Social Justice Warriors - Now With Less Feminism Sperging

[existencialdispointment]

the count had already reported on it

 

[Lucille Bluth]

I think its because Hispanics rank higher than east Asians on the progressive stack so she can take an Asian role.

Sorry for the late reply. Anyways if they cast an Actress from East Asia, some Asian Americans and SJWs would moan about why couldn't an Asian American do it. But if do they get Asian American actors, then some Asians audiences might not view the Asian American actors as being "Asian" because they were likely born and spent the majority of their life in America.

The idea that slavery is an inherently black narative is pretty amusing.

West Asians and North Africans had slaves from Europe. But there are people who refuse to acknowledge this.

I remember the authors whole ordeal being deemed "problematic" and I gotta wonder why are so many people are obsessed with applying our concept of race in fantasy worlds with magical beings? Funny how the article further mentions outrage because of the "black experience and slavery" and later mentions how they turn on a gay black writer for daring to make his villain Muslim.

As long as the actor lacks pale skin, they don't care about race accurate casting.

Many East Asians tend to be pretty white in skin tone. So to combat this, I've seen SJWs who try to "darken" pale skinned anime characters to show more... "skin tone diversity". Even if there are already several prominent dark skinned characters.

This reminds me of a Legend of Korra comic. It's my understanding that the cartoon took inspiration from various Northern Native American and East Asian cultures in the Elemental nations but in order to be even more "diverse" an author decided to add more West Asians, Southeast Asians, South Asians and African people into the background as refugees.. even though we already have a world based on "minority culture".

I also wondered, if they ever do make a Hollywood adaptation of one of the main series games, how would the cast work without "angering" PC people. I mean Misty's a redhead with pale skin and blue eyes:

 

[Recoil]

Not sure if this belongs here, if it doesn't? I apologize.

Piss Date

I have found the path to world peace, and it’s drinking another man’s piss

humanparts.medium.com

Spoiler: These people gave you the new adpocalypse

For quite some time, I’ve been fascinated with piss. I’ve racked my brain to find a hidden wound from the past that would shed some urine on why I have the desire for someone to piss into my mouth. Something in me must be warped, right?

The immediate assumption that I’m warped may go back to childhood. I went to a private academy for elementary school. Its sole purpose, seemingly, was to make one feel guilty for listening to rock music, even Christian rock music. How dare ye listen to the evils of Steven Curtis Chapman and DC Talk? The school also seemed intent on making one feel guilty for even existing.

Somewhere amid being paddled, memorizing entire pages of scripture, singing hymns for our parents while holding Bibles in the air like swords, and laying the groundwork for a decent education, my friends and I showed our cocks to each other in the bathroom. A superficial, evolutionary pecking order was established: small, medium, large. The power dynamic of the group seemed to follow that order, too.

Or maybe it was morality-based: dicks were bad, decent, and perfect. Or possibly value-based: cheap dick, okay-quality dick, and the best dick. Whether it was Darwin in our minds, Jesus in our hearts, or rampant American capitalism, unless we were the big cock, most of us felt inadequate.

Maybe it was the power of that devil lady Amy Grant, but somehow in those Christian bathrooms we laid the groundwork for a sick view of masculinity based on competition, comparison, and cock size.

I was medium-sized, and I felt both proud I wasn’t smallest and ashamed I wasn’t biggest. Because of this shame, for the longest time I had trouble pissing in urinals — even into my twenties. I was pee shy, which exacerbated my self-loathing and validated the idea that I was ever-so-slightly less of a man, until I bought a book called Shy Bladder Syndrome and slowly taught myself out of the fear.

Thankfully, after much learning, unlearning, hole-opening sexual experiences, soul-opening spiritual experiences, therapy, global traveling, and violent masturbation, I’ve realized I’m perfect exactly as I am. There’s nothing I need to fix, to make smaller or bigger. I am not inadequate, bad, or warped. I am not guilty or ashamed of being me. My perfection comes not from comparison, but from my uniqueness. No one has ever had a dick or a soul like mine, and no one ever will.
And part of that unique perfection is my apparent sexualization of urinals and pissing and bathrooms in general, regardless of whether Christian rock music is playing. I’ve accepted it. I like it. It’s well and good. But I had never really acted on it—until recently.
I like the idea of a man pissing onto my face, onto my chest, into my mouth, into my asshole, and looking up at him being in total control. I love the idea of a man marking his territory like a goddamn wolf—but all over me, owning me and making me his own, forever connecting me and staining me as his. Perhaps I’m drawn to this because for the most part when people see me — muscles, mustache, big intimidating body and booty — they assume I’m a total dom daddy top.

I am a paradox, a sexual kaleidoscope, a tsunami of fluid desires!

And I’ve had my moments in that realm, but lately I’ve just been so damn cock hungry it can be almost painful, especially here in L.A., walking down the street and falling in love with man-beauties every two goddamn minutes. I’m convinced the most beautiful men in the world scurry around L.A.
Is it the power of defying expectations? The thrill of proving to the world you’re not just one thing, but many things? I am not small, or medium, or large; I am everything. I am not dominant or submissive; I am everything. I am a paradox, a sexual kaleidoscope, a tsunami of fluid desires!
Relatively big hairy muscle dude gets made into a piss-covered bitch.
Somehow that headline feels right and nice to me.
[Side note: Lately I’ve been experimenting with Ecstasy too, in moderation — yes, my Christian schooling still comes into play — going out dancing until 4 a.m. (not 6 a.m., because that would be crazy) in just boots and a jockstrap and making out with as many hot dudes as possible. It has been glorious, and I feel like I’m truly living my #BestLife.]
The other weekend we went to one of those massive gay dance parties that are having a renaissance in L.A. (or maybe it just seems that way because I’ve started going to them). Hordes of shirtless men, cocks out in the dark, fuckin’ lasers, balloons, bubbles filled with smoke, leather, jockstraps, glitter, muscles, streamers that explode onto the crowds as muscled-up go-go boys covered in paint dance and prance around on stage — it’s heaven. At this party in particular the music was phenomenal, and so was the choice of men.
I saw two extremely hairy, extremely muscular dudes dancing shirtless, high out of their frickin’ minds, and I thought, That’ll do, pig.
I slithered my sweaty body between the two of them, and they loved it. One in particular was exactly how I would draw my fantasy man. Each pec had its own zip code. He actually resembled some of the first gay porn pics I ever looked at, very Tom of Finland. After their high calmed down a bit and they could actually form coherent sentences, I exchanged info with the one I liked.
Turns out this dude was/is a complete dom leather top piss daddy. He sent me all sorts of things he was going to use on me, basically a whole 50 Shades of Gay collection. After douching about 400 times — and also once at the gas station near his place, just to be sure I was ready for anything — I walked into his place. Shirts quickly came off, exposing our magically manly chests, and I robotically made my way to his leather boots.
I found myself licking them as he spanked my ass and called me a good boy. His nipples were the most sensitive I’ve ever encountered; when I touched them he shivered and groaned and then slapped my ass again. Then the nipple clamps came out—for me. My nipples aren’t wired, as the gays say, meaning they aren’t connected to my cock and balls.
So dom daddy decided to force the connection. A chain attached the nipple clamps together, and he tied a leather strap to that chain and wrapped my cock and balls in the strap, so it acted like a combination cock ring-leash he could use to pull me around the room, which he did.
Later he put on leather gloves and switched into a leather vest, which felt very Mr. Rogers unnecessary, like every time he’d get one of those damn sweaters from the closet. It didn’t make much sense, except for the fact that now was apparently the leather vest time of the evening. I went with it.
The amount of leather this man had was impressive. He even had a leather sling, which we did not get to use — next time? Eventually he fucked the shit out of me the way you would expect—rough thrusts and lots of manly grunts—yet there were also tender moments, which were wonderfully surprising. That tenderness later turned into more aggressive thrusting, which culminated with him cumming into my ass.

