- Joined
- Sep 13, 2019
I decided to watch this video. After 10 seconds my initial thoughts were 'Holy shit, someone get this man some testosterone!'
YABookgate
- Thread starter Puddleduck
- Start date
- Joined
- Jan 12, 2017
You can read the short story here. It's called "I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter".
EDIT: Holy shit she actually becomes a fucking Apache helicopter and she even fucks. This is amazing.
Last edited:
- Joined
- May 25, 2013
If only authors like that demonstrated a Pynchon-ian refusal to have their picture taken.
Sounds like trans authors aren’t even allowed to have fun. Pity.You can read the short story here. It's called "I Sexually Identify as an Attack Helicopter".
EDIT: Holy shit she actually becomes a fucking Apache helicopter and she even fucks. This is amazing.
- Joined
- Oct 6, 2014
- Joined
- Dec 28, 2014
These barbaric vermin at the gates are why civilization and the Western canon are worth defending, with deadly force if necessary.
- Joined
- Jan 3, 2017
An English teacher thinking -- er, bad word -- claiming that all high schoolers should read is current YA is as stark a sign as we've ever had that our education system is not just in the toilet but festering in the darkest subterranenan hell of a sewer as can be imagined.
- Joined
- Oct 6, 2014
I think she might be onto something, actually. I mean, let's have an example.
I know which one will be more educational, thought-provoking and eye-opening for my kids!
“To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.--Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd!”
-Bigoted White Nobody Idiot William Shakespeare.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.--Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd!”
-Bigoted White Nobody Idiot William Shakespeare.
"No matter how hard I try, I will never look like the cover of any magazine... not that I want to, but well... maybe I want to just a little bit. This is the third outfit I've tried on this morning.
There's a pile of T-shirts with my new favorite slogans on them: Cats Against Catcalls (with five super-cute kittens on the front) and one that says Riots Not Diets. I've tried them both on, mixing with biker boots and plaid pants... definitely not working. I try another look.
I take out my bag of makeup to choose the right shade of super-lush, kissable liquid lip color. I have been reading that fuchsia is the new 'it' color for the fall, and that it really makes your lips pop, but the colors my mom picked up for me last week are not quite cutting it. I turn them over, making sure she got the right shades, and read: Pure Doll and Diva-Licious. Ewww. The patriarchy is even showing up in the names of my lip gloss? Unbelievable."
-The brilliant, stunning and brave wordsmith Renee Watson who will be remembered for generations.
There's a pile of T-shirts with my new favorite slogans on them: Cats Against Catcalls (with five super-cute kittens on the front) and one that says Riots Not Diets. I've tried them both on, mixing with biker boots and plaid pants... definitely not working. I try another look.
I take out my bag of makeup to choose the right shade of super-lush, kissable liquid lip color. I have been reading that fuchsia is the new 'it' color for the fall, and that it really makes your lips pop, but the colors my mom picked up for me last week are not quite cutting it. I turn them over, making sure she got the right shades, and read: Pure Doll and Diva-Licious. Ewww. The patriarchy is even showing up in the names of my lip gloss? Unbelievable."
-The brilliant, stunning and brave wordsmith Renee Watson who will be remembered for generations.
I know which one will be more educational, thought-provoking and eye-opening for my kids!
- Joined
- Dec 25, 2017
Guys, don't give up your dreams because of these lunatics. That's what they want.
Normal people still read good books. Self publish or find another way to get paid online for your work. But don't give up. If you give up, they win.
Normal people still read good books. Self publish or find another way to get paid online for your work. But don't give up. If you give up, they win.
- Joined
- Jun 17, 2019
Now, now, that's not even a fair comparison. Hamlet is not hardly a YA book. Let's compare a modern YA book to a book for kids written by a FUCKING WHITE MAN:
`I beg your pardon?’ Alice said with a puzzled air.
`I’m not offended,’ said Humpty Dumpty.
`I mean, what is and un-birthday present?’
`A present given when it isn’t your birthday, of course.’
Alice considered a little. `I like birthday presents best,’ she said at last.
`You don’t know what you’re talking about!’ cried Humpty Dumpty. `How many days are there in a year?’
`Three hundred and sixty-five,’ said Alice.
`And how many birthdays have you?’
`One.’
`And if you take one from three hundred and sixty-five, what remains?’
`Three hundred and sixty-four, of course.’
Humpty Dumpty looked doubtful. `I’d rather see that done on paper,’ he said.
Alice couldn’t help smiling as she took out her memorandum- book, and worked the sum for him:
365
1
___
364
___
Humpty Dumpty took the book, and looked at it carefully. `That seems to be done right — ‘ he began.
`You’re holding it upside down!’ Alice interrupted.
`To be sure I was!’ Humpty Dumpty said gaily, as she turned it round for him. `I thought it looked a little queer. As I was saying, that seems to be done right — though I haven’t time to look it over thoroughly just now — and that shows that there are three hundred and sixty-four days when you might get un-birthday presents — ‘
`Certainly,’ said Alice.
