to do moving forward--especially since there's a bunch of displaced refugees collecting in the forests nearby. Sensible of them, really; the Americans murdered the shit out of the local soldiers that displaced them, on account of how the shaken mine workers that went out to figure out WTF happened not being super down with suddenly running into a bunch of fuckheads raping the locals and torturing people to find out where their valuables might be. After that, said Americans proceeded to retreat into the town boundaries and gibber quietly to themselves. I would go lurk in their woods, too.

Anyway, the mayor sets up this proposal, everyone agrees, and a CEO who was visiting for his son's wedding at the time steps forward and says: look. I know how to lead, and I'm probably the most qualified person here. I lead a major industry corporation effectively and I did that after my time as a Navy officer. I put myself forward because I'm qualified. Now, we're going to need to circle the wagons to get through the winter, tighten our belts, but we can get through this. We can't support all these refugees, though; we'll have to seal the border so they can't bring disease--they're a drain on our resources we can't afford--

and the UMWA guy, he gets really mad listening to this. There's this Sephardic refugee woman he's real taken with who got swept up in the town first thing, and she's sitting in and listening; he's thinking about throwing her out, thinking about how much she knows about the place they're found in, and he's furious. But he gets a good grip on his anger and he marches up and he says, look. This dude has been here two days and he's already talking about downsizing?! You're going to listen to this CEO talking about cuts, cuts, cuts? Nah. Trying to circle the wagons is probably impossible, it's stupid, and if you think my men and I are going to enforce that, you can fuck off. That proposal is inside out and bass ackwards. We've got about a six mile diameter of Grantville here; how much food do YOU think we're going to grow? How about the soldiers wandering around, do you think we're going to be able to fight armies off on our lonesome? Look at the few refugees we already have in the room, they'll tell you how those armies will treat you! We could do it for a while, the amount of gun nuts here, but so what? We don't have enough people to shoot them! Not if we're going to do anything else to keep us going! We have about six months of stockpiled coal to keep going, and without another source or getting the coal mines working, we're screwed. We have technical strength but we don't have the supplies or resources we would need to maintain it. Those refugees? They're resources. We need people to do the work we will need to keep ourselves. The hell with downsizing; let's grow outwards! Bring people in, give them safety, see what they can bring to the table once they've had a moment! He invokes: send us your tired, your poor!, and the CEO yells in frustration: this isn't America! so he yells back "it will be!"

And of course everyone cheers. I love Flint for many reasons but he is unapologetic about affection for the America of ideals--ideals, he freely admits, that are often honored in the breach rather than the observance, ideals that are messy and flawed, but nevertheless ideals that can work to inspire us to become the best version of ourselves. For Flint, history is as valuable as a source of stories to inspire ourselves as it is a repository of knowledge, and on this I tend to agree with him. We must learn from our moments of shame but equally we must learn from moments that show us how to be our best selves.

It's been twenty three years and the text is now an interesting historical document in its own right, hitting points and rhythms in beats that are sometimes out of place today. It's not perfect. But the novel contains a commitment to joy and to emphasizing the leaps of faith and understanding that regular, everyday people make every day to try and support each other that I routinely try to match in my writing.

Anyway, one of the strengths of the novel, I think, is its gender politics: it's a very ensemble kind of novel, lots of characters, and it's preoccupied with positive masculinity in a lot of ways. There's a lot of these hyper masculine characters--Mike Stearns perhaps more than anyone else--and--and...

... And Flint's characterization of Stearns, as he sketches out who the man is--his pivotal American leader, ex boxer, working class organizer, big man.... well, it lands equally on "he is delighted and astonished to find a local woman who quickly assesses how the cushion of air in tires works," and "he considers who to set up a Jewish refugee in the middle of Germany up with and he thinks to ask the Jewish family he grew up with to host her and her ill father because he thinks she'll be most comfortable there", and "he views people as potential assets rather than potential drains." A younger man asks him for advice on whether to pursue a professional sports career because of the boxing and he says no, you're in the worst place of not being quite good enough and you'll blow out your knees without accomplishing safety. He frames that interaction such that he allows his own experiences to make him vulnerable and invite the younger man to understand when a struggle have worth it.

It's actually a really deft portrayal of intense masculinity that also makes a virtue of a bunch of traits more usually associated with women: empathy, relational sensitivity, the ability to listen. As a blueprint for what a positive masculinity can look like, vs the toxic kind, it's very well done. I think sometimes when we look at gender roles in terms of virtues, and when masculinity is defined in terms of opposition to femininity, people get lost by arguing that virtues assigned to one gender are somehow antithetical to another gender. In fact that's never been the case: virtues are wholly neutral and can appear in any gender. What the gender does is inflect the ways we expect that virtue to appear in terms of individuals' actions within their society.

Gender isn't purely an individual trait, basically; it's a product of our collective associations. Two characters with different genders can display the same virtues and strengths, but we imagine them expressed in different ways according to our cultural expectations around gender. And I just think that's neat.

#Eric Flint #1632

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1hot-mess-express1 · 13 days

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Edward 40hands

A/N: Ayyyoooo, I've had this one in my drafts for a while, but I'm not sure if I like it or not (I definitely gave up a little there at the end). I want to practice writing some longer fics. So let if you like it! Likes, reblogs, and comments are super appreciated :) WC: 5.2K

Suguru X Reader (College, non-curse AU) High key based on "Edward 40 hands" by mom jeans

CW: Suggestive, Angst, drinking (of age), smoking cigarettes (both reader and Suguru), mentions of body shots, break up, Suguru's a lit major with my awful taste in books lmfao, tortured artist trope

PC: Yuannaoi on twt

The room is dark; smoke fills the air and invades your senses while you trudge through a seemingly endless sea of sweaty bodies. You’re not sure what the moisture clinging to your exposed skin is, but it’s probably better not to dwell on that thought. The music blaring through the speakers was nothing in comparison to the drunken screaming emanating from the patrons of today’s party. Your senses were overwhelmed in this cramped space as you slowly pushed your way into the kitchen.

There were still partygoers perched on counters and crouched on the floor, donning plastic cups and drunken, lopsided smiles as they spoke in slurred phrases and empty promises, damp, sour breath clinging to the skin of one another. You push past a couple whispering sweet nothings to each other as you reach into the back of the freezer, behind the hot pockets and frozen pizzas, where you find a crisp, frost-covered bottle of high-west, just where you left it. You smirk to yourself before you feel a large hand with slender fingers clap down on your shoulder in a way that is all too familiar.

