The Kansas City Chiefs beat the San Diego Chargers 23-20 on a last second field goal by kicker Cairos Santos. The Chiefs quarterback had one of the best reactions.
not gonna lie i screamed the same thing
Um. So according to NFL on CBS, noted crazy person Pete Carroll has decided to trade wide receiver Percy Harvin to the New York Jets for a conditional mid-round pick. Amid the nourishing, satisfying screams of the collective of Seahawks fans bemoaning their coach’s decision, please take note of the fact that since Percy Harvin is going to be a Jet, the Jets may implement a jet sweep into the playbook, which also means that we might get to hear Jon Gruden talk about THIS GUY PERCY HARVIN running the JETS JET SWEEP and oh man that just gives me the warm fuzzies.
LiartownUSA has always celebrated ONLINE SOCIAL JUSTICE WARRIORS. Now, spurred by popular demand and a deep desire to properly honor the internet’s bravest, most productive heroes, I am very pleased to announce the very first LiarTown item to consensually enter the physical world.
First appearing in a December 2013 post and honored by rave reviews from Jezebel.com (“The absolute best cat calendar!”) this now-100% real publication is officially available for sale.
This full-color, 12” x 12” grid-style wall calendar is presented and shipped in plenty of time for the holidays. Each month features a charming kitten professionally photographed in a heroic pose appropriate to a small cat defiantly speaking out on the hottest social justice issues of the day. A sassy, uncompromising declaration erases any doubts about each precious cat’s passionate convictions, sense of humor, and tough-as-nails attitude!
Each of these twelve adorable kittens was subject to a week-long, grueling interview process to ensure there was absolutely nothing problematic in its beliefs. Unlike bland, privileged garbage kittens chosen for nothing more than shallow good looks, Social Justice Kittens radiate fierce strength in the face of untold adversity, and all are gifted with a dazzling array of genders and orientations to go with their tiny, oh-so-kissable faces! The patriarchy WILL NEVER accept these kittens!
After thousands of years of CIS-HET BULLSHIT, here at last is a calendar that DARES YOU to speak truth to power. A calendar which boldly announces to the world that you aren’t going to sit back and let others speak for you. A calendar that holds you up high so others can see you’re able to stand proudly on your own!
It comes down to this: Do you want to financially support the ideals embodied by this unique, functional gift, or refuse to purchase a copy and become a hateful fake ally who actively embraces injustice and the murder of innocents? The choice is yours.
One more time, to be clear: This is a genuine 2015 calendar, printed on big machines and then mailed out by mid-November.
Last but not least, a huge THANK YOU to everyone who supported this project during its formation!
Is that cashmere? No, it’s Persian! Think of your cat’s fur as not a mess, but a decoration that your feline companion gives to you as an act of love. Be sure to share it with your friends by hugging.
This year we harvested three ewe lambs on butcher day. Angry readers who don’t eat meat want me to use the word “butcher.” So this is for them: We butchered the lambs. It was a good, quick death. I know this because I watched it.
Some people get uncomfortable reading about anything to do with killing an animal, and I understand this. When we knew we were moving to the farm, I decided that if I was going to continue to eat meat regularly, I owed it to myself — and the animal — to be present at its death, as well as its birth and the days in between. I am not judging anyone who eats store-bought meat: Not everyone can live on a farm, or chooses to, and not everyone wants to raise animals. And we do eat meat from time to time from our nearby store or local butcher, or from other farm friends.
But I don’t want to debate where you get your food, or what you choose to eat. That is all up to you. I want to describe what it is like to be present at butcher day, and what goes into the routine leading up to it. Of course, this has changed in the 11 years since we had our first group of sheep butchered. That was a very uncomfortable day, and it still is. It will always be uncomfortable, just like taking a dying animal to be euthanized: You know, and they don’t. You question your motives, as you should; or at least I do, year in and year out. But I come back to the same decision each time: I am part of nature, not above it. I choose to be within the food chain, not to stand outside of it. I think nature has given me a pretty good path to follow, just like it gave all the other creatures a path to follow to survive.