`And only one for birthday presents, you know. There’s glory for you!’
`I don’t know what you mean by “glory,”‘ Alice said.
Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously. `Of course you don’t — till I tell you. I meant “there’s a nice knock-down argument for you!”‘
`But “glory” doesn’t mean “a nice knock-down argument,”‘ Alice objected.
`When I use a word,’ Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, `it means just what I choose it to mean — neither more nor less.’
`The question is,’ said Alice, `whether you can make words mean so many different things.’
`The question is,’ said Humpty Dumpty, `which is to be master – – that’s all.’
Alice was too much puzzled to say anything, so after a minute Humpty Dumpty began again. `They’ve a temper, some of them — particularly verbs, they’re the proudest — adjectives you can do anything with, but not verbs — however, I can manage the whole of them! Impenetrability! That’s what I say!’
`Would you tell me, please,’ said Alice `what that means?`
`Now you talk like a reasonable child,’ said Humpty Dumpty, looking very much pleased. `I meant by “impenetrability” that we’ve had enough of that subject, and it would be just as well if you’d mention what you mean to do next, as I suppose you don’t mean to stop here all the rest of your life.’
`That’s a great deal to make one word mean,’ Alice said in a thoughtful tone.
`When I make a word do a lot of work like that,’ said Humpty Dumpty, `I always pay it extra.’
`I’m not offended,’ said Humpty Dumpty.
`I mean, what is and un-birthday present?’
`A present given when it isn’t your birthday, of course.’
Alice considered a little. `I like birthday presents best,’ she said at last.
`You don’t know what you’re talking about!’ cried Humpty Dumpty. `How many days are there in a year?’
`Three hundred and sixty-five,’ said Alice.
`And how many birthdays have you?’
`One.’
`And if you take one from three hundred and sixty-five, what remains?’
`Three hundred and sixty-four, of course.’
Humpty Dumpty looked doubtful. `I’d rather see that done on paper,’ he said.
Alice couldn’t help smiling as she took out her memorandum- book, and worked the sum for him:
365
1
___
364
___
Humpty Dumpty took the book, and looked at it carefully. `That seems to be done right — ‘ he began.
`You’re holding it upside down!’ Alice interrupted.
`To be sure I was!’ Humpty Dumpty said gaily, as she turned it round for him. `I thought it looked a little queer. As I was saying, that seems to be done right — though I haven’t time to look it over thoroughly just now — and that shows that there are three hundred and sixty-four days when you might get un-birthday presents — ‘
`Certainly,’ said Alice.
`And only one for birthday presents, you know. There’s glory for you!’
`I don’t know what you mean by “glory,”‘ Alice said.
Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously. `Of course you don’t — till I tell you. I meant “there’s a nice knock-down argument for you!”‘
`But “glory” doesn’t mean “a nice knock-down argument,”‘ Alice objected.
`When I use a word,’ Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, `it means just what I choose it to mean — neither more nor less.’
`The question is,’ said Alice, `whether you can make words mean so many different things.’
`The question is,’ said Humpty Dumpty, `which is to be master – – that’s all.’
Alice was too much puzzled to say anything, so after a minute Humpty Dumpty began again. `They’ve a temper, some of them — particularly verbs, they’re the proudest — adjectives you can do anything with, but not verbs — however, I can manage the whole of them! Impenetrability! That’s what I say!’
`Would you tell me, please,’ said Alice `what that means?`
`Now you talk like a reasonable child,’ said Humpty Dumpty, looking very much pleased. `I meant by “impenetrability” that we’ve had enough of that subject, and it would be just as well if you’d mention what you mean to do next, as I suppose you don’t mean to stop here all the rest of your life.’
`That’s a great deal to make one word mean,’ Alice said in a thoughtful tone.
`When I make a word do a lot of work like that,’ said Humpty Dumpty, `I always pay it extra.’
A cannon. A strap.
A piece. A biscuit.
A burner. A heater.
A chopper. A gat.
A hammer
A tool
for RULE
Or, you can call it a gun. That’s what fifteen-year-old Will has shoved in the back waistband of his jeans. See, his brother Shawn was just murdered. And Will knows the rules. No crying. No snitching. Revenge. That’s where Will’s now heading, with that gun shoved in the back waistband of his jeans, the gun that was his brother’s gun. He gets on the elevator, seventh floor, stoked. He knows who he’s after. Or does he? As the elevator stops on the sixth floor, on comes Buck. Buck, Will finds out, is who gave Shawn the gun before Will took the gun. Buck tells Will to check that the gun is even loaded. And that’s when Will sees that one bullet is missing. And the only one who could have fired Shawn’s gun was Shawn. Huh. Will didn’t know that Shawn had ever actually USED his gun. Bigger huh. BUCK IS DEAD. But Buck’s in the elevator? Just as Will’s trying to think this through, the door to the next floor opens. A teenage girl gets on, waves away the smoke from Dead Buck’s cigarette. Will doesn’t know her, but she knew him. Knew. When they were eight. And stray bullets had cut through the playground, and Will had tried to cover her, but she was hit anyway, and so what she wants to know, on that fifth floor elevator stop, is, what if Will, Will with the gun shoved in the back waistband of his jeans, MISSES.