“What’re ya doing here?” You turn to see Satoru with a drunken flush and a pretty blonde on his arm. His eyes are friendly, but his tone is laced with concern.

You sigh, waving the frosty bottle in front of his face before uncorking it and throwing back a swig, “left this here n’wanted it back; this is Prisoner’s share, ya’know? Expensive stuff,” you state, grimacing slightly at the way the frost burns your fingers before swapping the bottle into the other hand.

Satoru gives you a questioning look before glancing around the room; you know who he’s looking for. “Don’t worry, I’ll be out of here before he can throw a fit about me being here,” you offer Satoru a smile before pushing back into the swarm of people, trying to make your way to the back door. His gaze lingers on you for a moment, face crestfallen, watching the way you weave through the sea of strangers, arms tucked close to your chest. This wasn’t gonna go well. The blonde next to him startles him out of his trance.

“Wanna do body shots?” Her finger reaches for his jaw, and he can’t help but perk up at the insinuation. All concern and foreboding feelings rush out of him before he gives her a cheeky grin, pulling her impossibly closer to him.

“Fuck yeah,” he turns on his heel, effectively forgetting about your presence and all of the tension you brought with you.

You push your way to the sliding glass door, tucking the cold bottle under your arm before pushing your feet into the carpet and tugging with both hands, wiggling slightly to coax the door open. With a huff, it pops open, nearly causing you to topple over before you step onto the back patio. You should have known; there are people out here, too. You glance around, taking note of the people perched on the porch railing, half-consumed beers in hand, laughter floating out into the too-warm August air.

You shuffle through your pockets in search of a lighter; instead, your fingers are met with loose change, a stray hair tie, and an empty straw wrapper, shit. You’d keep better track of your things one day, but until then, you let out a huff, eyes scanning the creaky wooden porch boards. Your eyes are greeted with empty cans and cups, leaking small amounts of sticky liquid onto the tarnished wood, and random pieces of clothing left to ruminate in this late August humidity, gross. Wandering over to the round table hanging on by a prayer, you see half-empty drinks, an overflowing ashtray, and chewed gum, but alas, no light. The condensation collecting along the glass bottle begins to dribble between your fingers as the humid air quickly warms the both of you. With a flick of the wrist, the whiskey slides its way down, setting a fire in your throat, your breath burning your nostrils on its way out. You set the bottle down and reach for the pack of smokes in your pocket, tenderly retrieving a cigarette and setting it between your lips before returning it to your pocket and the bottle to your hand as you wander further into the yard, searching for someone who might have a lighter.

You notice the mud sticking to your shoes and make a note to throw them into the wash when you get home. In protest of your current predicament, you gingerly take the cigarette from between your lips and place it behind your ear before taking another swig of the amber liquid. You continue your trek through the yard, letting the cicada's song dance through your ears, nearly drowning out the sound of debauchery wafting from the house. The orange of the sun is dipping below the horizon, exploding with colors before retreating to make way for a vast sea of stars. If Suguru were here, he’d probably have something poetic to say about it, you chuckle a bit to yourself at the thought.

There is a fire somewhere. The acrid smell of burning cedar wafts around your nose, bringing crinkles to the space between your brows as you look up silently at Suguru, wondering if he will move to acknowledge the smell--he never does. You pick lazily at the Gibson in your lap, only half paying attention as your gaze travels to Suguru’s face, lit up by the amber sun as it makes its descent under the horizon. Your feet are firmly planted on the shingles of this roof, your mind paying no attention to the way your body reacts to the danger of being up this high. Suguru’s body, on the other hand, is a picturesque view of serenity; his face is relaxed, jaw moving slightly as he unknowingly mouths the words to his book, forearms resting on his knees as his hair gently wafts around his face with the late summer breeze. His tongue poked out every so often, wetting the plush of his lips with a single slow stroke. You watch as his eyes lazily skim the pages of a book he’s read too many times to count.

He must have felt your stare because he glances over at you and offers a lopsided grin, “Are you even paying attention anymore?” his eyes flit to where your fingers are plucking at the strings out of rhythm.

“I’ll have you know that this raw talent doesn’t have to pay attention; my body acts on pure musical instinct,” you state through a cheeky smile, arching a single brow at him as he places the book down by his side. You glance fleetingly at the cover, ‘The Setting Sun,’ your brows furrow a little in thought before speaking, “Suguru, why do you always reread books? I know you could read something that small in a single sitting, smart enough to understand it the first time too,” your hand slips, plucking at the wrong chord, giving way to an eerie out of tune note.

“That’s not how these kinds of books work,” he chuckles mostly to himself before continuing, a small fire dancing around those lavender eyes that signal the forthcoming explanation and the excitement it brings him to speak about it, “Dazai’s books are extremely pessimistic examinations of human nature poorly disguised as fiction; yes this story is about a war-torn family, but really this was his way of projecting his own hopelessness on the world, when you read something this emotionally charged it’s important to examine it from multiple viewpoints,” he glances down to see that your hand has stopped moving altogether as you suck your bottom lip in between your teeth, his gaze returns to your eyes and he speaks through a friendly smile, “for instance, my first read was blank, no real expectations, just getting to know the characters and setting and taking note of my reactions, the second time I’m trying to understand what the overall message of the book is, or examining the points made a little more closely,” you hum in understanding, setting your guitar to the side, before plucking the novel from its resting place, flipping through the pages until you find where he’s dog eared the book.

“I must go on living. And, though it may be childish of me, I can't go on in simple compliance. From now on, I must struggle with the world. I thought that Mother might well be the last of those who can end their lives beautifully and sadly, struggling with no one, neither hating nor betraying anyone. In the world to come, there will be no room for such people. The dying are beautiful, but to live, to survive – those things somehow seem hideous and contaminated with blood.” you look up at him over the edge of the book, “thoughts?” you offer him a cheeky smile, waiting patiently for his reply.

“A few, mostly I think it’s depressing, but you’re not really interested in what I have to say.” He lets out a sweet, breathy laugh before pulling you closer to him, tucked in perfectly to his side. His hand wraps around your shoulder as he places a chaste kiss on the top of your head.