I hang white prayer flags in the stall, and the night before, I sit for a very short time and thank them for their good work and sacrifice.
I asked veterinarians, hunters, butchers and farm friends how the animals should be killed. Different animals are butchered differently. The sheep have their throats cut, right through the vertebrae. It is over before it starts. They feel nothing and are instantly dead. But I question this every year, and every year I ask my vets about it again. Would it be better to shoot them in the head first? No. Sheep have small heads, the bullet can easily go astray, causing more panic and injury to both sheep and butcher (a sick animal is another story). If done properly, the cut through the vertebrae is instant, and it is over. I couldn’t watch it the first few years. It is a process one goes through as a farmer, the butchering. I’ve heard this from every farmer I know. But I feel I owe it to them to be there.
We are lucky to have a mobile butcher who comes to the farm and does the butchering here. If I had to haul animals to a butcher facility, I’m not sure I would raise animals for meat anymore. I do everything in my power to make the butcher day seem normal. I separate out the few sheep we will harvest from the flock. Often, if they are rams, they are separated out at three months — harvest happens at five or six months. The week before the butcher date, I bring them in at night to the same stall that the butcher will enter. I have a morning routine with them, and on the butcher morning, they experience the same routine. My main job before the butcher comes that morning is to be calm and create a sense of the ordinary for the animal, making it as stress-free as possible on me and the animals. If I am stressed, they are stressed.
I hang white prayer flags in the stall, and the night before, I sit for a very short time and thank them for their good work and sacrifice.
The week before, I am always agitated. I was talking to another farm friend who said it would be the day she wasn’t agitated that would upset her. I know I will always feel anxious in the days leading up to the slaughter. On the actual day, it is so fast, and then they are gone.
It helps to have a butcher you can talk to. He, too, wants a quick, smooth kill. These are good, hard-working people. They love animals and want to do their best. Interestingly enough, my butcher doesn’t eat much pork because he says he kills so many pigs. But he hunts deer and eats lamb and beef. Everyone deals with their own individual nature as they see fit. Everyone comes to that individual nature through years of experience.
The first years, I didn’t look much at the dead animal. But that has changed. I inspect the skin and certain organs out of curiosity. I am the one who cleans up their blood. It is very beautiful: bright red, and it coagulates quickly. And then the chickens eat it.
This was the first year that we had Marcella, our guard dog, during a harvest day. She was behind a gate with her goat and pig clan and could hear the butcher’s voice as he worked and talked with Martyn, my husband. She was not afraid, but she paced back and forth quite a bit. I sat with her once all the sheep were dead. It is my job to help the butcher catch each sheep; when that is over, my job is done. When the butcher drove off, I watered down the area where the blood was, and then let Marcella out. The blood leaves a smell for a good couple of days, I’m sure longer for her. She really checked out the entire scene and the barnyard. While the butchering was going on, you could tell she sensed it, although there is no sound of distress during the butchering: since the animals die instantly, there is no distress.
I have cried on butcher day in the past, when it is over. But now I usually have a day of tears in the week prior. It is on my mind, a conscious decision I make to kill an animal to eat it. It is a conflict to love animals, nurture them and kill them. I get it. Because I live it. But it’s also a conflict to raise a puppy and then send it off with a stranger. I don’t judge any kind of eater — be it lion, dog, coyote, hawk, cat, worm, vegan or meat-eater — for killing another creature, either vegetable or animal. When I was a vegetarian for about seven years, I began to feel that I had actually judged nature. I had taken myself out of her perfectly sound and wise food system. While I realize I am currently at the top of the food chain, I don’t take it lightly, and never will, and that is why I go to the extremes I do before, during and after harvest day. That is why I always check in with myself, asking, “Do I still want to raise an animal this year to eat it?” I hope I never stop asking that.
I have cried on butcher day in the past, when it is over. But now I usually have a day of tears in the week prior.
