🐱 Interesting clickbait, op-eds, fluff pieces and other smaller stories
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Wallace
kiwifarms.net
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Sizzlin
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I ran into a concept a couple of years ago, 'the retard cock theory'. Supposedly, retards have really big cocks, and the more retarded the guy, the bigger the cock. Now all I wonder is whether Paul's black
OnMoTi
kiwifarms.net
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- Jan 3, 2020
I don't think this really deserves it's own thread. Maybe it does. But here's how Fox News described the competing groups in Portland;
The next person who claims Fox News is "conservative" or "right leaning" should be repeatedly bitch slapped for being a retarded cunt.
- "far-right"
- "neo-fascist"
- "chauvinistic"
- "racist"
- "xenophobic"
- "anti-fascist"
The next person who claims Fox News is "conservative" or "right leaning" should be repeatedly bitch slapped for being a retarded cunt.
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- Sep 13, 2016
Fox News is a Murdoch media outlet, a cog in the larger Murdoch Media Empire which is comprised of insidious brands such as Kidspot and Vogue.
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- Mar 17, 2019
Article (archive)
I was born in Siaya County in a family of six. I completed my primary and secondary school education and later trained as a security officer. After graduation, I managed to secure a job at a nightclub in Nakuru. I was paid well and life was very good. I felt like I had achieved my long-term dreams because everything was going smoothly. But little did I know that things would take a sudden downturn for the worse.
What exactly happened?
You see, the club was popular and always full of beauties. The gorgeous girls made my life exciting and on many occasions, they would drool over me, even though I was just a bouncer.
So, one night, while on duty at the club, a patron came in. He began harassing the ladies there and I soon got into a fist fight with him. The fight turned ugly and he threatened to stab me with a knife. What I didn’t know was that during the scuffle, one lady fell for me.
How so?
She was impressed by how I had defended them and became attracted to me. We became so close and with time, I also developed strong feelings for her. She told me that she lived alone in an apartment in the city and that made me even more fascinated because I could smell my big breakthrough.
I was young and naïve, and in my mind, she was my destiny connector. She was young, classy and I counted myself lucky. To me, this was a golden chance to improve my life.
How did your relationship progress?
The lady offered me a job in Nairobi and I quit my security job without a second thought. We took her car and travelled to the city, ending up in her apartment. After spending a few nights with her, she promised me great things, including land that she would purchase for me.
How was your new life in the city?
It was really comfortable. My now girlfriend spent most of her time watching movies, travelling and shopping.
Did you ever question her source of wealth?
At first I did not. But with time, I began noticing some strange things. For instance, she used to cook fresh meat every day for her pet, which was a big cat. I found this odd. She would also lock herself in one of the rooms, warning me not to disturb her.
That room was special and only she could enter it. I never knew what she was doing there. One day, as I was unwinding in the living room, I heard her phone ringing in the bedroom. I decided to pick the call because she was not around.
To my surprise, when I got into her room, I was shocked to see piles of money. I felt restless an confused. This is when I began to smell a rat. I had heard stories of devil worshippers and their lifestyles, and this was a red flag for me.
What happened next?
I think she sensed my restlessness and decided to rent me a place and furnish it. I didn’t understand why she suddenly wanted us to live separately. One day, she visited me and insisted on spending the night. The following day, I received a distress phone call from the caretaker saying that my house was on fire. All my belongings had been reduced to ashes in the inferno.
What did you do after this misfortune?
With no place to stay, I went back to live in her house. I began suffering from strange illnesses as soon as I got there. She did not offer much help and actually seemed to be enjoying my slow death. That is when I flashed back on our relationship and my worst fears were confirmed.
It dawned on me that she was a devil worshipper and was actually planning to offer me as a sacrifice. I also found out that her wealth was not genuine. Unfortunately, I had been too blinded by money and quick riches to see her evil agenda.
How did you escape from this trap?
By a stroke of luck, my sister came to visit me. We used to pray a lot together and I believe that the evil woman realised her plans were hitting a dead end. After recovering, I escaped from her house and joined the street families at the Dandora dumpsite. I started collecting and selling plastic waste to buy food.
What was your turning point?
One day, while roaming the streets with my sack of plastics, I found some boys playing football and joined them.
Their coach, who was a European, took interest in me, having noted that I was good footballer. He took me to a children’s home where I stayed until I recovered. I then ventured out and I am now pursuing a career in music.
What lessons have you learned from your experience?
I have learned that shortcuts lead to trouble and I that I should not always depend on other people for success.