And so it goes, the whole long way down, as the elevator stops on each floor, and at each stop someone connected to his brother gets on to give Will a piece to a bigger story than the one he thinks he knows. A story that might never know an END…if WILL gets off that elevator.
A piece. A biscuit.
A burner. A heater.
A chopper. A gat.
A hammer
A tool
for RULE
Or, you can call it a gun. That’s what fifteen-year-old Will has shoved in the back waistband of his jeans. See, his brother Shawn was just murdered. And Will knows the rules. No crying. No snitching. Revenge. That’s where Will’s now heading, with that gun shoved in the back waistband of his jeans, the gun that was his brother’s gun. He gets on the elevator, seventh floor, stoked. He knows who he’s after. Or does he? As the elevator stops on the sixth floor, on comes Buck. Buck, Will finds out, is who gave Shawn the gun before Will took the gun. Buck tells Will to check that the gun is even loaded. And that’s when Will sees that one bullet is missing. And the only one who could have fired Shawn’s gun was Shawn. Huh. Will didn’t know that Shawn had ever actually USED his gun. Bigger huh. BUCK IS DEAD. But Buck’s in the elevator? Just as Will’s trying to think this through, the door to the next floor opens. A teenage girl gets on, waves away the smoke from Dead Buck’s cigarette. Will doesn’t know her, but she knew him. Knew. When they were eight. And stray bullets had cut through the playground, and Will had tried to cover her, but she was hit anyway, and so what she wants to know, on that fifth floor elevator stop, is, what if Will, Will with the gun shoved in the back waistband of his jeans, MISSES.
And so it goes, the whole long way down, as the elevator stops on each floor, and at each stop someone connected to his brother gets on to give Will a piece to a bigger story than the one he thinks he knows. A story that might never know an END…if WILL gets off that elevator.
Oh...how embarrassing...
- Joined
- May 8, 2013
How horrifically prophetic for the state of discourse in the Current Year™.
- Joined
- Dec 16, 2019
Just use a pseudonym so the crazies can't hunt you down.
- Joined
- Nov 15, 2016
Worship of the written word is a tenet of white supremacy.
If any culture has worshiped the written word, it is China from circa- 1000 CE to the ascension of Sun Yat Sen in 1905. The examination system to get into their civil service quite literally tested candidates on their knowledge of Chinese literature, though other topics were also addressed. Nothing remotely close to this has ever existed in the West. Or anywhere else, AFAIK. It would be like applying to be an IRS agent and getting quizzed on Steinbeck.
Though not literature, the Rabbis sure as hell went (and I presume go) to great lengths to ensure the fidelity of the text of the Penteteuch
They would doubtless deny it is worship, but it sure seems like an act of worship from where I'm sitting.
- Joined
- Nov 27, 2019
I guess we should throw aside the white male classic of intolerance "To Kill a Mockingbird" as well?
- Joined
- Jan 3, 2017
As a matter of fact, yes, since it runs afoul of "Believe All Women" and since Atticus is a white savior and since it uses the n-word unredacted.
- Joined
- Jul 12, 2019
Self-publishing is an option. For example, you can do paperbacks on Amazon's KDP service.
- Joined
- Oct 6, 2014
- Joined
- Oct 28, 2018
That's what I did. Worked out just fine. I sold some copies, got a couple of good reviews. I was happy with it.
- Joined
- Aug 8, 2018
1. Why is the person who says shit like this always white? Fuck virtue signaling.
2. If you can't find a way to modernize racial discussions using this book, that's your fault. You missed the core point of the story. And who says you need to modernize it? This is a good time to put things in perspective--for as shitty as things may be for black people (I wouldn't know--I'm white), at least they're not being accused of heinous crimes just for being black.
3. Is she trying to imply that #MeToo is relevant to the discussion because this counters the 'believe all women' belief that came from it?
Ugh. This article feels more white savior-y than that book ever did.
- Joined
- Dec 16, 2019
Without power leveling, I did much the same.
I wrote an illustrated book I would have enjoyed when I was 12, and a fair number of people have bought the Kindle title off Amazon and enjoyed it as well. There's not much money in it, but I'm glad I did it anyways.
In a weird way, I kind of hope people pirate it so more people have a chance to read it.
- Joined
- Jun 6, 2018
If she wants to accuse somebody of perpetuating supremacy by means of the the written word then she needs to start with ancient Mesopotamia, the first civilization and the place where the earliest known form of writing emerged. The place was also populated by not-white (probably genetically related to modern Marsh Arabs and Assyrians) people. To think that pee-oh-sees were the ones who created white supremacy!
Funnily enough, some post-modernists such as Jacques Derrida claims the complete opposite, which is that the West privileges the spoken word over the written word and perpetuates hierarchies through this (which of course is bad because the West is always bad). Derrida calls it "logocentrism"