It is our ritual to eat the fresh liver of the animal the night of the harvest. We sauté it in butter with onions and salt and pepper. It is the smoothest, clearest liver I’ve ever seen. There is an overwhelming pride that steals over me when I hold the liver, and then eat it. I am not eating it alone, I am eating it in partnership with the animal that sacrificed it. Years ago when we first started farming, I heard a Seattle chef on NPR talk about how cooking with a meat you have reared and killed is a different kind of cooking. I understand that completely. It is a feeling of pride, reverence, gratitude and, yes, joy. A celebration, a glass of wine raised to the animal and to nature and the land for feeding that animal so we can now eat.
A very angry Internet online reader once wrote me – anonymously, of course – saying that I was a hypocrite, helping older animals and then eating young “baby” lambs (they never get their facts right). She told me I did it out of “greed.” (This is laughable: We are lucky to break even on the small number of sheep we rear to eat or sell.) She demanded I post photos of the slaughtered lamb. I am not PETA. Posting such photos would do neither meat-eater nor vegan any good. It would not help a person come to an educated understanding of what harvesting an animal is really like. It is not just the moment the throat is cut, it is the combined moments leading up to its death – the birth, the growth and the eventual day of butchering – that allow you to understand what it feels like to look down at the same animal bleeding out. When we first started, I couldn’t look. It is the process of understanding life and death within the hierarchy of nature that allowed me to look.
This same reader said she prayed that some day a pig would eat me. I said I’d be honored. Why waste my meat? The worms or someone will get me sooner or later. Death is not necessarily a bad thing.
The post Farm Confessional: What Butchering Your Animals Really Feels Like appeared first on Modern Farmer.
From designer Francesco Morackini (of the “Dildomaker” that makes dildos out of everything), here is “MO-CLEAN/14″ aka the Banker. This concept machine mimics the appearance and mobility of office printer/copier/thing while collecting trace amounts of cocaine from all your banknotes.
DesignBoom describes the process very seriously:
the bills are placed within the counting machine which are then scanned and cleaned through the use of solvents. the extracted substances are then distributed into a centrifuge and divided according to their varying densities. at this phase, the cocaine is then transferred into the HPLC unit, separating the matter and ejecting it into the MS control unit. in this final step the various components detected in the HPLC are separated and controlled, finally deliver 99% pure cocaine crystals.
In reality, it’s a solution to a problem no one has, as no one really minds slightly contaminated bills. And though studies have revealed that up to 90% of US bills contain between 0.006 micrograms to 1.24 micrograms per bill, that’s a pretty microscopic, producing worthlessly tiny amounts. You’re probably spending more on solvent than the coke return. But, as a fictional concept, that’s some very amusing, stylized commentary.
The post This Machine Harvests Cocaine From Your Paper Money appeared first on ANIMAL.
Shel Silverstein was more than just a quirky, kid-friendly poet with whom we youthfully chuckled while leafing through Where the Sidewalk Ends or A Light in the Attic. Indeed, as your perfectly sensible dad choked back tears while reading to you about the relentlessly cruel passage of time lovingly explored in The Giving...
In America’s colonial era, thousands of people were buried in a cemetery that is now the Green in New Haven, Connecticut. The Center Church on the Green, as it is called now, was built in 1814 right over top of a section of the cemetery! They set up pillars in the cemetery, and built the church on top, then put fill dirt around the church to make it ground level. That left a “basement’ of sorts for the remaining graves, complete with their original headstones. And it is there still. But that was only part of the large cemetery on the Green. What of the bodies outside of the church?
Yet in true Poltergeist-fashion, when in the 1820s the graveyard was relocated to the new Grove Street Cemetery, only the headstones were moved. By some estimates there are between 5,000 to 10,000 souls still buried below the Green, although one was disturbed during 2012's Hurricane Sandy when a tree was dislodged from the ground, and a skeleton was found coiled in the roots. Specifically, a skull was spotted just before Halloween with its jaw swung open as if in a silent howl, while a spine and rib cage remained attached.
You won’t see that, but you will see plenty of pictures of the Center Church on the Green and its underground cemetery-turned-crypt that is open to visitors, at Atlas Obscura.
(Image credit: Allison Meier)
A “vandal” has stepped in and taken artistic liberty with one of Banksy’s latest works and it’s kinda clever in a sophomoric sort of way.
