Yesterday, a teacher at my daughter’s preschool told me that she saw two boys and a girl spinning the knobs of a play oven. Boy #1 says: “I’m a pilot! I’m flying a plane.’ Boy #2 says: “Me too!” The girl is quiet, so the teacher says to her: “What about you, are you a pilot?” The 3 year old girl replies: “I can’t be a pilot. I’m a pilot’s wife.”
So what do you think has happened in this little girl’s short life to make her believe it’s more likely that she would be a pilot’s wife than a pilot?"
you know actually it was super important to me that these guys and the vast majority of front-of-train people, and all the people in the highest positions of power were all white. snowpiercer is the least subtle allegory to ever allegory— bunch of white guys pulling the strings, fucking shit up, proselytizing at each other and choosing another white dude to succeed them?
and the one white dude who changes the paradigm choosing to ally himself with and protect poc children at great personal cost (not just that scene at the end where he sacrificed himself to protect yona and timmy, but also in the axegang scene when he physically stepped in front of yona). the fact that he was tempted was important, the fact that in the end he chose to sacrifice comfort and a good life and align himself with the marginalized and oppressed was so important.
another way to look at it: namgoong was always resisting, he was always ready to tear down the system. curtis saw what the system had to offer and he was seconds away from taking it— but he was the only one offered it and probably the only one who WOULD be offered it. compare and contrast to how people who weren’t considered white in the US chose to be complicit (e.g. the irish) and managed to gain all the advantages of a white cultural identity but only because they looked a certain way.
the difference is that seconds away from being indoctrinated, curtis glimpsed the cost of buying into that system (what it costs to people he cares deeply about) and he decided FUCK ALL THAT SHIT LET’S BLOW THIS FUCKER and he needed namgoong’s initiative and yona’s help to do it (alternatively, namgoong needed curtis’s help to do it because curtis was the only one with the opportunity to get that close to wilford presumably cause wilford and gilliam were racist af)
The thing that gets me, the hardest, is the fact he basically DID accept it at the end, until Yona shows him the truth about the Engine…. the Engine cannot be reformed, it cannot be “fixed”, even if you tried to restructure the society, the very Engine itself has to run on abusive, horrid exploitation and violence.
The french have grown more powerful.
Look more closely at these photographs, Your Honor.
Notice anything strange about the bread?
I didn’t either. That’s because…
…no cuts were made there in the first place!
The witness forged the photographs to make it look like they had an actual bread knife, when they actually did not!
How, you ask? Look to the second photo.
While it is quite obvious that the knife is penetrating the top half of the breadstick, I’m not sure about the bottom half.
Looks pretty flat, doesn’t it?
The angle of the photo makes it look like the knife is in the witness’s breadstick, whilst it is actually behind it. In addition, the cut was actually made after the first photograph and before the second. Continue to the third photograph.
It is also taken from a flat angle, as was the second photograph. I’m sure you’re finding something missing in this photograph as well, Your Honor. Where is the index finger’s fingertip?
This illustration explains it all.
While I am… ahem, not the best artist…
(Didn’t I go to art school?)
The index finger is hidden behind the loaf of bread. It is not wrapping around the loaf of bread. This is because…
The witness was making space to put the knife’s handle!
Are you really that dull, Wright? For a man who majored in art you should be able to recognize a sculpture when you see one.
as we can see from the photos provided, this is quite obviously plastic.
if you look at any photo of real bread it can’t attain that level of shininess, and even if it could.
If you’ll notice in this picture, the bread on the inside is quite shiny, as well.
Tell me, Wright, have you ever seen real bread gleam that much? Don’t answer that, I will.
Even in this high-resolution photograph with bread that thick, it obviously wouldn’t shine on the inside when it isn’t buttered.
And it isn’t too hard to find the item in question with a quick google search.
Oh, and if you will notice, their hand was covering the seam where the bread was taken apart in the first photo with a simple comparison of the pattern on the bread.
It appears your lawyering skills are in much need of some sharpening if you expect to cut me down with that weak objection.
Edgeworth, you’re asking yourself the wrong question. It’s not “is there bread like that…”
You should be asking “can there be bread like that?”
Sweet bread can be infused with sugar or a syrup, making the outsides shinier- and the insides sweeter. Take a look.
Furthermore. there are parts of the witness’s bread knife that don’t just match up with the novelty bread knives you have presented. Take another look.
Let me point out two things about the novelty knives: one, their markings, and two, the placement of the knife itself.
In the novelty knives, the marks are artificial-looking and repeated. That is because they are manufactured. In the witness’s photo, the marks are more natural and realistic- because they are, well, real!
Furthermore, the blades on the novelty knives are in the middle of the handle.
But… look back at the witness’s photo. The knife is to the left? Where is the problem, you ask? Look at this illustration.
Here we have the knife, a piece of bread, and a table. Let’s have a go.
I’m sure you see it now, Your Honor.
The bread knife cannot actually be used to cut bread efficiently! Even if it was tilted, it would be uncomfortable and unbalanced!
The defense has an explanation for this positioning.