No hesitation. I wanted that piss, folks. That’s what I came here to do.

After some heavy panting and both of us lying exhausted on his bed for a few minutes, he slowly turned his head to me and whispered deeply, as if we were sweaty Navy bunkmates on a rusty yellow submarine, “You want me to piss on you?”
There, in my sweaty jockstrap, I said, “Yes. Yes I do. Yes please.” No hesitation. I wanted that piss, folks. That’s what I came here to do. It was a piss date for god’s sake, and so I was gonna make it a goddamn piss date.
We waltzed to the bathroom. I wasn’t sure if he wanted me in the stand-up shower or in the tub or on the tile. I was nervous and confused. “Get in the fuckin’ tub,” he said.
Okay, yes sir.
It took him a bit of time to relax enough to pee. And so I patiently waited for my prize, vigorously masturbating, looking up at this hairy man-god.
This all felt like years in the making, as if I were finally accepting part of myself that I had hidden for way too long. I felt like he was my sex angel. My sex-piss-angel, as it were. I thought maybe he first showed up when I was scared of what it meant to be a man, afraid I didn’t measure up at the urinal, afraid medium meant I was less valuable than large, afraid the entire world thought I didn’t deserve to exist, afraid I’d never be satisfying to anyone, especially myself.
Perhaps that’s when my sex-piss-angel showed up in the dark. From that day on, he secretly flew with me everywhere I went, around the world, until we could finally meet, manifested here, in human form, golden hour in West Hollywood, in a bathtub of so many of my sparkly sexual fantasies.
He had been with me during all those years of shame and fear, he had been with me when I finally opened up to loving men, and especially opened up to loving myself and all that makes me, me—weird fetishes, exact dick measurements, and all.
And as I closed my eyes, kneeling in complete patience, complete presence, a warmth I had never felt dripped all over my face, anointing my head with piss, dripping down into my mustache, down my neck, my hairy chest, into my jockstrap, onto my dick, and down the drain, on its way to an ocean full of fish piss.
He thought he didn’t have to pee at first, but boy did he. He just kept going and going, and I kept loving it and loving it. And then, as if drinking the blood of Christ (or the piss of Christ, perhaps), I slowly opened up my mouth, and — like aiming for the fly inside a porcelain urinal — he went straight for my tongue and down my throat. I gulped and gulped that thick warm manly stream.

I felt united with all men, all humiliation, all exaltation.

I kept drinking it. I couldn’t help but think, Finally. This is what it’s like, and it was even better than my fantasy. I felt united with all men, all humiliation, all exaltation. It was as if small, medium, and large had merged into one, and it just felt like pure manhood warming my soul, my throat, my heart. How silly I was until this moment. Funny how being covered in another man’s piss brings so much clarity.
When you drink another man’s piss, you really have to surrender to what is, what you are, all that you are, the ultimate form of shocking acceptance. I thought butt sex was the ultimate surrender, especially if the dude’s dick is the size of an eggplant. I thought there would be less war if we all just got fucked in the ass more often.
But no, my friends, it’s drinking piss. Perhaps instead of building walls at the borders of our countries and at the borders of our hearts, we should just drink each other’s piss, the warmth of men from around the world, and maybe then that heaven God has been preparing for us—while we raise our Bibles in the air like swords together, crossing streams—would finally be welcomed here on earth. Peace. Goodwill. And piss on men.
Plus, piss really doesn’t taste too bad, provided one drinks plenty of water or beer or pineapple juice that day. Funny thing is, dom-top-piss-daddy-leather-god-sex-angel had been coaching me all week leading up to our piss date, reminding me to drink my own piss so I’d get used to the taste, so I’d be used to his taste.
At first I scoffed at the idea, until, as if awakened by angels once again, I got up in the middle of the night needing to pee. I kept a glass near the sink just in case, which sat there unused for days, ready for this moment—like milk and cookies for Santa, or just pure piss for me.
In my sleepy haze I reached for the glass, squirted a bit of my man juices within, and slowly raised my hand in the air, grasping the cup like a sword of sorts as it sparkled in the bathroom light. I raised my glass to loving myself completely, to trusting myself most. I raised my glass to the calm music of my own steady stream.

 

[AnOminous]

Not sure if this belongs here, if it doesn't? I apologize.

Piss Date

I have found the path to world peace, and it’s drinking another man’s piss

humanparts.medium.com

Spoiler: These people gave you the new adpocalypse

For quite some time, I’ve been fascinated with piss. I’ve racked my brain to find a hidden wound from the past that would shed some urine on why I have the desire for someone to piss into my mouth. Something in me must be warped, right?

The immediate assumption that I’m warped may go back to childhood. I went to a private academy for elementary school. Its sole purpose, seemingly, was to make one feel guilty for listening to rock music, even Christian rock music. How dare ye listen to the evils of Steven Curtis Chapman and DC Talk? The school also seemed intent on making one feel guilty for even existing.

Somewhere amid being paddled, memorizing entire pages of scripture, singing hymns for our parents while holding Bibles in the air like swords, and laying the groundwork for a decent education, my friends and I showed our cocks to each other in the bathroom. A superficial, evolutionary pecking order was established: small, medium, large. The power dynamic of the group seemed to follow that order, too.

Or maybe it was morality-based: dicks were bad, decent, and perfect. Or possibly value-based: cheap dick, okay-quality dick, and the best dick. Whether it was Darwin in our minds, Jesus in our hearts, or rampant American capitalism, unless we were the big cock, most of us felt inadequate.

Maybe it was the power of that devil lady Amy Grant, but somehow in those Christian bathrooms we laid the groundwork for a sick view of masculinity based on competition, comparison, and cock size.

I was medium-sized, and I felt both proud I wasn’t smallest and ashamed I wasn’t biggest. Because of this shame, for the longest time I had trouble pissing in urinals — even into my twenties. I was pee shy, which exacerbated my self-loathing and validated the idea that I was ever-so-slightly less of a man, until I bought a book called Shy Bladder Syndrome and slowly taught myself out of the fear.

Thankfully, after much learning, unlearning, hole-opening sexual experiences, soul-opening spiritual experiences, therapy, global traveling, and violent masturbation, I’ve realized I’m perfect exactly as I am. There’s nothing I need to fix, to make smaller or bigger. I am not inadequate, bad, or warped. I am not guilty or ashamed of being me. My perfection comes not from comparison, but from my uniqueness. No one has ever had a dick or a soul like mine, and no one ever will.
And part of that unique perfection is my apparent sexualization of urinals and pissing and bathrooms in general, regardless of whether Christian rock music is playing. I’ve accepted it. I like it. It’s well and good. But I had never really acted on it—until recently.
I like the idea of a man pissing onto my face, onto my chest, into my mouth, into my asshole, and looking up at him being in total control. I love the idea of a man marking his territory like a goddamn wolf—but all over me, owning me and making me his own, forever connecting me and staining me as his. Perhaps I’m drawn to this because for the most part when people see me — muscles, mustache, big intimidating body and booty — they assume I’m a total dom daddy top.