Local police in Kent, England say — without irony — that they are looking for the person who illegally drew a big penis on Banksy’s illegal piece, which originally depicted a woman staring at an empty plinth (where a work of art would normally be displayed). With the alteration, she appeared to be gazing at a big dick. But not for long.
Officials quickly went and cleaned up the mural which luckily for Banksy fans, had already been encased in plexiglass, so only the clear protective barrier was damaged, not the actual piece on the wall.
Last month in the United States, a California man was convicted of defacing a Banksy in Park City, Utah and was orderd to pay thousands of dollars or face jail time. If the same rules applied in the UK, a certain seaside municipality might have found itself facing similar punishment.
Recently my grandmother found out I’m queer. Her response was to tell me that she disapproves of me living with my “friend” (i.e. my girlfriend) and that I should give up my vile queer ways and become a Christian (Lol). She even sent me a bible. Here are its remains, which I made into black-out poetry.
Poem 1: Bisexual (from Leviticus 19:9)— “Have sexual relations with her. Have sexual relations with him. Have sexual relations with both a woman and a man. Have sexual relations with yourself. Vomit on everyone who does not respect you.”
Poem 2: Fisting (from Judges 8:5)— “water/ lap the water/ drink/go down to drink/your hands/go down/I give into your hands/go down/encouraged/down/on the seashore/the whole hand/your hand/inside/I get to the edge/and shout/grasping/crying out/Beth/Beth/Beth/Beth/Beth/God/I came”
Poem 3: A Letter to the Exiles (from Jeremiah 28:13) — “Ze said: ‘Do not let lies name you, nor harm your heart. Gather. Raise the sword against them. They scorn and reproach, for they have not listened— again and again have not listened.’ “
Poem 4: Child (from Ezekiel 16:22) — “Your father and your mother rubbed salt in. No one looked on you with pity or had compassion enough for you, for on the day you were born you were despised. Live! Grow. I looked at you and saw you were enough.”
Poem 5: Father (from Ezekiel 16:22) — “You never adored us. You became very angry. You took some out on us. Your sons and daughters were not enough? You slaughtered— in all your detestable practices— our youth.”
Poem 6: Misandry (from Acts 27:41) — “Dangerous men should be broken.”
The script that I used to make that course assignment about Facebook pronouns ("Sex, age, and pronouns on Facebook", 9/19/2014; "More fun with Facebook pronouns", 9/27/2014) can trivially be focused on any other words — so here's "the":
And "that" (though the determiner version is mixed with the complementizer):
For some reason, "these" doesn't show an age effect:
We may get a clue about what's going on from "and":
And also "or":
"The true story of Stronzo Bestiale", Parolacce 10/5/2014:
Would you read a paper written by Stronzo Bestiale (Total Asshole)? A dose of mistrust would be justified: the name says it all. Yet, in 1987, professor Bestiale, supposedly a physicist in Palermo, Sicily, authored major papers in prestigious scientific peer reviewed journals such as the Journal of Statistical Physics, the Journal of Chemical Physics and the proceedings of a meeting of American Physical Society in Monterey.
No such person exists, it seems — the story emerges through email with one of Prof. Bestiale's co-authors:
I wrote to professor Hoover, now retired, to ask him the true story of Stronzo Bestiale. Here’s what he said. «At that time» he says «we were very active in the development of a new computational technique, non-equilibrium molecular dynamics, connecting fractal geometry, irreversibility and the second law of thermodynamics. [...]
[T]he theoretical picture of this technique was clear to me, so I wrote several papers on the subject along with some colleagues. But the reviewers of Physical Review Letters and the Journal of Statistical Physics refused to publish my texts: they contained too innovative ideas.»