You reach into your pants pocket, retrieve a pack of cigarettes, wiggle one free, and place it between your lips. Staring off at the last sliver of daylight giving way to a navy sky, you pat down your pockets in search of a lighter. Your search is cut short when Suguru dangles the black piece of plastic in front of your eyes.

“You should really keep better track of your things, yaknow?” he mutters his words into the juncture of your neck, brushing his lips against the warm skin; your hairs stand on end at the light tickling.

“One day, but not today,” you take it from him, flicking the lighter and taking a deep breath, letting the cigarette flicker to life as the smell of a distant fire gives way to the rich smell of tobacco. Suguru shuffles himself to the side a little, trying his best to hide the way the smell makes his stomach turn.

“M’sorry,” you mutter before putting some distance between you and turning to face him fully. You know what he’s about to say well before the words leave his mouth.

“Those things’ll kill you, you know?” he says, trying to wear a teasing smile, knowing full well that his words will do little to deter you from your nasty habit.

You roll your eyes playfully before changing the subject: “Do you think you’re going to take that internship?” You do your best to keep your voice neutral. Looking where the sun last hung in the sky, it was long gone, but you feared your eyes might betray you.

He folds in on himself a bit at the statement, “I think so…” His voice trails off a bit before he glances in your direction, searching for a reaction. Your features are fairly neutral in spite of the way your stomach drops at his words. “Are you gonna take that deal?”

“Might as well; if you’re not here, I’ve got no reason to stay. I still need to talk it over with Shoko, though; I’m not sure she’s so keen on the idea of going with me…she’s a hell of a bass player, but she wants to be a doctor, yaknow? She doesn’t have the time to waste in the studio like I do.” You let out a small smile at your situation.

“They’ll sign just you, and you know it,” Suguru says, pulling you a bit closer to himself. He ignores the way the smoke makes his eyes water and places a chaste kiss on the top of your head.

The smell of second-hand smoke wafts your way, dragging your attention to the side of the house where someone is leaning against the side panels, book in hand. You take another drink before squinting at the figure, eyes bleary and head beginning to dizzy; stepping closer to them, you realize it’s the last person you wanted to see today. Of course, he’d be outside hiding from his own party, pretentious ass. As you inch closer, he looks up from his book, giving you the same inquisitive stare before dog-earring his page and tucking the book in the crook of his arm. Once you’re within arm’s reach, he places the cigarette between his lips, taking a long drag and letting the ash fall to the grass below him, eyes narrowing in on the bottle in your hand before he looks back up to your face, exhaling the smoke from his nose before speaking.

“Really?” he tilts his head slightly, a small grin gracing his lips as he brings the cigarette back to his lips and turns to face you more directly.

You do your best not to stare, but his hair is framing his face so perfectly, the veins in his hands are highlighted perfectly by the gentle hold he has on the cigarette perched between his lips, and god, his eyes, those stupidly perfect purple eyes, framed by long, dark lashes shine beautifully under the late August moon and draw you in like a moth to a porch light--blissfully unaware of that something so beautiful could be so dangerous.

You steady your resolve before looking at him like he’s an idiot, “obviously, shit was expensive,” you mark your point by taking a much larger drink from the bottle before extending it to him. He gives you a pensive look before taking the bottle from your hand and bringing it to his own lips. You note the way his tongue pokes out to wet his lips before he takes a large drink, his Adams apples bobbing as the fluid makes its way down his throat. To your surprise, he keeps going, effectively chugging the whiskey as if it were water. “Hey, stop that!” you exclaim, reaching up with ardor to take the bottle from his grasp. When your small hand grasps the glass and pulls it away from him, the drink falls from the corner of his lips as he laughs through a cough, bringing his sleeve up to wipe the excess from his lips. “That was easily like fifty bucks right there,” you grumble mostly to yourself, wiping the outside of the bottle across your jeans.

He looks up at you from his hunched-over position and grabs the cigarette from your ear, brushing his knuckles across your cheek as he does, waving it in your face, a goofy grin plastered on his face, a single eyebrow quirked up in question, “Need a light?”. Such an innocent question, but the lopsided grin he’s sporting and the intensity of his eyes leave you flustered in place for a moment longer than you’d like, listening to thrumming in your ears telling you to leave. Instead, you grab the cigarette from his hand indignantly, staring at the ground to cover the flush that threatens to creep across your face at his proximity, tapping the toe of your shoe into the grass, half in an attempt to free some of the mud accumulating and partially to have a reason not to look at him.

“Yeah,” you mutter out before glancing up at him. When you do, he places the cigarette between your lips, he stands to his full height, making you feel incredibly small beneath him before he rummages through his pocket. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, Marb red, 100s to be exact, and you smile a little to yourself. “copy cat,” you giggle out, looking up at him as he places a cigarette between his lips, cupping the flame and taking a large inhale. He chuckles to himself a little at your statement before stepping impossibly closer to you with his lit cigarette. His hair falls around his face as he leans down, smirking around the cigarette perched between his pouty lips, waiting patiently for you to close the distance. He couldn’t be serious right now.

“Well? Ya gonna light that cig or what?” he speaks through the cigarette, his hair cascading down in front of him, the very tips of it tickling your collarbone. You roll your eyes before placing your hand around your cigarette, cradling it in place, letting your eyes flutter closed, touching the tip of your cigarette to his, breathing in deeply and relishing in the bitter-sweet taste of it as it makes its way to the bottom of your lungs. When you open your eyes, he’s staring at you with an unreadable expression, no hint of the smile that was present moments ago. His gaze pierces you in place as the low thrumming of life on the other side of the wall drifts into your consciousness.

You shift nervously under his gaze, looking at the mud crusted to the tip of your shoe, “Since when do you smoke? Ya know those things will kill ya,” you mutter with all the playfulness you can muster before returning your gaze to him. You don’t miss the small smile that creeps over his hand as he takes another drag.

“Got dumped by a beautiful girl, in case you didn’t know; I think it’s only natural to pick up a bad habit. Speaking of which, does Satoru know you’re here? I think you traumatized him last time he saw you,” Suguru says with some genuine concern etched into his brows.

You chuckle a little at the statement feeling your brows knit together in guilt, “Yeah, he knows, definitely didn’t look too happy to see me, but he had pussy to chase, so you know how that goes,” Suguru chuckles at your response before bringing the cigarette back to his lips. “Besides, I wasn’t that bad. Promise, I could have been a lot worse,” you chuckle a little to yourself before bringing the bottle back to your lips and taking a healthy swig. This was the last thing you wanted to talk about tonight, but the world turns to spite you, it would seem.