And I’ve had my moments in that realm, but lately I’ve just been so damn cock hungry it can be almost painful, especially here in L.A., walking down the street and falling in love with man-beauties every two goddamn minutes. I’m convinced the most beautiful men in the world scurry around L.A.
Is it the power of defying expectations? The thrill of proving to the world you’re not just one thing, but many things? I am not small, or medium, or large; I am everything. I am not dominant or submissive; I am everything. I am a paradox, a sexual kaleidoscope, a tsunami of fluid desires!
Relatively big hairy muscle dude gets made into a piss-covered bitch.
Somehow that headline feels right and nice to me.
[Side note: Lately I’ve been experimenting with Ecstasy too, in moderation — yes, my Christian schooling still comes into play — going out dancing until 4 a.m. (not 6 a.m., because that would be crazy) in just boots and a jockstrap and making out with as many hot dudes as possible. It has been glorious, and I feel like I’m truly living my #BestLife.]
The other weekend we went to one of those massive gay dance parties that are having a renaissance in L.A. (or maybe it just seems that way because I’ve started going to them). Hordes of shirtless men, cocks out in the dark, fuckin’ lasers, balloons, bubbles filled with smoke, leather, jockstraps, glitter, muscles, streamers that explode onto the crowds as muscled-up go-go boys covered in paint dance and prance around on stage — it’s heaven. At this party in particular the music was phenomenal, and so was the choice of men.
I saw two extremely hairy, extremely muscular dudes dancing shirtless, high out of their frickin’ minds, and I thought, That’ll do, pig.
I slithered my sweaty body between the two of them, and they loved it. One in particular was exactly how I would draw my fantasy man. Each pec had its own zip code. He actually resembled some of the first gay porn pics I ever looked at, very Tom of Finland. After their high calmed down a bit and they could actually form coherent sentences, I exchanged info with the one I liked.
Turns out this dude was/is a complete dom leather top piss daddy. He sent me all sorts of things he was going to use on me, basically a whole 50 Shades of Gay collection. After douching about 400 times — and also once at the gas station near his place, just to be sure I was ready for anything — I walked into his place. Shirts quickly came off, exposing our magically manly chests, and I robotically made my way to his leather boots.
I found myself licking them as he spanked my ass and called me a good boy. His nipples were the most sensitive I’ve ever encountered; when I touched them he shivered and groaned and then slapped my ass again. Then the nipple clamps came out—for me. My nipples aren’t wired, as the gays say, meaning they aren’t connected to my cock and balls.
So dom daddy decided to force the connection. A chain attached the nipple clamps together, and he tied a leather strap to that chain and wrapped my cock and balls in the strap, so it acted like a combination cock ring-leash he could use to pull me around the room, which he did.
Later he put on leather gloves and switched into a leather vest, which felt very Mr. Rogers unnecessary, like every time he’d get one of those damn sweaters from the closet. It didn’t make much sense, except for the fact that now was apparently the leather vest time of the evening. I went with it.
The amount of leather this man had was impressive. He even had a leather sling, which we did not get to use — next time? Eventually he fucked the shit out of me the way you would expect—rough thrusts and lots of manly grunts—yet there were also tender moments, which were wonderfully surprising. That tenderness later turned into more aggressive thrusting, which culminated with him cumming into my ass.

After some heavy panting and both of us lying exhausted on his bed for a few minutes, he slowly turned his head to me and whispered deeply, as if we were sweaty Navy bunkmates on a rusty yellow submarine, “You want me to piss on you?”
There, in my sweaty jockstrap, I said, “Yes. Yes I do. Yes please.” No hesitation. I wanted that piss, folks. That’s what I came here to do. It was a piss date for god’s sake, and so I was gonna make it a goddamn piss date.
We waltzed to the bathroom. I wasn’t sure if he wanted me in the stand-up shower or in the tub or on the tile. I was nervous and confused. “Get in the fuckin’ tub,” he said.
Okay, yes sir.
It took him a bit of time to relax enough to pee. And so I patiently waited for my prize, vigorously masturbating, looking up at this hairy man-god.
This all felt like years in the making, as if I were finally accepting part of myself that I had hidden for way too long. I felt like he was my sex angel. My sex-piss-angel, as it were. I thought maybe he first showed up when I was scared of what it meant to be a man, afraid I didn’t measure up at the urinal, afraid medium meant I was less valuable than large, afraid the entire world thought I didn’t deserve to exist, afraid I’d never be satisfying to anyone, especially myself.
Perhaps that’s when my sex-piss-angel showed up in the dark. From that day on, he secretly flew with me everywhere I went, around the world, until we could finally meet, manifested here, in human form, golden hour in West Hollywood, in a bathtub of so many of my sparkly sexual fantasies.
He had been with me during all those years of shame and fear, he had been with me when I finally opened up to loving men, and especially opened up to loving myself and all that makes me, me—weird fetishes, exact dick measurements, and all.
And as I closed my eyes, kneeling in complete patience, complete presence, a warmth I had never felt dripped all over my face, anointing my head with piss, dripping down into my mustache, down my neck, my hairy chest, into my jockstrap, onto my dick, and down the drain, on its way to an ocean full of fish piss.
He thought he didn’t have to pee at first, but boy did he. He just kept going and going, and I kept loving it and loving it. And then, as if drinking the blood of Christ (or the piss of Christ, perhaps), I slowly opened up my mouth, and — like aiming for the fly inside a porcelain urinal — he went straight for my tongue and down my throat. I gulped and gulped that thick warm manly stream.

I kept drinking it. I couldn’t help but think, Finally. This is what it’s like, and it was even better than my fantasy. I felt united with all men, all humiliation, all exaltation. It was as if small, medium, and large had merged into one, and it just felt like pure manhood warming my soul, my throat, my heart. How silly I was until this moment. Funny how being covered in another man’s piss brings so much clarity.
When you drink another man’s piss, you really have to surrender to what is, what you are, all that you are, the ultimate form of shocking acceptance. I thought butt sex was the ultimate surrender, especially if the dude’s dick is the size of an eggplant. I thought there would be less war if we all just got fucked in the ass more often.
But no, my friends, it’s drinking piss. Perhaps instead of building walls at the borders of our countries and at the borders of our hearts, we should just drink each other’s piss, the warmth of men from around the world, and maybe then that heaven God has been preparing for us—while we raise our Bibles in the air like swords together, crossing streams—would finally be welcomed here on earth. Peace. Goodwill. And piss on men.
Plus, piss really doesn’t taste too bad, provided one drinks plenty of water or beer or pineapple juice that day. Funny thing is, dom-top-piss-daddy-leather-god-sex-angel had been coaching me all week leading up to our piss date, reminding me to drink my own piss so I’d get used to the taste, so I’d be used to his taste.
At first I scoffed at the idea, until, as if awakened by angels once again, I got up in the middle of the night needing to pee. I kept a glass near the sink just in case, which sat there unused for days, ready for this moment—like tard cum and cookies for Santa, or just pure piss for me.
In my sleepy haze I reached for the glass, squirted a bit of my man juices within, and slowly raised my hand in the air, grasping the cup like a sword of sorts as it sparkled in the bathroom light. I raised my glass to loving myself completely, to trusting myself most. I raised my glass to the calm music of my own steady stream.