This is nothing new: new discoveries in science are hard to publish because scientists are rather conservative, as discussed by the epistemologist Thomas Kuhn. Meanwhile, Hoover continues, «while I was traveling on a flight to Paris, next to me were two Italian women who spoke among themselves, saying continually: “Che stronzo (what an asshole)!”, “Stronzo bestiale (total asshole)”. Those phrases had stuck in my mind. So, during a CECAM meeting, I asked Ciccotti what they meant. When he explained it to me, I thought that Stronzo Bestiale would have been the perfect co-author for a refused publication. So I decided to submit my papers again, simply by changing the title and adding the name of that author. And the researches were published».
I wonder how widely this technique would work? Across the languages of the world, we can find thousands of authors' names in the same genre. There's Prof. Connard, who seems to have thousands of publications already; but the career of Dr. Arschloch seems hardly to have begun — perhaps I would have better luck with LSA abstracts if I adopted her as a co-author.
And there are other sources of names, of course. "Should papers be retracted if one of the authors is a total asshole?", Retraction Watch 10/9/2014, mentions the possibility of pet co-authors:
In 1978, Polly Matzinger added her impeccably-named Afghan hound, Galadriel Mirkwood, to a Journal of Experimental Medicine paper to protest the use of passive voice in scientific papers.
And in the field of linguistics, we have precedent for the authorship status of household appliances:
by Louis Faurer
New York, 1975
a little gross but interesting
This was originally written on my FB page where I post pictures and links almost daily and which you immediately should follow. I remembered about the stool samples when I was writing this post about the Soviet medicine of my day.
*Warning: please don’t eat while reading this.
Soviet kids had to be healthy whether they wanted it or not. And healthy meant parasite-free. So once in a while, my school (and I imagine all the other schools in the area) put out a call for stool samples. By a certain deadline every child had to submit a matchbox full of you-know-what, tightly wrapped and marked with the name of a producer.
At that time (and maybe still) the Soviet toilets (in places with indoor plumbing but not in public restrooms) were different from the American model we are all used to. Instead of a small pool of water ready to accept your deposits, it was more like a vase with hardly any water at all. When done, a person would pull a chain and a waterfall coming down from the high-mounted tank (if the water was on that day) would flush the stuff down through the hole located in the front part of the toilet.
That technical aside was necessary to explain that at least our parents didn’t have to fish for floating crap, it was all right there, nice and piled. Clearly no 8- or 9- or even 12-year-old wants to have anything to do with putting their own crap in a small box, so that somber duty had to be fulfilled by our parents. Many years later, as a parent myself, I’ve done many disgusting things and touched some substances that would make a grown man gag (and they did). But even after thousands of diapers changed I am still not sure I could go ahead and do what my mom had to do. This is something that would make you think twice about having a child.
The next day, the matchbox was proudly delivered and submitted to school, securely wrapped in multiple layers of paper and plastic (we didn’t have zip-locks or any bags of that nature) and tied with a string, with my name proudly scribbled on it like a designer brand. To this day I have no idea if anyone did anything with those nuggets. You can imagine that a school with 800 or a thousand kids can produce enough crap to fertilize a small organic beet farm. (Note to self: submit this idea to the school district as an extra source of income in light of recent school budget cuts by Governor Brownback.)
I always imagined that a lab in lower circles of socialized healthcare hell, populated by medical school dropouts, dimly lit and smelling worse than a meatpacking plant on a summer day, did nothing else but unwrapped the packages and examined the contents for parasite eggs and the signs of dinners past.But in reality I think they just threw these boxes away and faked the results. After all, sooner or later the parasites show their ugly heads, if you know what I mean.
Epilogue: When we came to the United States we had to pass some medical tests (in addition to the overpriced testing we were required to do in Moscow before we left). Then we received a mail-in stool sample kit, which consisted of some Popsicle sticks and cardboard envelopes. I was tempted to send my stuff in a box, but reconsidered and just threw the kits away.
They would have to pry a stool sample out of my……….
it’s official, the new ghostbusters screenplay is moving forward with an all-woman team
i have ghostbusters 1 and 2 on blu-ray, dvd, laserdisc AND vhs. i watch each one every night and check to make sure NO ONE is taking those precious ghostbuster dicks away from me
Victory Theater, 209 West 42nd Street Photo by Langdon Clay
Circa 1978 (the year Pussycat Ranch was released)