“I don’t doubt that, but he’s a pampered guy, yaknow? I highly doubt he’s ever seen a woman raise her voice before then, much less cause that much destruction,” he pulls the cigarette to his lips again, and you take notice of how close the ember is reaching to the butt and the way the mellow flame illuminates his features as he takes a shallow inhale.

He was right; you may have gone a bit overboard. You don’t remember much of that night, to be completely honest; when you think back, most of it flies away in a haze of screaming and crying. You do remember throwing a dresser drawer in the general direction of Satoru though. Being the sweetheart pacifist that he is, he came up to try and quell the storming rage, but unfortunately, words evaded him, and he opened up with “chill out,” not a great thing to say to an angry woman.

You straighten your stance as you pinch the ember out of your cigarette, stomping it into the grass, and toss the butt into your jacket pocket, a sweet habit that doesn’t go unnoticed by Suguru. “Well, yaknow what they say? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” you scoff, staring as you swirl the liquid in your bottle, groaning internally at the realization that it is nearly empty before taking another swig, feeling your mind begin to slip away as your jaw unclenches and your vision blurs slightly.

Suguru reaches for the bottle in your hands, bringing it to his lips and taking a large drink before he crouches down, leaning his head back on the worn wood of the house, looking up at you as if asking you to take a seat next to him. On slightly wobbly legs, you comply, leaving a healthy distance between you. You sit in silence for a moment, taking in the heavy thrum of bass emanating from the house, reminiscing on nights when you would sit out here with Suguru, a bottle between you and the comfortable quiet of the night save for the low hum of life seeping into the night air from the crowded house. You would sit beside him, relishing in the bitterness of a cigarette as he scolded you playfully for the nasty habit, making notes about the staining on your fingers and comparing them to the yellowed pages of a novel. He was always overly poetic like that, sickeningly good at making you feel like the main character of some period romance novel. That’s probably why it stung so bad when you found out he was leaving. Had he told you himself, lacing beautiful words about finding each other again or running away together like lovesick teenagers, maybe you would have been okay with it; maybe you would have chuckled even at his poet’s tongue before cradling his too-large face in your hand, peppering it with sweet kisses, hopeful for the future.

Instead, you stared at a plane ticket, cold and alone, entirely too drunk to be in your right mind, with no sweet words to chase away the tears creeping to the corners of your eyes, no elaborate yearning confessions to replace the overwhelming weight in your chest. He was leaving, and he wasn’t even going to tell you; what’s worse, he lied to you. He laid you down in his bed, body pressed comfortably close to yours as he kissed the space between your ear and jaw as he whispered to you about how he belonged here with you, that he could never pass you up for anything because his heart was sure to reject anyone but you. That he couldn’t imagine a life for himself where he didn’t come home to you stretched out on the sofa in his worn out crewneck, his sweet cat wrapped comfortably on your chest as your little snores drift to his ears. He couldn’t wake without the sight of your hazy smile peering down at him, your sweet voice coaxing him back to the reality of his dreams.

At least that’s what he had said; instead, you sit there on the worn carpet of his bedroom, studying the creases in the corner of the plane ticket. He had decided to leave and never intended to tell you. No possibility of running behind him and living in a shitty studio while he interned at the college, and you worked part-time at the cafe down the street, saving your change in a pickle jar to afford a better home. You would never hear him shuffle through the front door, kicking his black loafers off before unbuttoning the top of his shirt, striding over to your place at the kitchen sink, placing a single kiss on the crown of your head before telling you all about the students he worked with today, and way they groaned at the Dostoevsky reading today. Suguru would go on to describe the intricacies of his love for the droning author as you wiped the water off your hands with a tea towel, smiling at him with that same lovesick look your heart always held for him.

You’re pulled from your thoughts by the flicking of a lighter, and you look over to see Suguru cupping the flame once again as his cigarette flickers to life. “When did you really pick up smoking, Suguru?” you spare a glance at whatever book he’s reading right now, Letters to Milena, typical.

“When you left them at my place, they just kept staring at me from the nightstand. It wasn’t supposed to become a habit, but I think it pairs nicely with the whole tortured artist vibe, yaknow?” he chuckles to himself at his own lame joke. He takes a sharp inhale and stares off into the night sky for a moment before reaching for the bottle between you, taking a large drink, and offering the last of it to you. “I never meant to hurt you, yaknow?” he mutters out before taking another drag off of his smoke as if avoiding speaking, even if only for a moment.

You don’t hesitate to finish the last of the bottle, relishing the fire that trails through your throat. “What is that supposed to mean?” you ask, leaning your head back against the wall, trying to straighten out your dizzy mind.

He sucks in a deep breath, using his foot to toy with the grass. “I just didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know how to tell you; I tried to believe me, but every time…I just…choked, I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t say it out loud… made it all feel too real,” his voice cracks a little at the end like the memory of it all could break him.

You look over at him, your confident facade crumbling as your voice betrays you, conveying much more than you ever wanted to say: “I didn’t expect you to stay, yaknow? A part of me was so excited for you. I know what this means to you…I just didn’t expect you of all people to lie to me,” you take in a deep breath. “I was also incredibly drunk,” you let out a half-hearted chuckle, hoping to lighten the mood.

He doesn’t smile; if anything, his frown only deepens before he moves to speak, “I didn’t lie to you, I’m not going…I’ve had too much time to think about it, and I don’t think I can leave you behind, even if it’s just the little things, like the hoodie hanging over my desk chair with cigarette hole burnt through the pocket or the pack of reds staring at me while I’m far too drunk to make any good decisions,” he looks over at you, moving his hand into the space between you, looking up at you through his heavy lashes, “or the chance that I’ll find you sneaking out the back door of my house, looking for a lighter” he laughs solemnly to himself at that last statement. Reaching into his pocket for yet another cigarette, placing it between his teeth and lighting it before handing the lit cigarette to you.

You shuffle in place, lifting the cigarette to your lips, praying it will do anything to settle your uneasy heart, or maybe keep your head from spinning, laying your head back against the wall and letting your eyes flutter closed, “Those things’ll kill ya yaknow?” you mutter out, groaning lightly at the way the world turns behind your eyelids, before passing the cigarette back to him.