The blade is to the left because the witness was holding it behind the piece of bread!
what the actual fuck tumblr
my favourite patrick stump tweets
[sequel to this, maybe]
The only thing that women have to do to be called a “man hater” is name male violence. That is it, any analysis they might have is brushed aside for being too “angry” or too narrowly focused.But when was the last time you heard a man called “woman hater”? Even when men are abusive, or rapists, or johns, or even when they kill women, they are not given that label. His actions are typically explained away, or at worse shoved to the fault of his victim.
I could talk about the PE teacher in my town who was asked to resign due to his harassment of female students, who was then hired as a school bus driver for a rural route with both primary and high school students. I could talk about how, from the age of seven, I refused to wear skirts or dresses, and from the time I entered high school at 10 to when I moved at 16 I always wore bike shorts or CCC shorts under my dress, because he was not particularly subtle about the way he looked at us – and those bus steps are high. I could talk about how this was common knowledge and was never denied by any authority figure we ever raised it with, but rather we were just kind of brushed off. I could talk about how, sometimes, I was the last person on my bus in the afternoon and I was never quite sure if something bad would happen to me, even though for a long time I probably couldn’t have articulated what it was that I feared.
I could talk about how I spent ten years of my childhood believing it was perfectly normal and acceptable for a seven year old child to stop wearing her favourite clothes because a grown man she relies on to get to and from school from a relatively remote location gets a thrill from looking up her skirt.
I could talk about the art teacher at my high school who used to run his hands up and down our backs, right along the spot where your bra sits. Considering most of us were fairly new to wearing bras in the first place, this was a decidedly uncomfortable experience. I could talk about how he used to get just a little too close for comfort in the supply room. Nothing overt, nothing nameable – just enough to make you drag someone else along with you if you needed a fresh piece of paper or you ran out of ink. I could talk about how the odd comment or complaint that was made was completely handwaved, that we were told to be very careful about what we were saying, that we could get someone in a lot of trouble by “starting those kinds of rumours”, and did we really want to be responsible for that?
I could talk about the first time I was made to feel ashamed of my body, at twelve or thirteen, getting into a water fight with my stepfather and uncle in the height of summer. I could talk about my grandmother completely flipping out, talking about how disgusting it was, how grown men should be ashamed of the way they were behaving with a girl. I could talk about how she then spent the next few hours trying to convince me I was being somehow victimised, while I was mostly confused about what had taken place – it took me a long time to work it out. I could talk about the unvoiced but ever-present fear for months afterwards that my grandma would bring it up again, that she would bring it up in the wrong place or to the wrong people and that my uncle, a schoolteacher, would suffer for it.
I could talk about how that destroyed what had been a fantastic relationship with my uncle, and how, ten years later, he still won’t hug me at Christmas.
I could talk about being called a frigid bitch and a slut in the same breath in high school. I could talk about multiple instances of sitting in a big group of friends, hearing someone trying to get into someone else’s pants, starting off sweet enough but quickly descending into emotional manipulation and thinly veiled abuse. I could talk about the time I went off with someone willingly enough and being followed by someone I considered a friend, someone who would not leave no matter how many times I said “no”, who only went away when the person I was with said that he “didn’t feel like sharing”.
I could talk about the family friend who always made me feel a little bit off for no discernible reason. The one who if I was left alone in the room with him, I would always find an excuse to leave. The one time I expressed this, I was told I was being a drama queen, and that I needed to grow up and stop being so precious, that one day I was going to have to deal with people I didn’t like and I might as well get used to it. I could talk about how he never did anything untoward, never gave me any specific reason to feel unsafe – but years after I last saw him, when he was found guilty of four historical sexual assault charges, one of rape and three of indecent assault on girls under twelve, I was, for reasons I still don’t entirely understand, completely unsurprised.
I could talk about my boyfriend justifying his rape of me with “you could have fought me off if you really wanted you, you slut”. I could talk about how, when I tried to tell people, I was told I was being a nasty, spiteful, vindictive bitch. I could talk about how selfish it was of me to say such things, that he’d overcome such a hard life and was going to go on and make something of himself, who the hell was I to try and stand in his way?
I could talk about how my response to being raped was to sleep with anyone and everyone because I rationalised that if I never said no, then no one could force me. I could talk about how I have been told time and time again, by people who should know better, that this is a sign that I wasn’t really raped at all.
I could talk about how, when I finally worked up the courage to make a formal complaint of sexual harassment against my boss, I was asked why I had let it continue for so long, and what I had done to make him think his behaviour would be welcomed.
I could talk about how when a much later boss got me completely wasted at my leaving party, to the point where I couldn’t walk, and fucked me in a back alley, he waited until I was sober the next morning to tell me that he had a pregnant wife, because he heard through the grapevine that I was very strict about not sleeping with married people or straight women, and he thought I should “learn my place” and realise that I’m “not such a high and mighty bitch with a moral high ground after all”.
I could talk about these things, but I very rarely do. Since I was seven years old, I have been told that my body is not my own, that my consent is not my own, that my feelings of discomfort are not my own. I have taught myself to suppress my gut instinct upon meeting people. I have been taught to smile, to be polite, to suck it up if I feel unsafe. When I complain, I have been told I’m being irrational, oversensitive, and selfish. The underlying message is, how dare I try and ascertain any kind of control over my own body?
I should talk about it. But I don’t actually know whether I can."
i think i can accurately say that i can crush a man’s head with my thighs