Note, these are the degenerate filth who think we should have the government round up people whose speech is offensive to the majority.

They are too fucking dumb to know who the majority is and that it isn't them.

 

[scathefire]

Plus, piss really doesn’t taste too bad, provided one drinks plenty of water or beer or pineapple juice that day. Funny thing is, dom-top-piss-daddy-leather-god-sex-angel had been coaching me all week leading up to our piss date, reminding me to drink my own piss so I’d get used to the taste, so I’d be used to his taste.
At first I scoffed at the idea, until, as if awakened by angels once again, I got up in the middle of the night needing to pee. I kept a glass near the sink just in case, which sat there unused for days, ready for this moment—like tard cum and cookies for Santa, or just pure piss for me.
In my sleepy haze I reached for the glass, squirted a bit of my man juices within, and slowly raised my hand in the air, grasping the cup like a sword of sorts as it sparkled in the bathroom light. I raised my glass to loving myself completely, to trusting myself most. I raised my glass to the calm music of my own steady stream.

...Am I reading this right? He would regularly drink his own pee in preparation to drink someone else's pee?
How is this not unsanitary?

 

[Alberto Balsalm]

Not sure if this belongs here, if it doesn't? I apologize.

Piss Date

I have found the path to world peace, and it’s drinking another man’s piss

humanparts.medium.com

Spoiler: These people gave you the new adpocalypse

For quite some time, I’ve been fascinated with piss. I’ve racked my brain to find a hidden wound from the past that would shed some urine on why I have the desire for someone to piss into my mouth. Something in me must be warped, right?

The immediate assumption that I’m warped may go back to childhood. I went to a private academy for elementary school. Its sole purpose, seemingly, was to make one feel guilty for listening to rock music, even Christian rock music. How dare ye listen to the evils of Steven Curtis Chapman and DC Talk? The school also seemed intent on making one feel guilty for even existing.

Somewhere amid being paddled, memorizing entire pages of scripture, singing hymns for our parents while holding Bibles in the air like swords, and laying the groundwork for a decent education, my friends and I showed our cocks to each other in the bathroom. A superficial, evolutionary pecking order was established: small, medium, large. The power dynamic of the group seemed to follow that order, too.

Or maybe it was morality-based: dicks were bad, decent, and perfect. Or possibly value-based: cheap dick, okay-quality dick, and the best dick. Whether it was Darwin in our minds, Jesus in our hearts, or rampant American capitalism, unless we were the big cock, most of us felt inadequate.

Maybe it was the power of that devil lady Amy Grant, but somehow in those Christian bathrooms we laid the groundwork for a sick view of masculinity based on competition, comparison, and cock size.

I was medium-sized, and I felt both proud I wasn’t smallest and ashamed I wasn’t biggest. Because of this shame, for the longest time I had trouble pissing in urinals — even into my twenties. I was pee shy, which exacerbated my self-loathing and validated the idea that I was ever-so-slightly less of a man, until I bought a book called Shy Bladder Syndrome and slowly taught myself out of the fear.

Thankfully, after much learning, unlearning, hole-opening sexual experiences, soul-opening spiritual experiences, therapy, global traveling, and violent masturbation, I’ve realized I’m perfect exactly as I am. There’s nothing I need to fix, to make smaller or bigger. I am not inadequate, bad, or warped. I am not guilty or ashamed of being me. My perfection comes not from comparison, but from my uniqueness. No one has ever had a dick or a soul like mine, and no one ever will.
And part of that unique perfection is my apparent sexualization of urinals and pissing and bathrooms in general, regardless of whether Christian rock music is playing. I’ve accepted it. I like it. It’s well and good. But I had never really acted on it—until recently.
I like the idea of a man pissing onto my face, onto my chest, into my mouth, into my asshole, and looking up at him being in total control. I love the idea of a man marking his territory like a goddamn wolf—but all over me, owning me and making me his own, forever connecting me and staining me as his. Perhaps I’m drawn to this because for the most part when people see me — muscles, mustache, big intimidating body and booty — they assume I’m a total dom daddy top.

And I’ve had my moments in that realm, but lately I’ve just been so damn cock hungry it can be almost painful, especially here in L.A., walking down the street and falling in love with man-beauties every two goddamn minutes. I’m convinced the most beautiful men in the world scurry around L.A.
Is it the power of defying expectations? The thrill of proving to the world you’re not just one thing, but many things? I am not small, or medium, or large; I am everything. I am not dominant or submissive; I am everything. I am a paradox, a sexual kaleidoscope, a tsunami of fluid desires!
Relatively big hairy muscle dude gets made into a piss-covered bitch.
Somehow that headline feels right and nice to me.
[Side note: Lately I’ve been experimenting with Ecstasy too, in moderation — yes, my Christian schooling still comes into play — going out dancing until 4 a.m. (not 6 a.m., because that would be crazy) in just boots and a jockstrap and making out with as many hot dudes as possible. It has been glorious, and I feel like I’m truly living my #BestLife.]
The other weekend we went to one of those massive gay dance parties that are having a renaissance in L.A. (or maybe it just seems that way because I’ve started going to them). Hordes of shirtless men, cocks out in the dark, fuckin’ lasers, balloons, bubbles filled with smoke, leather, jockstraps, glitter, muscles, streamers that explode onto the crowds as muscled-up go-go boys covered in paint dance and prance around on stage — it’s heaven. At this party in particular the music was phenomenal, and so was the choice of men.
I saw two extremely hairy, extremely muscular dudes dancing shirtless, high out of their frickin’ minds, and I thought, That’ll do, pig.
I slithered my sweaty body between the two of them, and they loved it. One in particular was exactly how I would draw my fantasy man. Each pec had its own zip code. He actually resembled some of the first gay porn pics I ever looked at, very Tom of Finland. After their high calmed down a bit and they could actually form coherent sentences, I exchanged info with the one I liked.
Turns out this dude was/is a complete dom leather top piss daddy. He sent me all sorts of things he was going to use on me, basically a whole 50 Shades of Gay collection. After douching about 400 times — and also once at the gas station near his place, just to be sure I was ready for anything — I walked into his place. Shirts quickly came off, exposing our magically manly chests, and I robotically made my way to his leather boots.
I found myself licking them as he spanked my ass and called me a good boy. His nipples were the most sensitive I’ve ever encountered; when I touched them he shivered and groaned and then slapped my ass again. Then the nipple clamps came out—for me. My nipples aren’t wired, as the gays say, meaning they aren’t connected to my cock and balls.
So dom daddy decided to force the connection. A chain attached the nipple clamps together, and he tied a leather strap to that chain and wrapped my cock and balls in the strap, so it acted like a combination cock ring-leash he could use to pull me around the room, which he did.
Later he put on leather gloves and switched into a leather vest, which felt very Mr. Rogers unnecessary, like every time he’d get one of those damn sweaters from the closet. It didn’t make much sense, except for the fact that now was apparently the leather vest time of the evening. I went with it.
The amount of leather this man had was impressive. He even had a leather sling, which we did not get to use — next time? Eventually he fucked the shit out of me the way you would expect—rough thrusts and lots of manly grunts—yet there were also tender moments, which were wonderfully surprising. That tenderness later turned into more aggressive thrusting, which culminated with him cumming into my ass.