I was born in Siaya County in a family of six. I completed my primary and secondary school education and later trained as a security officer. After graduation, I managed to secure a job at a nightclub in Nakuru. I was paid well and life was very good. I felt like I had achieved my long-term dreams because everything was going smoothly. But little did I know that things would take a sudden downturn for the worse.
What exactly happened?
You see, the club was popular and always full of beauties. The gorgeous girls made my life exciting and on many occasions, they would drool over me, even though I was just a bouncer.
So, one night, while on duty at the club, a patron came in. He began harassing the ladies there and I soon got into a fist fight with him. The fight turned ugly and he threatened to stab me with a knife. What I didn’t know was that during the scuffle, one lady fell for me.
How so?
She was impressed by how I had defended them and became attracted to me. We became so close and with time, I also developed strong feelings for her. She told me that she lived alone in an apartment in the city and that made me even more fascinated because I could smell my big breakthrough.
I was young and naïve, and in my mind, she was my destiny connector. She was young, classy and I counted myself lucky. To me, this was a golden chance to improve my life.
How did your relationship progress?
The lady offered me a job in Nairobi and I quit my security job without a second thought. We took her car and travelled to the city, ending up in her apartment. After spending a few nights with her, she promised me great things, including land that she would purchase for me.
How was your new life in the city?
It was really comfortable. My now girlfriend spent most of her time watching movies, travelling and shopping.
Did you ever question her source of wealth?
At first I did not. But with time, I began noticing some strange things. For instance, she used to cook fresh meat every day for her pet, which was a big cat. I found this odd. She would also lock herself in one of the rooms, warning me not to disturb her.
That room was special and only she could enter it. I never knew what she was doing there. One day, as I was unwinding in the living room, I heard her phone ringing in the bedroom. I decided to pick the call because she was not around.
To my surprise, when I got into her room, I was shocked to see piles of money. I felt restless an confused. This is when I began to smell a rat. I had heard stories of devil worshippers and their lifestyles, and this was a red flag for me.
What happened next?
I think she sensed my restlessness and decided to rent me a place and furnish it. I didn’t understand why she suddenly wanted us to live separately. One day, she visited me and insisted on spending the night. The following day, I received a distress phone call from the caretaker saying that my house was on fire. All my belongings had been reduced to ashes in the inferno.
What did you do after this misfortune?
With no place to stay, I went back to live in her house. I began suffering from strange illnesses as soon as I got there. She did not offer much help and actually seemed to be enjoying my slow death. That is when I flashed back on our relationship and my worst fears were confirmed.
It dawned on me that she was a devil worshipper and was actually planning to offer me as a sacrifice. I also found out that her wealth was not genuine. Unfortunately, I had been too blinded by money and quick riches to see her evil agenda.
How did you escape from this trap?
By a stroke of luck, my sister came to visit me. We used to pray a lot together and I believe that the evil woman realised her plans were hitting a dead end. After recovering, I escaped from her house and joined the street families at the Dandora dumpsite. I started collecting and selling plastic waste to buy food.
What was your turning point?
One day, while roaming the streets with my sack of plastics, I found some boys playing football and joined them.
Their coach, who was a European, took interest in me, having noted that I was good footballer. He took me to a children’s home where I stayed until I recovered. I then ventured out and I am now pursuing a career in music.
What lessons have you learned from your experience?
I have learned that shortcuts lead to trouble and I that I should not always depend on other people for success.
Grandpa Simpson
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Aug 18, 2020
Is this a news article or a fanfic?
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- Sep 27, 2019
I didn't know people wrote erotic fanfiction based off Chick Tracts. Guess rule 34 does exist.
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- Aug 30, 2015
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- Feb 19, 2018
I love finding those things around.
They make me laugh.
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- Aug 25, 2017
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- Jan 15, 2018
And the shitty grunge part of the 90s
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- Nov 15, 2017
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- Oct 21, 2019
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- Aug 30, 2015
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- Nov 15, 2017
It's not even an interesting Satanic story. I heard more fun stories from a girl who claimed to be in a Satanic cult. (Who was probably lying.)
- Joined
- Aug 21, 2019
I found this Op-Ed from someone one Twitter explaining how they got "radicalized" when their inner city community garden was destroyed by the housing authority. Story below:
Kaitlyn Greenidge said:My Mother’s Garden
By Kaitlyn Greenidge
- March 26, 2016
Credit...Jun Cen
IT was my first year as a scholarship student at a school that prized itself on teaching the skill of dispassionate debate. I quickly learned that the best thing you could bring to an argument was “objectivity.”