“You’ll still kill me faster,” he chuckles a little at the thought, leaning on his outstretched hand, taking a drag off the cigarette and letting the smoke dissipate into the night. “I uh…I miss you a lot, and I’m sorry for all of it,” he states, turning to look at the space between you, studying the way your hand twitches lightly. The silence between you grows on him like a fungus threatening to stop his breathing altogether as he closes his eyes and lets the weight of what he said hang in the air. He was sure you didn't care that he missed you; an apology wasn’t going to erase what had happened between you; it wasn’t enough, but a small part of him wished it was.

“So, what are you doing now? You didn’t leave; better be a damn good alternative here,” your voice is coated with a teasing tone, trying desperately to hide all of the emotions threatening to overtake your now hazy mind. You look over to see him staring holes into your hand, and as if on instinct, you place it haphazardly over his much larger one, enjoying the warmth radiating from his knuckles. Your gaze returns to the stars draping across the sky, taking mental note of how small you feel when gazing up at the vast, consuming black of the night sky. It was a morbidly comforting thought that none of this would matter one day.

“Promise not to kill me?” he leans in a little closer to you, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips as his thumb absentmindedly strokes the side of your hand, the pad of his finger calloused and warm.

“Cross my heart,” you state, looking over at him again, realizing how close he’s gotten and studying the features of his face, the way his brows sag comfortably low, his eyelashes framing his warm eyes perfectly, his lips are pulled in a small grin, his collarbone peaking out of the black T-shirt, exposing the smallest bit of a tattoo creeping over his shoulder from his back, that you know all too well.

His eyes linger on your lips as he begins to speak; he’s close enough now that when he does, you can see the hint of silver resting against his tongue, “I’ve started working on a book,” his eyes flash up to meet yours.

“Mr. Responsible is writing a book and hoping it works out? That’s definitely not what I expected to hear.” You try your best to muster up a teasing tone, but the way he’s so close to you right now, looking at you like a man starved, twists your guts, and for a moment, you think your heart might stop beating then and there.

He chuckles a bit, his gaze returning to your eyes, “It’s going well, thanks for asking,” he rolls his eyes, but you don’t miss the grin stretching across his features as his hand returns to absentmindedly stroking yours, “besides it was a way to stay here, I already have an offer and they made a generous upfront payment after some back and forth nonsense that you don’t really care about,” his voice trails off a little at the end as he notices the way your eyes are scanning his lips, a cute drunken flush washed over your face as your tongue darts out to lick your lips.

Would it make him a bad person if he kissed you right now? He’s not sure and must not care because he’s quick to close the distance between you, placing a gentle kiss on the juncture of your mouth, letting himself linger there for a moment as he relishes the feeling. When he pulls back, he knows he’s a terrible person cause the sight of you with your wide eyes looking up at him through a soft pout, chest heaving slightly, tongue darting out to wet your lips--a very innocent reaction to a very innocent act-- makes him ache to devour you.

“Wh-why would you do that?” your brows knit together in confusion for a moment before his lips are on you again, first at your lips, then just below your ear as he whispers to you.

“Let me tell you I’m sorry…please?”

Oh fuck, the ‘please’ he lets out is so pathetic you feel a whine creeping from the back of your throat as your hands find purchase in his and tug slightly. “Are you ready to beg for my forgiveness?” With that, it’s his turn to let out a groan at how breathy and unsure you sound.

“Sweetheart, I’m prepared to get on my knees and beg for hours if you’d let me…” he makes his point by licking a stripe up the side of your neck.

#jjk #geto suguru #jujutsu kaisen #getou suguru x reader #suguru x reader #suguru x y/n #suguru angst #suguru x you #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru x you #geto suguru x y/n #getou x reader #getou x you #getou x y/n

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texasthrillbilly · 4 months

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Give it to me with both barrels.

#lost in space #major don west #science fiction #robby the robot #fantasy #mark goddard

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j2lis · 7 months

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October 16th... the launch day of the Jupiter 2. but its not the same without our pilot, Don West. Rest in Peace Mark and thank you for the amazing journey

#lost in space #mark goddard #don west #major don west #jupiter 2

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givemewallywestorgivemedeath · 1 year

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Who do you think are the most OP members of the FlashFam? I think it's difficult, the majority of them has almost the same powers.

Oh easy.

Wally, Bart and Barry.

I think we forget sometimes that the vast majority of the crazy feats of godlike powers we see from speedsters are coming from these three. Wally, Bart and Barry have insane connections to the speedforce and their skill level is unmatched. What these three can do is by no means normal or average. They are op as fuck.

You have to remember that even... let's say Max Mercury is nowhere even remotely near their skill level. And we're talking about Max Mercury. The guy who knows more about the speedforce than anyone else and trained for years to master it. But Max (although he was faster than Bart when Bart was a child) isn't on the same playing field as Wally, Bart and Barry. Max couldn't enter the speedforce without Bart's assistance, Max couldn't leave the speedforce without Barry and Wally's assistance, Max can't time travel to a destination of his own choice, Max can't speed steal or fully pause time, ect ect. Max is one of the most skilled, most knowledgeable, most trained and most respected speedsters of all time. Max is the cream of the crop. You won't find another speedster better than Max. He's a shining example of what's humanely possible for speedsters to achieve.

But Wally, Bart and Barry aren't humanely possible. Those three are insane.

I'm actually going to make a tier list to explain this

ABSOLUTELY FUCKING INSANE:

(AKA actually gods. Can do literally every speedster ability. Faster than literally everything. Beyond op.)

Wally West (now), Bart Allen, Barry Allen

TOP LEVEL OF SPEEDSTER ABILITY:

(AKA the top of the top. Insane skills. Insane knowledge. Insane speed. Likely has a vast amount of speedster abilities other than running. Likely faster than most other speedsters. Op af)

Max Mercury, Jay Garrick, Savitar, Eobard Thawne, Thad Thawne, Irey West (future)

ABOVE AVERAGE:

(AKA one of the following: above average speed, above average connection or above average abilities. Likely has one or two speedster abilities other than running. Slightly op but still beatable)

Irey West (now), August Heart, Edward Clariss, Jess Quick, Alinta (future), Hunter Zoloman (when connected), Lia Nelson, Jai West (future)

AVERAGE:

(AKA average connection, average speed, average abilities. Potentially an additional speedforce ability but no crazy speedforce abilities. Not op.)