After some heavy panting and both of us lying exhausted on his bed for a few minutes, he slowly turned his head to me and whispered deeply, as if we were sweaty Navy bunkmates on a rusty yellow submarine, “You want me to piss on you?”
There, in my sweaty jockstrap, I said, “Yes. Yes I do. Yes please.” No hesitation. I wanted that piss, folks. That’s what I came here to do. It was a piss date for god’s sake, and so I was gonna make it a goddamn piss date.
We waltzed to the bathroom. I wasn’t sure if he wanted me in the stand-up shower or in the tub or on the tile. I was nervous and confused. “Get in the fuckin’ tub,” he said.
Okay, yes sir.
It took him a bit of time to relax enough to pee. And so I patiently waited for my prize, vigorously masturbating, looking up at this hairy man-god.
This all felt like years in the making, as if I were finally accepting part of myself that I had hidden for way too long. I felt like he was my sex angel. My sex-piss-angel, as it were. I thought maybe he first showed up when I was scared of what it meant to be a man, afraid I didn’t measure up at the urinal, afraid medium meant I was less valuable than large, afraid the entire world thought I didn’t deserve to exist, afraid I’d never be satisfying to anyone, especially myself.
Perhaps that’s when my sex-piss-angel showed up in the dark. From that day on, he secretly flew with me everywhere I went, around the world, until we could finally meet, manifested here, in human form, golden hour in West Hollywood, in a bathtub of so many of my sparkly sexual fantasies.
He had been with me during all those years of shame and fear, he had been with me when I finally opened up to loving men, and especially opened up to loving myself and all that makes me, me—weird fetishes, exact dick measurements, and all.
And as I closed my eyes, kneeling in complete patience, complete presence, a warmth I had never felt dripped all over my face, anointing my head with piss, dripping down into my mustache, down my neck, my hairy chest, into my jockstrap, onto my dick, and down the drain, on its way to an ocean full of fish piss.
He thought he didn’t have to pee at first, but boy did he. He just kept going and going, and I kept loving it and loving it. And then, as if drinking the blood of Christ (or the piss of Christ, perhaps), I slowly opened up my mouth, and — like aiming for the fly inside a porcelain urinal — he went straight for my tongue and down my throat. I gulped and gulped that thick warm manly stream.

I kept drinking it. I couldn’t help but think, Finally. This is what it’s like, and it was even better than my fantasy. I felt united with all men, all humiliation, all exaltation. It was as if small, medium, and large had merged into one, and it just felt like pure manhood warming my soul, my throat, my heart. How silly I was until this moment. Funny how being covered in another man’s piss brings so much clarity.
When you drink another man’s piss, you really have to surrender to what is, what you are, all that you are, the ultimate form of shocking acceptance. I thought butt sex was the ultimate surrender, especially if the dude’s dick is the size of an eggplant. I thought there would be less war if we all just got fucked in the ass more often.
But no, my friends, it’s drinking piss. Perhaps instead of building walls at the borders of our countries and at the borders of our hearts, we should just drink each other’s piss, the warmth of men from around the world, and maybe then that heaven God has been preparing for us—while we raise our Bibles in the air like swords together, crossing streams—would finally be welcomed here on earth. Peace. Goodwill. And piss on men.
Plus, piss really doesn’t taste too bad, provided one drinks plenty of water or beer or pineapple juice that day. Funny thing is, dom-top-piss-daddy-leather-god-sex-angel had been coaching me all week leading up to our piss date, reminding me to drink my own piss so I’d get used to the taste, so I’d be used to his taste.
At first I scoffed at the idea, until, as if awakened by angels once again, I got up in the middle of the night needing to pee. I kept a glass near the sink just in case, which sat there unused for days, ready for this moment—like tard cum and cookies for Santa, or just pure piss for me.
In my sleepy haze I reached for the glass, squirted a bit of my man juices within, and slowly raised my hand in the air, grasping the cup like a sword of sorts as it sparkled in the bathroom light. I raised my glass to loving myself completely, to trusting myself most. I raised my glass to the calm music of my own steady stream.

This is some real copypasta-tier shit, but I have no idea what it has to do with SJWs.

 

[Recoil]

...Am I reading this right? He would regularly drink his own pee in preparation to drink someone else's pee?
How is this not unsanitary?

The enlightened people of nu-america will not stand for your bigotry, sir. This man has found God in a stinky yellow stream, can you say as much? I suggest you get your ass down to yer local fag bar and situate yourself in the restrooms. Try and understand diversity and tolerance by living through it.

This is some real copypasta-tier shit, but I have no idea what it has to do with SJWs.

Micah Enloe is a pretty big 4th wave activist. He's one of the people pushing socjus on coporations.

 

[Steamboat_Bill]

Not sure if this belongs here, if it doesn't? I apologize.

Piss Date

I have found the path to world peace, and it’s drinking another man’s piss

humanparts.medium.com

Spoiler: These people gave you the new adpocalypse

For quite some time, I’ve been fascinated with piss. I’ve racked my brain to find a hidden wound from the past that would shed some urine on why I have the desire for someone to piss into my mouth. Something in me must be warped, right?

The immediate assumption that I’m warped may go back to childhood. I went to a private academy for elementary school. Its sole purpose, seemingly, was to make one feel guilty for listening to rock music, even Christian rock music. How dare ye listen to the evils of Steven Curtis Chapman and DC Talk? The school also seemed intent on making one feel guilty for even existing.

Somewhere amid being paddled, memorizing entire pages of scripture, singing hymns for our parents while holding Bibles in the air like swords, and laying the groundwork for a decent education, my friends and I showed our cocks to each other in the bathroom. A superficial, evolutionary pecking order was established: small, medium, large. The power dynamic of the group seemed to follow that order, too.

Or maybe it was morality-based: dicks were bad, decent, and perfect. Or possibly value-based: cheap dick, okay-quality dick, and the best dick. Whether it was Darwin in our minds, Jesus in our hearts, or rampant American capitalism, unless we were the big cock, most of us felt inadequate.

Maybe it was the power of that devil lady Amy Grant, but somehow in those Christian bathrooms we laid the groundwork for a sick view of masculinity based on competition, comparison, and cock size.

I was medium-sized, and I felt both proud I wasn’t smallest and ashamed I wasn’t biggest. Because of this shame, for the longest time I had trouble pissing in urinals — even into my twenties. I was pee shy, which exacerbated my self-loathing and validated the idea that I was ever-so-slightly less of a man, until I bought a book called Shy Bladder Syndrome and slowly taught myself out of the fear.

Thankfully, after much learning, unlearning, hole-opening sexual experiences, soul-opening spiritual experiences, therapy, global traveling, and violent masturbation, I’ve realized I’m perfect exactly as I am. There’s nothing I need to fix, to make smaller or bigger. I am not inadequate, bad, or warped. I am not guilty or ashamed of being me. My perfection comes not from comparison, but from my uniqueness. No one has ever had a dick or a soul like mine, and no one ever will.
And part of that unique perfection is my apparent sexualization of urinals and pissing and bathrooms in general, regardless of whether Christian rock music is playing. I’ve accepted it. I like it. It’s well and good. But I had never really acted on it—until recently.
I like the idea of a man pissing onto my face, onto my chest, into my mouth, into my asshole, and looking up at him being in total control. I love the idea of a man marking his territory like a goddamn wolf—but all over me, owning me and making me his own, forever connecting me and staining me as his. Perhaps I’m drawn to this because for the most part when people see me — muscles, mustache, big intimidating body and booty — they assume I’m a total dom daddy top.

