Mischief Night refers to October 30, the night before Halloween. It is “an informal holiday on which people engage in jokes, pranks, vandalism, or parties.” (Of course, every night is Mischief Night for these three!)
i would try human meat if there were no repercussions and i would fuck my clone and i would do any of the weird philosophical shit you guys put in your polls. im a real go-getter in this sense
me in any given ethical debate just wanting to have a little bit of fun
Thinking about all those youtubers and streamers who generally stayed nonpolitical as not to alienate anyone but who absolutely could not handle it when that hogwarts game came out and their progressive audiences were telling them to maybe not play/review that one and they’d throw a fat tantrum like “no you don’t get it it’s my job this is the biggest game of the year I can’t not play it” and now we’re a few months along and fucking nobody is talking about it anymore cause it wasn’t even good. Was it worth it
Imagine trying to explain online media piracy to a medieval peasant. If you managed to avoid getting stuck on trying to explain what the internet is or what a movie is, you’d get to the point where you’re like “so the thing itself is a copy of a copy, infinite and immaterial, so obtaining it in these outlaw ways takes nothing out of someone else’s hands. It used to be that people argued it was taking the bread from the table of the people who created the content, but it turns out that the official distributor isn’t compensating them for their work anyhow.”
And this guy just nods along like “ah, like the printing presses. I was taught to read and write you know, and once used the gift I was given to sin. I wrote out in grand detail of all the ways I would wish to fuck the miller’s wife. Some typeblock-clacking print rat got his hands on it and is now printing copies of Confessions of Lewd Sinner Unnamed at great profit. I cannot take the matter to court because the miller is strong enough to pick up an ox and knows where I live.”
Without hyperbole government offices that take half an hour of waiting to get anywhere and close at 4pm are are a form of oppression against the working class
gonna start saying “you couldn’t make x movie today” but for reasons unrelated to political correctness
you couldn’t make Home Alone 2: Lost in New York today because the strict airport regulations put into place after 9/11 make it nigh impossible for a child to simply walk onto the wrong plane
You couldn’t make American psycho today because Christian Bale would actually kill Jared Leto for real
Last week I accidentally took an edible at 10x my usual dose. I say “accidentally” but it was really more of a “my friend held it out to my face and I impulsively swallowed it like a python”, which was technically on purpose but still an accident in that my squamate instincts acted faster than my ability to assess the situation and ask myself if I really wanted to get Atreides high or not.
Anyway. I was painting the wall when it hit. My friend heard me make a noise and asked what was wrong—I explained that I had just fallen through several portals. I realized that painting the wall fulfilled my entire hierarchy of needs, and was absolutely sure that I was on track to escaping the cycle of samsara if I just kept at it a little longer. I was thwarted on my journey towards nirvana only by the fact that I ran out of paint.
Seeking a surrogate act of humble service through which I might be redeemed and made human, I turned to unwashed dishes in the sink and took up the holy weapon of the sponge. I was partway through cleaning the blender when it REALLY hit.
You ever clean a blender? It’s a shockingly intimate act. They are complex tools. One of the most complicated denizens of the kitchen. Glass and steel and rubber and plastic. Fuck! They’ve got gaskets. You can’t just scrub ‘em and rinse them down like any other piece of shit dish. You’ve got to dissemble them piece by piece, groove by sensitive groove, taking care to lavish the spinning blades with cautious attention. There’s something sensual about it. Something strangely vulnerable.
As I stood there, turning the pieces over in my hands, I thought about all the things we ask of blenders. They don’t have an easy job. They are hard laborers taking on a thankless task. I have used them so roughly in my haste for high-density smoothies, pushing them to their limits and occasionally breaking them. I remembered the smell of acrid smoke and decaying rubber that filled the kitchen in the break room the last time I tried to make a smoothie at work—the motor overtaxed and melted, the gasket cracked and brittle. Strawberry slurry leaked out of it like the blood of a slain animal.
Was this blender built to last? Or was it doomed to an early grave in some distant landfill by the genetic disorder of planned obsolescence? I didn’t know, and was far too high to make an educated guess. But I knew that whatever care and tenderness and empathy I put into it, the more respect for the partnership of man and machine, the better it would perform for me.
This thought filled me with a surge of affection. However long its lifespan, I wanted it to be filled with dignity and love and understanding. I thought: I bet no one has hugged this blender before. And so I lifted it from its base.
A blender is roughly the size and shape of a human baby. Cradling one in your arms satisfies a primal need. A month ago I was permitted to hold an infant for the first time in my life, an experience which was physically and psychologically healing. I felt an echo of that satisfaction holding my friend the blender, and the thought of parting with it felt even more ridiculous than bringing it with me to hang out on my friend’s bed.
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