Wally West (past), Ace West, Avery Ho, Jesse Chambers, Daniel West, Christina Alexandrova, Jenni Ognats, Jai West (now), John Fox, Red Death, Don Allen, Dawn Allen, Meena Dhawan, Anatole, David Edwards (after), Judy Garrick, Bar Torr, Fastbak, Swoosh, Terri Magnus, Sela Allen, Jonathan Allen, Carrie Allen, Barry West, S'Kidd Flash, Thondor Allen, Jace Allen, Blaire Allen, Nora Allen, Agent Flashling, Danica Williams, Cherub

TRIES REALLY HARD:

(AKA normal connection but below average speed and abilities. Extremely beatable.)

Baroness Blitzkrieg, Johnny Chambers, Bebeck, Cassiopeia, Harold Christos, Inertia 2, Killspeed, Mayfly, Millie Heyday, Runaround Sue, Wind, Pellmell, Poprocket, Velocity, Gabriella Rossetti

OH NO:

(AKA needs outside assistance to access speedforce (suit, drugs, formula), faulty connection, connection is killing them, can only access powers for short periods of time, ect)

Jai West (past), Alinta (now), Owen Mercer, Eliza Harmon, Jerry McGee, Meloni Thawne (*see notes), Gregor Gregorovich, Boleslaw Uminski, Joanie Swift, Mas, Menos, David Edwards (previously), Keigo, Ezra Gill, Henry Cosgei, Jaculi, Jaculi 2, Jimmy Olsen, Xane Swift

So yeah, as you can see by this, although all speedsters with a functioning speedforce connection are technically capable of being op, speedsters rarely actually are op.

We're just really used to op speedsters because we're used to whatever the fuck Wally, Bart and Barry have going on. But they are very much not representative of speedsters as a whole.

Do you guys remember how fast Wally used to be? When he was younger and struggling with his speed and stuff? THAT'S THE GODDAMN AVERAGE. Wally AT HIS SLOWEST was still faster than every single goddamn speedster he came across, including Jay, Johnny, Jesse, the Blue Trinity, the Red Trinity, ect. HE JUST WASN'T FASTER THAN BARRY OR EOBARD SO HE THOUGHT HE WAS THE WORST. Because Wally is fucking insane. He's an insane human being. Anyway, Wally at his slowest is the typical representation of an average speedster. That's how they typically are.

#dc #dc comics #speedsters #speedforce #flash fam #ranking #k to explain some things. first none of the names are ranked by order. so I'm not ranking them 1 Wally 2 Bart ect #they're only ranked by category. not ranked within the categories #Irey isn't in the insane category because she's actually not supposed to be faster than Wally. she's just more skilled than him #so shes good (like really good) but she doesn't surpass her fathers speed. so im putting her in top until proven otherwise #lia is in above average despite not having super speed because the stuff she has going on is INSANE #the same thing applies to Jai #Meloni is in oh no because she is technically a speedster?? she's just never used her powers in a comic? but she's listed in universe as #being a speedster and Owen inherited his speed from her. so. idk. my only conclusion is that she doesn't know how to use her speed #or she doesn't use it to spite her father.#mas y menos are in oh no because they need to hold hands to access their powers #oh and Hunter's ranking is soley off of his speedforce connection. not his time powers. Hunter's time powers are insane #i tried to stay main universe but i couldn't resist putting in some alt universe speedsters #oh and Eobard and Thad aren't in the god level because Eobard has been reset meaning that he isn't really timeless like Wally and Bart are #and hes not literally the speedforce like Barry is (no matter how hard he tries)#and Thad isn't there because... well he was a good match for Bart when Bart was really little. but i don't really think Thad is any more #like... even remotely. Bart has surpassed Thad by a lot.#Bart was literally the speedforce at one point. hes insane #also Hunter WAS a god? but for unrelated reasons (his time powers) but getting connected to the speedforce nerfed him

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lostinspaceage82 · 2 years

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Sherry Jackson as Effra in Lost in Space. The episode is "The Space Croppers" from season 1. Original air date: 3/30/1966. Color edit by Guy Foster.

#lost in space #classic lost in space #the space croppers #effra #sherry jackson #major don west #mark goddard #60s #retro scifi #tv show

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leviathan-supersystem · 1 month

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You seem knowledgeable on the USSR, can you do a debunking of this post, or link me a source which debunks it?

https://www.tumblr.com/sanson-ki-mala-pe/746822120828502016/soviet-antisemitism-a-hundred-years-of-recycling

i don;t have time to address every claim made here, but it jumps out to me immediately that the source they're referencing, "More than a Century of Antisemitism: How Successive Occupants of the Kremlin Have Used Antisemitism to Spread Disinformation and Propaganda" is quite literally published by the US Department of State, and that this document in turn uses as one of it's major sources the Romanian defector Ion Mihai Pacepa, a controversial figure who's various claims have been frequently called into doubt even by those sympathetic to his cause.

for example, in this book review by the national catholic register [link], the author of the review, who is plainly sympathetic to Pacepa's anti-communist goals, nonetheless casts doubt on many of the claims he makes:

In the article “Moscow’s Assault on the Vatican,” published in 2007, Pacepa claimed he convinced legendary Vatican diplomat Msgr. Agostino Casaroli — later cardinal and secretary of state under Pope John Paul II — to let three Romanian agents, posing as priests, peruse the papal archives. Under scrutiny, Pacepa’s story began to unravel, with doubts expressed by historians and Vatican experts. Then the reason Pacepa claimed to have credibility with the Vatican collapsed: He said he had engineered a “spy trade” in 1959, exchanging jailed Romanian Archbishop Augustin Pacha for two spies caught in West Germany. But Archbishop Ioan Robu of Bucharest showed photos of the bishop’s 1954 crypt, explaining the heroic man was already dead when Pacepa claimed to have liberated him.

[...]

Vatican diplomats Cardinals Giovanni Cheli and Luigi Poggi were involved in negotiations with Romania and the Soviet bloc. Cardinal Cheli called Pacepa’s allegations “untruthful scenarios,” while Cardinal Poggi declared them “the product of a troubled mind and soul.” Archbishop Robu, who was consecrated by Cardinal Casaroli, emphatically calls the Pacepa account false: “We would know, it would be in our memories, if Romanian spies gained access to the Vatican Archives. It didn’t happen.”