And I’ve had my moments in that realm, but lately I’ve just been so damn cock hungry it can be almost painful, especially here in L.A., walking down the street and falling in love with man-beauties every two goddamn minutes. I’m convinced the most beautiful men in the world scurry around L.A.
Is it the power of defying expectations? The thrill of proving to the world you’re not just one thing, but many things? I am not small, or medium, or large; I am everything. I am not dominant or submissive; I am everything. I am a paradox, a sexual kaleidoscope, a tsunami of fluid desires!
Relatively big hairy muscle dude gets made into a piss-covered bitch.
Somehow that headline feels right and nice to me.
[Side note: Lately I’ve been experimenting with Ecstasy too, in moderation — yes, my Christian schooling still comes into play — going out dancing until 4 a.m. (not 6 a.m., because that would be crazy) in just boots and a jockstrap and making out with as many hot dudes as possible. It has been glorious, and I feel like I’m truly living my #BestLife.]
The other weekend we went to one of those massive gay dance parties that are having a renaissance in L.A. (or maybe it just seems that way because I’ve started going to them). Hordes of shirtless men, cocks out in the dark, fuckin’ lasers, balloons, bubbles filled with smoke, leather, jockstraps, glitter, muscles, streamers that explode onto the crowds as muscled-up go-go boys covered in paint dance and prance around on stage — it’s heaven. At this party in particular the music was phenomenal, and so was the choice of men.
I saw two extremely hairy, extremely muscular dudes dancing shirtless, high out of their frickin’ minds, and I thought, That’ll do, pig.
I slithered my sweaty body between the two of them, and they loved it. One in particular was exactly how I would draw my fantasy man. Each pec had its own zip code. He actually resembled some of the first gay porn pics I ever looked at, very Tom of Finland. After their high calmed down a bit and they could actually form coherent sentences, I exchanged info with the one I liked.
Turns out this dude was/is a complete dom leather top piss daddy. He sent me all sorts of things he was going to use on me, basically a whole 50 Shades of Gay collection. After douching about 400 times — and also once at the gas station near his place, just to be sure I was ready for anything — I walked into his place. Shirts quickly came off, exposing our magically manly chests, and I robotically made my way to his leather boots.
I found myself licking them as he spanked my ass and called me a good boy. His nipples were the most sensitive I’ve ever encountered; when I touched them he shivered and groaned and then slapped my ass again. Then the nipple clamps came out—for me. My nipples aren’t wired, as the gays say, meaning they aren’t connected to my cock and balls.
So dom daddy decided to force the connection. A chain attached the nipple clamps together, and he tied a leather strap to that chain and wrapped my cock and balls in the strap, so it acted like a combination cock ring-leash he could use to pull me around the room, which he did.
Later he put on leather gloves and switched into a leather vest, which felt very Mr. Rogers unnecessary, like every time he’d get one of those damn sweaters from the closet. It didn’t make much sense, except for the fact that now was apparently the leather vest time of the evening. I went with it.
The amount of leather this man had was impressive. He even had a leather sling, which we did not get to use — next time? Eventually he fucked the shit out of me the way you would expect—rough thrusts and lots of manly grunts—yet there were also tender moments, which were wonderfully surprising. That tenderness later turned into more aggressive thrusting, which culminated with him cumming into my ass.

After some heavy panting and both of us lying exhausted on his bed for a few minutes, he slowly turned his head to me and whispered deeply, as if we were sweaty Navy bunkmates on a rusty yellow submarine, “You want me to piss on you?”
There, in my sweaty jockstrap, I said, “Yes. Yes I do. Yes please.” No hesitation. I wanted that piss, folks. That’s what I came here to do. It was a piss date for god’s sake, and so I was gonna make it a goddamn piss date.
We waltzed to the bathroom. I wasn’t sure if he wanted me in the stand-up shower or in the tub or on the tile. I was nervous and confused. “Get in the fuckin’ tub,” he said.
Okay, yes sir.
It took him a bit of time to relax enough to pee. And so I patiently waited for my prize, vigorously masturbating, looking up at this hairy man-god.
This all felt like years in the making, as if I were finally accepting part of myself that I had hidden for way too long. I felt like he was my sex angel. My sex-piss-angel, as it were. I thought maybe he first showed up when I was scared of what it meant to be a man, afraid I didn’t measure up at the urinal, afraid medium meant I was less valuable than large, afraid the entire world thought I didn’t deserve to exist, afraid I’d never be satisfying to anyone, especially myself.
Perhaps that’s when my sex-piss-angel showed up in the dark. From that day on, he secretly flew with me everywhere I went, around the world, until we could finally meet, manifested here, in human form, golden hour in West Hollywood, in a bathtub of so many of my sparkly sexual fantasies.
He had been with me during all those years of shame and fear, he had been with me when I finally opened up to loving men, and especially opened up to loving myself and all that makes me, me—weird fetishes, exact dick measurements, and all.
And as I closed my eyes, kneeling in complete patience, complete presence, a warmth I had never felt dripped all over my face, anointing my head with piss, dripping down into my mustache, down my neck, my hairy chest, into my jockstrap, onto my dick, and down the drain, on its way to an ocean full of fish piss.
He thought he didn’t have to pee at first, but boy did he. He just kept going and going, and I kept loving it and loving it. And then, as if drinking the blood of Christ (or the piss of Christ, perhaps), I slowly opened up my mouth, and — like aiming for the fly inside a porcelain urinal — he went straight for my tongue and down my throat. I gulped and gulped that thick warm manly stream.

I kept drinking it. I couldn’t help but think, Finally. This is what it’s like, and it was even better than my fantasy. I felt united with all men, all humiliation, all exaltation. It was as if small, medium, and large had merged into one, and it just felt like pure manhood warming my soul, my throat, my heart. How silly I was until this moment. Funny how being covered in another man’s piss brings so much clarity.
When you drink another man’s piss, you really have to surrender to what is, what you are, all that you are, the ultimate form of shocking acceptance. I thought butt sex was the ultimate surrender, especially if the dude’s dick is the size of an eggplant. I thought there would be less war if we all just got fucked in the ass more often.
But no, my friends, it’s drinking piss. Perhaps instead of building walls at the borders of our countries and at the borders of our hearts, we should just drink each other’s piss, the warmth of men from around the world, and maybe then that heaven God has been preparing for us—while we raise our Bibles in the air like swords together, crossing streams—would finally be welcomed here on earth. Peace. Goodwill. And piss on men.
Plus, piss really doesn’t taste too bad, provided one drinks plenty of water or beer or pineapple juice that day. Funny thing is, dom-top-piss-daddy-leather-god-sex-angel had been coaching me all week leading up to our piss date, reminding me to drink my own piss so I’d get used to the taste, so I’d be used to his taste.
At first I scoffed at the idea, until, as if awakened by angels once again, I got up in the middle of the night needing to pee. I kept a glass near the sink just in case, which sat there unused for days, ready for this moment—like tard cum and cookies for Santa, or just pure piss for me.
In my sleepy haze I reached for the glass, squirted a bit of my man juices within, and slowly raised my hand in the air, grasping the cup like a sword of sorts as it sparkled in the bathroom light. I raised my glass to loving myself completely, to trusting myself most. I raised my glass to the calm music of my own steady stream.