We practiced this objectivity in our current events class. It was never explicitly tied to identity, but it was implied. I learned that the best person to talk about wealth and class was an upper-middle class person because she supposedly could look at it dispassionately. The best person to talk about race was a white person, for the same reasons. The best person to talk about gender was a boy.
When people affected by issues spoke for themselves, they got too angry, too weepy, too irrational.
In the mid-1990s, the biggest threat to America continued to be the welfare queen. Or at least that’s what the news and many politicians all said. My school was far too genteel to name the welfare queen outright, but she haunted our balanced class discussions. The welfare queen was worse than disease and death and the destruction of the icecaps. She was worse than that because she was all those things in one, perpetually pregnant with pathologies, birthing out criminals and addicts and losers and apparently eating $50 steaks and driving gleaming Cadillacs while doing so.
I was acutely aware that, on the surface, I could potentially fit all the stereotypes of the welfare queen: I was black, the daughter of a single mother, on welfare and food stamps and living in the projects.
I would sit in class and listen to the sons and daughters of doctors and lawyers and policy makers — people who had never needed and would most likely never need welfare — earnestly advocate the dismantling of the welfare state, and I would shake and shake and shake with something I couldn’t name.
I told myself it did not matter that my classmates and teachers described a reality that was not mine, was never mine, was so far removed from mine as to be a fiction. Their fiction was the truth because they didn’t live in my reality. That’s what made them objective. I wanted to be objective, too. I longed for that voice and the authority that came with it.
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My objective classmates did not know, for instance, about the garden. The housing project we lived in had been built just before the war on poverty, probably intended for G.I.s returning from World War II. They were suburban-style tract houses, two units to each trim building.
No one came to visit us there in the bad part of town. We had arrived not that long before, when we were a month away from homelessness, but I did not look at this as a place of shelter. The other people in these projects were nearly all white. We were one of the few black families.
The project’s tract houses stood behind green lawns and weeping willow trees and generous blacktopped driveways. To an outsider, there was little distinction between where we lived and the middle-class homes across the street. But everyone in our town knew which side of the street was which, which side was where the real people lived and which side was to be avoided.
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So when I answered the doorbell one spring afternoon when I was 14, I was very curious. I could see four children, smaller than me, the oldest probably no more than 8, the youngest barely 4.
“Where’s the lady?” the oldest one asked. She had a hoarse voice with a strong Boston accent, and her green eyes blinked up at me from behind a pair of blue plastic glasses, the lenses clouded with finger grease.
“Who?” I said.
“The lady,” the girl repeated. “She works in the garden. We want to work in the garden,” which to my ears sounded like “gah-den.”
As soon as the ground thawed in this strange new place, my mother started planning a garden. She’d chosen a circle of lawn along the parking lot, in the no man’s land between the project and the street behind it, where the middle-class homes resumed. She planted cherry tomatoes and cucumbers and marigolds.
A garden was my mother’s way of holding on, as tightly as she could, to any scrap of our former middle-class life. In our homes before poverty, before the divorce, we had always had a garden. When I was younger, my mother would give me my own small plot. I always chose to plant pansies.
My mother had decided to go back to school for a master’s degree. She did not want us to stay in this housing project forever. But, as she told me, the housing project administrators argued that her scholarships to graduate school should count as her income and that even though she was also working, being a full-time student meant she could not live in public housing.
There were other strange rules, too. My father unexpectedly sent a desktop computer instead of back payments for child-support. But the housing project forbade personal computers, because they used up too much electricity. My mother made a quick calculation — hours and gas spent driving back and forth to the university computer lab to work on papers versus the cash she could get if she sold it. She decided to keep it. The computer sat hidden under piles of bedsheets, far from any windows, in a dark corner of my mother’s room, a ghost of our need.
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My mother is radically honest, one of the few people I know who is incapable of lying. But it was an impossible choice: Obey the housing project’s rules, don’t go back to school, certain that path would mean no upward mobility and thus, no way to leave public housing. Or break the rules, work quiet and quick and hard, hoping the path she hacked in secret would allow some sort of escape.
That spring, my mother got up at 5 every morning to work in the garden before she drove to her full-time job and then to class. When she finally came home, in the dusk, she worked in the garden again before coming inside to make my sister and me dinner and then staying up to study and write papers.
All this time, the children of the projects had watched her weed and water and seed with interest. And now they were here to join her.
They came every afternoon, ringing the back doorbell. “Is the lady home? Is she going work in the garden? Tell us when she gets home, O.K.? We want to work in the garden.”
I teased my mother about her fans, imitating their accents. She’d laugh a little and then she’d invite me to join them outside. But I would always say no. I stayed indoors, in the rooms we kept dark (the air-conditioning of the poor — heavy shades and high-powered fans) and listened to Björk.