[...]

In Disinformation, Pacepa credits KGB operations with everything from plotting the assassination of U.S. President John F. Kennedy to provoking the rise of Islamic extremism. In each scenario, he portrays himself as a witness to history — when his true rank and job description would never explain access to these events or decisions.

another similarly anti-communist catholic source is the catholic review, the official publication of the archdioces of baltimore. [link] they write:

Mr. Rychlak, the author of two books on Pope Pius and World War II, said he thinks Mr. Pacepa’s account needs to be verified in the Soviet archives. “Pacepa’s timing is questionable. Why hasn’t this story been revealed until now? I hope the United States government will declassify any information it has on this important matter, to spare the time a Freedom of Information Act request takes,” said Mr. Rychlak. John Cornwell, the British author of a 1999 book, “Hitler’s Pope: The Secret History of Pius XII,” told CNS he has never heard the claims described by Mr. Pacepa and considers them “most unlikely.” “As a supporter of NATO and the Western Alliance, it’s not inconceivable the pope could have been targeted (by the KGB). But I haven’t seen any credible documents indicating anyone doctored material,” said Mr. Cornwell, whose book was criticized by church officials for its negative portrayal of Pope Pius. Former colleagues of Mr. Pacepa, 79, expressed doubts about his story. “Between 1960 and 1962, when he pretends he ran Vatican spies, he was in Bucharest, assigned as a deputy in the techno-scientific section of Securitate (the Romanian secret police), where he stayed until he defected in 1978,” said a former high-ranking Securitate officer who would not allow his name to be used. “In the chain of command he would not have had direct communication with the KGB generals. If he did, that would make him a Soviet agent, not a Romanian one,” the source added. “In 1959, Pacepa was in Germany under diplomatic cover. He was a captain in Cologne with a degree in chemistry and belonged to the techno-scientific section. Again, the KGB generals wouldn’t have taken him into consideration,” said the source, who believes Mr. Pacepa is trying to build a “mysterious aura” for himself in his later years. “Why did he wait 29 years (since his defection) to reveal this? If it’s true, it would have made so much sense to put it on the table in 1981, after the Soviet-Bulgarian plot to assassinate Pope John Paul II,” the source said. A former Romanian diplomat of the communist era, who has advised the U.S. government, expressed “deep doubts” about the account. “Pacepa is not a serious source,” said the former diplomat. “His book ‘Red Horizons’ (1988) is about one-third fiction. He takes some real facts, and then invents. “I’m afraid he is just trying to bring attention to his persona. He invokes the Vatican because the Romanian Securitate has been exhausted and is a marginal issue,” he added. “Pacepa does not document. Given the gravity of the affirmations he makes, in order to be credible, he must unveil the source, himself, or otherwise it is fiction,” said the retired diplomat.

given Ion Mihai Pacepa's overall track record, i would certainly like to see some other source verifying the various claims that the "More Than A Century Of Antisemitism" cites from him, most especially the claim that the USSR distributed copies of the Protocols in arabic in the middle east, a claim I cannot find any other source for.

Edit: also i should note that one of the major thrusts of the "More Than A Century Of Antisemitism" document is to smear all criticism of Azov in Ukraine as somehow antisemitic, which is just ludicrous. regardless of how you feel about the war in Ukraine, there are legitimate criticisms to be made of Azov Battalion and the role they have played there.

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year

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The IRS will do your taxes for you (if that's what you prefer)

This Saturday (May 20), I’ll be at the GAITHERSBURG Book Festival with my novel Red Team Blues; then on May 22, I’m keynoting Public Knowledge’s Emerging Tech conference in DC.

On May 23, I’ll be in TORONTO for a book launch that’s part of WEPFest, a benefit for the West End Phoenix, onstage with Dave Bidini (The Rheostatics), Ron Diebert (Citizen Lab) and the whistleblower Dr Nancy Olivieri.

America is a world leader in allowing private companies to levy taxes on its citizens, including (stay with me here), a tax on paying your taxes.

In most of the world, the tax authorities prepare a return for each taxpayer, sending them a prepopulated form with all their tax details — collected from employers and other regulated entities, like pension funds and commodities brokers, who must report income to the tax office. If the form is correct, the taxpayer signs it and sends it back (in some countries, taxpayers don’t even have to do that — they just ignore the return unless they want to amend it).

No one has to use this system, of course. If you have complex finances, or cash income that doesn’t show up in mandatory reporting, or if you’d just prefer to prepare your own return or pay an accountant to do so for you, you can. But for the majority of people, those with income from a job or a pension, and predictable deductions, say, from caring for minor children, filing your annual tax return takes between zero and five minutes and costs absolutely nothing.

Not so in America. America is one of the very few rich countries (including Canada, though this is changing), where the government won’t just send you a form containing all the information it already has, ready to file. As is common in complex societies, America has a complex tax code (further complexified by deliberate obfuscation by billionaires and their lickspittle Congressjerks, who deliberately perforate the tax code with loopholes for the ultra-rich):

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/11/the-canada-variant/#shitty-man-of-history-theory

That complexity means that most of us can’t figure out how to file our own taxes, at least not without committing scarce hours out of the only life we will ever have to poring over the ramified and obscure maze of tax-law.

Why doesn’t the IRS just send you a tax-return? Well, because the tax-prep industry — an oligopoly dominated by a handful of massive, ultra-profitable firms — bribes Congress (that is, “lobbies”) to prohibit this. They are aided in this endeavor by swivel-eyed lunatic anti-tax obsessives, like Grover Nordquist and Americans for Tax Reform, who argue that paying taxes should be as difficult and painful as possible in order to foment opposition to taxation itself.

The tax-prep industry is dominated by a single firm, Intuit, who took over tax-prep through its anticompetitive acquisition of TurboTax, itself a chimera of multiple companies gobbled up in a decades-long merger orgy. Inuit is a freaky company. For decades, its defining CEO Brad Smith ran the company as a cult of personality organized around his trite sayings, like “Do whatever makes your heart beat fastest,” stenciled on t-shirts worn by employees. Other employees donned Brad Smith masks for selfies with their Beloved Leader.