"I thought there would be less war if we all just got fucked in the ass more often."

The idea of achieving world peace through buttsex and piss drinking is perhaps the funniest thing I've read today.

 

[Recoil]

"I thought there would be less war if we all just got fucked in the ass more often."

The idea of achieving world peace through buttsex and piss drinking is perhaps the funniest thing I've read today.

I think there are a few things good enough for random.txt in there.

No hesitation. I wanted that piss, folks. That’s what I came here to do.

I really don't want to be Mad at the Internet, but we live in an age where they're censoring game reviewers left and right for 'harmful speech' while simultaneously allowing a piss pig to make $$$ off of spreading his mental illness. How is this shit platformed? How? It's too much, the line has been crossed.
It's so awful it borders on satire, and on the page where it was published?

1200 likes already, and the comments are fulla madness too, ofc:

This shit is undoing every advance of the last 50 years, at high speed.
It hurts my heart.

Forgive my double post, I wanted to wait but I would've forgotten too much.
I see these posters as interesting artifacts of peak SocJus.
With every passing day, the statements on them become more and more absurd - the pendulum swings.

​

They're just shamefully stupid garbage. They should be maintained as a time capsule of some sort, like Communism or McCarthyism. Some day, we won't be able to remember that this insanity was once championed on an international platform.

ETA - one of the big lessons I've picked up recently is that it's not so much what your beliefs are, it's how you communicate them that really makes or breaks you. The core message of these posters isn't edgy or fringe, Most folks agree with reproductive rights nowadays, so whats the damage? "That's too boring, so in order to get attention, we have to put some disgusting demeaning garbage in front of that message."

What utter lack of imagination. I look at these posters and I remember that era. Do you remember the first time you heard the words, "Stunning and Brave"? I remember them echoing all through media in a burst and feeling admiration for that writer's achievement. What a choice of words. These posters up above are very stunning, very brave.

This was, IMO, the start of when activist types began really subscribing en masse to this notion that deliberate offense was the only way to make your point. If only they knew how much damage they've done. Could you imagine how awful that would be? If the many people who sought to disgust and provoke in the name of their cause could see or understand the damage they've done to their own agenda.... They'd implode probably double down and continue the cycle. It's the people more than it is their actual agenda. The people are the problem, here.

 

[Dracula's Spirit Animal]

The movie "The Animal" starring Rob Schneider is, obviously, not a good movie. However, there is one funny recurring joke, which is that EVERYONE is super duper ultra nice to the black dude because they don't want to get seen as racist. He gets increasingly frustrated with this throughout the movie, and it keeps getting more ridiculous.

That particular character reminds me of what you're talking about. It makes me wonder if what some of these guys want is to be slapped down just like a white person saying such dumb fucking shit would be. Like, the real racism they face is everyone handling them with kid gloves and treated them as a prop to prove how virtuous they are, rather than treating them like a person.

And that makes me think....

Personally, I think that the victimological angle chases being victimized like a drug for the endorphin rush. For all her foibles, and she's now basically persona non grata in feminist circles, Margaret Atwood made this point in a short essay in the 80s. It was called "Rape Fantasy" IIRC. Whether accurate or not in her impression, she stated that women like to be dominated and lose bodily autotomy, and have rape fantasies about it as a sense of empowerment. A sort of "with no control, I still have control since my body is the locus" sort of thing.

I suspect she's pretty accurate, but that's not really the point. She then goes on to explain that it's a will-o-wisp. That that is a power fantasy, and not a disempowerment fantasy. A real rape fantasy is impossible, since it is definitionally something you wouldn't want. It definitionally negates what you want. It would be fnatasizing about someone you find sexually abhorrent and completely sexually unattracted to.

So the fantasy is a creation of abdicating responsibility, while creating a narratively pleasing predator whom you really DO want.

Racism is the same thing in current year. The Jussie Smolletts etc, the SJWs, the endless liars talking about fake hate crimes, white privilege, man splaining etc.

They are creating a boogey man they get an endorphin rush off of, a sexual high, and someone they can feel superior to and more powerful than, while abdicating any responsibility for their own treatment or behaviour, and absolving themself of any accountability by creating a predator they can pretend they are powerless against.

Really, it's the same thing you run across from all abusive people. I am only doing this because someone mADE ME. It's the same thing from the mentally pathological... I'm only tdoing this because (genes or circumstance) MADE ME... It's the same thing from all addictes.... I am only a fuck up because meth MADE ME.... I am POWERLESS over alcohol etc.

tl;dr:
Define your own boogey man, subjugate yourself to them, get sympathy points, get a sense of no responsibility, define yourself as morally superior to you narrative boogeyman, never change. Die miserable.

That's the way this shit looks to me at least. It's junkie thinking, and these fuckers would have been both physically and mentally healthier if they'd just hit the needle, from feminists, trauma victims, to race identitarians etc etc. Heroin would be less toxic.

/end spitballing

View attachment 792103

Apologies for the double post, but the subject was different enough, and you walk away from KF for a couple of days and threads race away... Anyhow...

What twisted world do these people live in? I'd love to laugh at this person in real life.

A woman being naive or vulnerable hooks into men in a big way, not for predatory reasons, but because of one of the primary male virtues: We want to protect women and children. It's visceral. Except soyboys and predators (and their heavy overlap), I don't know a man who doesn't want to throw punches at any random guy whenever he sees a woman feel vulnerable. Lucky there's civilization in the way. People taking one of the most noble, self-sacrificing, and loving virtues which define men, and vilifying and degrading it. What ugly people.

 

[neverendingmidi]

I don't know if anybody remembers the Gibson Bakery vs. Oberlin case. From what I remember off the top of my head I think there was some idiot who shoplifted from the bakery. Said idiot was black. The bakery called the cops on him for shoplifting, and then the students at Oberlin started protesting because this was during the deepest part of BLM. Oberlin then listened to the idiot students calling the bakery a den of white supremacists, and broke a very lucrative contract with the bakery, who had been providing baked goods to the college's cafeteria.

After being slandered both by the students, and staff of Oberlin, the bakery owners started a lawsuit. This has been trickling down for several years. Well a jury awarded the bakery $11.2 million in compensatory damages, however punitive damages are still to be decided, with further evidence to be shown to the jury. This could provide an additional $22 million.

One would think Oberlin would keep quiet in hopes that they won't have to pay more. One would be wrong.

 

[Krimjob]

I don't know if anybody remembers the Gibson Bakery vs. Oberlin case. From what I remember off the top of my head I think there was some idiot who shoplifted from the bakery. Said idiot was black. The bakery called the cops on him for shoplifting, and then the students at Oberlin started protesting because this was during the deepest part of BLM. Oberlin then listened to the idiot students calling the bakery a den of white supremacists, and broke a very lucrative contract with the bakery, who had been providing baked goods to the college's cafeteria.

After being slandered both by the students, and staff of Oberlin, the bakery owners started a lawsuit. This has been trickling down for several years. Well a jury awarded the bakery $11.2 million in compensatory damages, however punitive damages are still to be decided, with further evidence to be shown to the jury. This could provide an additional $22 million.