MY whole life, at that point, was focused on proving that I did not belong to the poor. I doubled down on outsiderness. The weirder the affectations I adopted the better. I saved for months to buy heavy men’s Oxford shoes and wore only overalls and became the most devoted They Might Be Giants fan I could possibly be — all signifiers, I hoped, that I was smart and quirky, and most of all objective, like all my classmates.
When I came home from school in the afternoons, I remembered what was said about us, about the projects, about our poverty. My mother asked me if I wanted a plot for my pansies in her garden and I said no. I wasn’t brave, like her and those kids. I was ashamed to claim any part of this, to make it my own, to love it so hard as to seed it with flowers and patiently hope for them to bloom.
The garden lasted a few months. Then, an agent of the town’s housing authority found out about it and told my mother it was against the rules. “But no one’s using the land,” I remember her arguing. “The kids in the neighborhood play there.” The response was clear: Get rid of the garden or be evicted. Here was another one of those impossible choices of poverty. This was what my classmates would never understand, as they earnestly debated welfare fraud and the grasping desperation of the undeserving poor.
My mother stopped tending the garden and the next weekend a maintenance worker came and poured something onto the soil that made all the plants die and turned the grass brown.
In September, I was back at that prep school, still obviously a scholarship student no matter what disguises I secured. The earnest debates in the halls had moved on to other topics because at that moment, poverty was no longer news. But I was still shaking with rage. I didn’t know what to do with it; I didn’t even know yet that it was rage that made my voice quiver and come out small when I had to speak in class.
Every morning, I passed the big floral arrangements that sat on the chestnut tables outside of the sleek, walnut-lined school office. I’d sneak a hand underneath their leaves, break the heads off the heaviest blooms and ball the petals up until my fists smelled like roses.
Kaitlyn Greenidge is the author of the novel “We Love You, Charlie Freeman.”
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- Feb 1, 2015
In old times, I think everybody knew that everybody had a rough childhood and no one got asspats for longwindedly whining about it.
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- Jun 4, 2019
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- Feb 3, 2013
I thought I was going to get in trouble at the grocery store when the produce guy came over and asked why I was taking pictures of the bananas. I pointed out the little stickers, and he said, "Oh yeah, we've gotten a few shipments of bananas with those lately." I just smiled, backed away from the bunches, and spared him my rant, because man, I was pissed!
You may not have even noticed they were on your bananas - go on, I'll wait while you check. Did you find these little drawings of bananas doing exercises like glute bridges, diamond push-ups, and triceps dips? You can scroll through to see pictures I took of the bananas. These seemingly innocent stickers were brought to my attention when I saw this photo posted by registered dietitian Cara D'Anello, MS, RD, LDN, with a sticker that had a little picture of a banana doing "toe taps." The text on her photo said, "No wonder diet culture exists."
I hadn't thought about it like that, but then I realized what she meant. Chiquita said on its website that it put these fitness stickers on bananas "to boost health and wellness." At first glance, this may not seem like a big deal, but when I thought about it, she was right. The deeper, subconscious message I got was "you need to work off this banana after you eat it" or "you need to do sumo squats in order to 'earn it.'" And that made me really mad. I mean, my 10-year-old daughter eats these bananas. What kind of message is that sending to her?
Bananas already have a bad reputation for being "too carby" or "too high in sugar," so I felt like those little stickers were attacking my simple and pure piece of fruit, making me feel like I shouldn't eat it. They made me think of all the times I exercised as punishment for eating "bad" foods or eating too much. And this is a frickin' piece of fruit - not a candy bar, or doughnut, or cookie, like diet culture would tell me is worse than fruit. I already get messages from diet culture about how, what, and when to eat - I don't need my fruit adding to that negative conversation.
Maybe I'm overreacting, and maybe this is no biggie. But it really feels like this is diet culture's way of sneaking into my life, telling me I need to pair healthy eating with working out. What does this banana expect from me? That I'm going to reach for it and think, "Oh cool, let me just put you down so I can bust out some glute bridges right now!"
Another thing I thought about was how the diet industry sends the message that you need to be thin in order to be beautiful, which is why I went on my first diet at just 12 years old. And now 31 years later, I'm working really hard to not diet, to eat intuitively, and to embrace my body as it is, not only for myself but also as a role model for my daughter. I get that this company was trying to connect healthy eating with exercise, but I don't want to think about working out while I'm eating, feel guilty for eating, or feel pressured to work out by my food. I immediately thought in my head, "Screw you, diet culture; I'm gonna eat my banana and enjoy it!"