Smith’s cult also spent decades lobbying to keep the IRS from offering a free filing service. Instead, Intuit joined a cartel that offered a “Free File” service to some low- and medium-income Americans:

https://www.propublica.org/article/inside-turbotax-20-year-fight-to-stop-americans-from-filing-their-taxes-for-free

But the cartel sabotaged Free File from the start. They blocked search engines from indexing their Free File services, then bought Google ads for “free file” that directed searchers to soundalike programs (“Free Filing,” etc) that hit them for hundreds of dollars in tax-prep fees. They also funneled users to versions of Free File they were ineligible for, a fact that was only revealed after the user spent hours painstaking entering their financial information, whereupon they would be told that they could either start over or pay hundreds of dollars to finish filing with a commercial product.

Intuit also pioneered the use of binding arbitration waivers that stripped its victims of the right to sue the company after it defrauded them. This tactic blew up in Intuit’s face after its victims banded together to mass-file thousands of arbitration claims, sending the company to court to argue that binding arbitration wasn’t enforceable after all:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/24/uber-for-arbitration/#nibbled-to-death-by-ducks

But justice eventually caught up with Intuit. After a series of stinging exposes by Propublica journalists Justin Elliot, Paul Kiel and others, NY Attorney General Letitia James led a coalition of AGs from all 50 states and DC that extracted a $141m settlement for 4.4 million Americans who had been tricked into paying for Turbotax services they were entitled to get for free:

https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/us/turbotax-to-begin-payouts-after-it-cheated-customers-new-york-ag-says/ar-AA1aNXfi

Fines are one thing, but the only way to comprehensively end the predatory tax-prep scam is to bring the USA kicking and screaming into the 20th century, when most of the rest of the world brought in free tax-prep for ordinary income earners. That’s just what’s happening: the IRS is trialing a free tax prep service for next year’s tax season:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/business/2023/05/15/irs-free-file/

This, despite Intuit’s all-out blitz attack on Congress and the IRS to keep free tax-prep from ever reaching the American people:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/20/turbotaxed/#counter-intuit

That charm offensive didn’t stop the IRS from releasing a banger of a report that made it clear that free tax-prep was the most efficient, humane and cost-effective way to manage an advanced tax-system (something the rest of the world has known for decades):

https://www.irs.gov/pub/irs-pdf/p5788.pdf

Of course, Intuit is furious, as in spitting feathers. Rick Heineman, Intuit’s spokesprofiteer, told KQED that “A direct-to-IRS e-file system is wholly redundant and is nothing more than a solution in search of a problem. That solution will unnecessarily cost taxpayers billions of dollars and especially harm the most vulnerable Americans.”

https://www.kqed.org/news/11949746/the-irs-is-building-its-own-online-tax-filing-system-tax-prep-companies-arent-happy

Despite Upton Sinclair’s advice that “it is difficult to get a man to understand something, when his salary depends on his not understanding it,” I will now attempt to try to explain to Heineman why he is unfuckingbelievably, eye-wateringly wrong.

“e-file…is wholly redundant”: Well, no, Rick, it’s not redundant, because there is no existing Free File system except for the one your corrupt employer made and hid “in the bottom of a locked filing cabinet stuck in a disused lavatory with a sign on the door saying ‘Beware of the Leopard.’”

“nothing more than a solution in search of a problem”: The problem this solves is that Americans have to pay Intuit billions to pay their taxes. It’s a tax on paying taxes. That is a problem.

“unnecessarily cost taxpayers billions of dollars”: No, it will save taxpayers the billions of dollars (they pay you).

“harm the most vulnerable Americans”: Here is an area where Heineman can speak with authority, because few companies have more experience harming vulnerable Americans.

Take the Child Tax Credit. This is the most successful social program in living memory, a single initiative that did more to lift American children out of poverty than any other since the days of the Great Society. It turns out that giving poor people money makes them less poor, which is weird, because neoliberal economists have spent decades assuring us that this is not the case:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/16/mortgages-are-rent-control/#housing-is-a-human-right-not-an-asset

But the Child Tax Credit has been systematically sabotaged, by Intuit lobbyists, who successfully added layer after layer of red tape — needless complexity that makes it nearly impossible to claim the credit without expert help — from the likes of Intuit:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/29/three-times-is-enemy-action/#ctc

It worked. As Ryan Cooper writes in The American Prospect: “between 13 and 22 percent of EITC benefits are gulped down by tax prep companies”:

https://prospect.org/economy/2023-05-17-irs-takes-welcome-step-20th-century/

So yes, I will defer to Rick Heineman and his employer Intuit on the subject of “harming the most vulnerable Americans.” After all, they’re the experts. National champions, even.

Now I want to address the peply guys who are vibrating with excitement to tell me about their 1099 income, the cash money they get from their lemonade stand, the weird flow of krugerrands their relatives in South African FedEx to them twice a year, etc, that means that free file won’t work for them because the IRS doesn’t actually understand their finances.

That’s a hard problem, all right. Luckily, there is a very simple answer for this: use a tax-prep service.

Actually, it’s not a hard problem. Just use a tax-prep service. That’s it. No one is going to force you to use the IRS’s free e-file. All you need to do to avoid the socialist nightmare of (checks notes) living with less red-tape is: continue to do exactly what you’re already doing.

Same goes for those of you who have a beloved family accountant you’ve used since the Eisenhower administration. All you need to do to continue to enjoy the advice of that trusted advisor is…nothing. That’s it. Simply don’t change anything.

One final note, addressing the people who are worried that the IRS will cheat innocent taxpayers by not giving them all the benefits they’re entitled to. Allow me here to simply tap the sign that says “between 13 and 22 percent of EITC benefits are gulped down by tax prep companies.” In other words, when you fret about taxpayers being ripped off, you’re thinking of Intuit, not the IRS. Just calm down. Why not try using fluoridated toothpaste? You’ll feel better, and I promise I won’t tell your friends at the Gadsen Flag appreciation society.

Your secret is safe with me.

Catch me on tour with Red Team Blues in Toronto, DC, Gaithersburg, Oxford, Hay, Manchester, Nottingham, London, and Berlin!

If you’d like an essay-formatted version of this thread to read or share, here’s a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/17/free-as-in-freefile/#tell-me-something-i-dont-know

[Image ID: A vintage drawing of Uncle Sam toasting with a glass of Champagne, superimposed over an IRS 1040 form that has been fuzzed into a distorted halftone pattern.]

#pluralistic #earned income tax credit #eitc #irs #grover nordquist #guillotine watch #turbotax #taxes #death and taxes #freefile #monopoly #intuit

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