One would think Oberlin would keep quiet in hopes that they won't have to pay more. One would be wrong.

There is a pretty good thread on it in A&H.

 

[GrungyLawnChlorinate]

I feel it's pretty racist that these people assume that NO ONE in the room would possibly be POC. There are people who are light-skinned but the moment they talk they give away what country or region they reside in due to their accent or speaking patterns. It's entirely possible, but then again, if you aren't brown enough I guess you aren't a POC....

The Human Stain is reverse?

 

[Piga Dgrifm]

I don't know if anybody remembers the Gibson Bakery vs. Oberlin case. From what I remember off the top of my head I think there was some idiot who shoplifted from the bakery. Said idiot was black. The bakery called the cops on him for shoplifting, and then the students at Oberlin started protesting because this was during the deepest part of BLM. Oberlin then listened to the idiot students calling the bakery a den of white supremacists, and broke a very lucrative contract with the bakery, who had been providing baked goods to the college's cafeteria.

After being slandered both by the students, and staff of Oberlin, the bakery owners started a lawsuit. This has been trickling down for several years. Well a jury awarded the bakery $11.2 million in compensatory damages, however punitive damages are still to be decided, with further evidence to be shown to the jury. This could provide an additional $22 million.

One would think Oberlin would keep quiet in hopes that they won't have to pay more. One would be wrong.

It's kinda racist to say it's wrong to call the police on black shoplifters. What, do they think black people can't help but shoplift or something?

 

[Sissy Galvez]

I don't know if anybody remembers the Gibson Bakery vs. Oberlin case. From what I remember off the top of my head I think there was some idiot who shoplifted from the bakery. Said idiot was black. The bakery called the cops on him for shoplifting, and then the students at Oberlin started protesting because this was during the deepest part of BLM. Oberlin then listened to the idiot students calling the bakery a den of white supremacists, and broke a very lucrative contract with the bakery, who had been providing baked goods to the college's cafeteria.

After being slandered both by the students, and staff of Oberlin, the bakery owners started a lawsuit. This has been trickling down for several years. Well a jury awarded the bakery $11.2 million in compensatory damages, however punitive damages are still to be decided, with further evidence to be shown to the jury. This could provide an additional $22 million.

One would think Oberlin would keep quiet in hopes that they won't have to pay more. One would be wrong.

It’s very expensive to go woke. Glad this bit them in their ass.

Surprised they didn’t just settle with the bakery.

 

[Otterly]

This Chernobyl TV series is great and all, but do you know what it needs? More strong independent pee-oh-cee actors!

If there was a single black worker at Chernobyl I’d be surprised. The black population in Ukraine is tiny (and does face quite a bit of racism.) I’m all for accurate reflection of a population, but shoehorning people in for the sake of it just doesn’t work.

On that subject, it seems that uk advertisers in fact over represent minorities: https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/ar...tisers-trying-hard-demonstrate-diversity.html

Archive link: http://archive.li/W9rJk

This is another thing I find jarring. Ads are rarely ‘three black friends go to a bar’ but instead it’s ‘right we need a woman and a man, and one of each ethnicity and a Muslim and someone in a wheelchair’ so that adverts start to look like a setup for a sitcom. (Cue reeeeeeing that there aren’t any trannies...)

 

[Sissy Galvez]

Bret Easton Ellis: The Nihilism Of Generation X Is What Millennials Are Reacting To

On HBO's 'Real Time' Friday night, host Bill Maher, author Bret Easton Ellis, and 'New York Times' opinion writer Charles Blow had a heated debate on social justice warriors, political correctness and the differences between Generation X, Millennials, and Generation Z. The group also talked...

www.realclearpolitics.com

Didn’t know where else to put this but thought it was really good.

Bill Maher is kind of a relic like Howard Stern but sometimes he has good points and he’s been pissing off leftists/SJWs for several years now. Mainly for being critical of Islam (they say he’s a racist) even though he’s critical of all religions.

Best quote

"Here's what's wrong with social justice warriors. There's not interested in justice. They're interested in clicks... Oh please, you don't think so?" Maher said to an incredulous Blow.

"It's people just trying to build a reputation to be part of a social media nation that may or may not even be real and it's also dividing us apart. Social media is not designed to bring us together, it's to bring us together to battle each other," national security analyst Clint Watts said. "It creates what real activism is versus I'll click this, tweet this out."

 

[Oh Long Johnson]

Bret Easton Ellis: The Nihilism Of Generation X Is What Millennials Are Reacting To

On HBO's 'Real Time' Friday night, host Bill Maher, author Bret Easton Ellis, and 'New York Times' opinion writer Charles Blow had a heated debate on social justice warriors, political correctness and the differences between Generation X, Millennials, and Generation Z. The group also talked...

www.realclearpolitics.com

Didn’t know where else to put this but thought it was really good.

Bill Maher is kind of a relic like Howard Stern but sometimes he has good points and he’s been pissing off leftists/SJWs for several years now. Mainly for being critical of Islam (they say he’s a racist) even though he’s critical of all religions.

Best quote

Clicked that looking to shit on Easton Ellis's head, but he fucking nails Gen X.

Well because I thought there was too much fiction out there in the world anyway and I wanted to write a book about the trajectory of Gen X and how we were born in the 60s, we came to age in the 70s in a time that was very free of parental guidance. We were on our own. The world wasn't made for children then and so I think aided in our independence. We had a tremendous amount of freedom. And then moving in through the 80s and then moving from the analog world into the digital world and then ending up in the summer of 2018 thinking where the fuck are we? What happened? All of these freedoms -- freedom of expression -- that we were allowed in the 70s and in the 80s and into a degree the 90s and suddenly we were stuck there and the summer of 2018, politically and culturally, going what the fuck happened? How did this happen to us?

I'd have to read his book, but I'm willing to bet it misses the mark where Gen X went wrong. It was appeasing the seemingly inconsequential "requests" of the older Millennials. Things like not using "fag" turned into not using "retard" turned into equality of outcomes turned into pronouns. A lot of Gen Xers never got off the train, and that's why it isn't just 50 million 30-something howler monkeys causing all this shit.

Nice find.

 

[Corbin Dallas Multipass]

Bret Easton Ellis: The Nihilism Of Generation X Is What Millennials Are Reacting To

On HBO's 'Real Time' Friday night, host Bill Maher, author Bret Easton Ellis, and 'New York Times' opinion writer Charles Blow had a heated debate on social justice warriors, political correctness and the differences between Generation X, Millennials, and Generation Z. The group also talked...

www.realclearpolitics.com

Didn’t know where else to put this but thought it was really good.

Bill Maher is kind of a relic like Howard Stern but sometimes he has good points and he’s been pissing off leftists/SJWs for several years now. Mainly for being critical of Islam (they say he’s a racist) even though he’s critical of all religions.

Best quote

To be honest, Bill Maher being right is sort of a broken clock thing. He doesn't excuse islam from his hatred of religion, so at least he's consistent there. But he's very much up his own ass, for example the move Religulous. So much easy stuff to pick on, but manages to just basically be a mean spirited and inaccurate hitpiece on random religious people.

Maybe the howard stern comparison is apt. A huge jackass with an ego to match, who isn't afraid to go against accepted social norms. Sometimes the social norms they go against are stupid ones, sometimes they're just loud jackasses.

 

[The Great Citracett]

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