here’s why i am going to need everybody to shut the fuck up about how they think economic inequality is more important than racism. here is why i need fucking occupy wallstreet type white people to stop fucking derailing RACIAL demonstrations.
THE CRIMINAL JUSTICE SYSTEM TARGETS BLACK BODIES NOT ACTUAL CRIMINALS
Kate Meckler, a real-estate broker who is worth millions, shoplifted $2,000 worth of clothing from Saks in NYC. That’s felony larceny. She was apprehended verbally by security, she apologized was convicted of a misdemeanor,disorderly conduct. No jail time.
Kayla Phillips, a (ridiculously beautiful) successful model bought a $4,500 dollar Celine bag from Barney’s in NYC (because she is ballin like that). Kayla was followed by three officers who violently slammed her to the ground and attempted to arrest her for shoplifting.
Socioeconomic inequality is real and important but at the end of the day you can be rich rich rich as fuck but if you’re black you will still be treated as subhuman. Kate Meckler didn’t get off scott free because she is rich, she did because she is WHITE. Kayla was treated much worse for a crime she didn’t even commit, and her wealth did not save her from that, she suffered police violence anyway.
Being deaf is not a symptom of autism. Having trouble understanding what people are saying/not noticing when people are talking to you are often symptoms of autism, and I have heard of many autistic people who had people wondering if they were deaf.
Point the first: I love my Maine Coons. They are the best cats I have ever had. They are also “real” Maine Coons, in that I got them from a reputable breeder who could produce their pedigrees back twenty generations. This matters because a lot of long-haired or large cats in shelters get labeled “Maine Coons” in order to help them get adopted. Most of those cats are not Maine Coons, either wholly or in part, and thus will not exhibit common Maine Coon behaviors. They are still awesome cats, and may be easier on your nerves.
Point the second: I spent years volunteering for the SPCA, used to show Siamese cats, and have had cats for my entire life. If we count the ones I’ve fostered or lived with when I was couch surfing, I have probably shared living space with cats in the triple digits. I am not a beginning cat owner. So…
Point the third: these are not beginner cats.
Maine Coons are huge. The smaller of my two cats weighs 25lbs. Neither of them is considered overweight by my vet. This means that either one of them could hurt me very badly if they wanted to, or if they saw me as a threat, or if they decided that I was doing them ill. When they sit on my chest, I can have difficulty breathing. I am actually unable to dead-lift my cats off myself in certain positions. If you are not comfortable with enormous carnivores next to your face while you sleep, these are not the cats for you.
Maine Coons are long-haired and double-coated, which makes them essentially waterproof from above, and hugely absorbent from below. Sometimes I call them “giant purring tampons.” I’m not really kidding. They require daily brushing, and see the groomer a minimum of three times a year, because even with daily brushing, they will mat and become tangled. A good feline groomer will be about $40 per cat per trip, before tip. I usually budget $100 for each trip to the groomer–and they require more grooming when I’ve been on the road, because they’re not as tolerant of people who aren’t me brushing them.
Maine Coons are intensely social. There is always at least one cat in the room with me. They’re “with” cats, rather than “on” cats, most of the time (there are always exceptions when you’re talking personality), but they need to know where I am. They become distressed and despondent when I go away for two long. After my trip to Europe last fall, Thomas flung himself into my arms, pressed his head into my throat, and keened. I have never heard a cat make that sound before. It sounded like he was dying. I never want to hear that sound again. Which is to say, you can’t leave your Maine Coons alone. They require companionship, interaction, and stimulation on an even more intense level than a domestic shorthair. They can, and will, become depressed if they feel like their people are not loving them properly.
Maine Coons need to be socialized almost like dogs when they’re very small–not in the sense of “oh, you can do obedience with them” (although they perform well in feline agility trials), but in the sense of “you need to pick them up, pet them, handle them, and make sure they genuinely believe you are bigger than them, because see the above point about their size and capability to fuck you up big time.”
Many Maine Coons–mine included–love water, and will play in their dishes, possibly even joining you in the bath or shower. An adult Maine Coon can absorb roughly four gallons of water, becoming a horrifying squamous swamp monster that you’ll have to chase through the house.
Maine Coons have large, spatulate paws, and can open doors.
My Maine Coons are incredibly sweet, welcoming, friendly, and mellow, but this is because I have spent a lot of time socializing them and getting them comfortable with the world. Their comfort and mental well-being occupies my time almost as completely as a child would. There are cat trees in every room; they have never been shouted at or smacked (although Thomas did get punched in the face once, when he decided to bite my head while I was sleeping; reflex kicked in). They require a lot of grooming, a lot of attention, and a lot of play.
I have never had a better cat. I adore Maine Coons more than I can say. I would not recommend them to a beginner, especially with so many amazing cats in shelters, waiting for forever homes. And I would definitely not call them “easy.”
Being a girl was complicated. It was swallowing rusty nails and clawing our way towards something we didn’t even know we really wanted.
When I was thirteen I told Stephanie that drinking orange juice could stop you from fainting because it raises your blood sugar. In sophomore year, she slammed her head, saw stars, and ended up drinking an entire carton in one sitting. She vomited on her kitchen floor, but she couldn’t tell if it was from the concussion or from a pint of orange juice sitting in her stomach. Her doctor told her mother, “All girls try throwing up at some point.”
I remember the first time one of my friends came to me with eyes so red I thought she’d inhaled a desert. She said her mother had died from breast cancer the night before. She said her home was an open grave, a holy space. She said she’d rather be in school than dealing with an absence so loud nobody could speak. I still think about her every time someone says “save the ta-tas” instead of “please god save our mothers haven’t enough of us suffered.”
On certain Saturday nights we’d all get dressed up like we were going somewhere fancy and then sit in and watch Disney movies. We filled ourselves up with popcorn and gossip. When Patty showed up with a black eye again, we all said nothing about it. We were too young to make fists out of fingers, I think.
A girl on the train was reading a book I love. We got to talking. She’s from the Peace Corps, she said, gave me a smile like a thousand volts. She was one of those people who make you feel good about yourself. When she got up to go, she gave me a little wave. I said “Go stop violence,” and she laughed. Hanging off the back of her bag was a little pink can of mace.
We learned to be secret defend-each-other types. We were going to hold the world down until it liked us. There is something bold about being defiant. There is something about having soft petal skin and still showing sharp teeth.
The box was little and teal and had a bow attached to it. Inside was a pair of brass knuckles in the shape of cat ears. “In case,” my father said, “In case.”
I remember my sister, body wrapped in a towel, saying, “It’s not as bad as it looks,” her shinbone a mess of blood where her razor slipped. She said she saw the patch of skin she removed. She wiggled her eyebrows while holding up her pointer finger. “This long,” she said, “And pretty thick.” She had to throw it out rather than let it clog the drain.
He was tall and gawky and if you asked him personal questions, his ears turned red. He asked if I wanted to go out to the pond in the woods. I blushed and told him I couldn’t swim, and he gasped as if he’d been stung. He picked me up so easily, like I weighed nothing. He put me in the trunk of his car. We were laughing.
Much later, a stranger the same size would say, “Hey mama, wanna come home with me?”
I remember I met this one girl passed out on a couch, her dress hiked up around her hips. She was lying in her own vomit. “Let’s keep walking,” someone said, “Don’t get involved.” I was too much empathy in a small body to let her go unprotected. She shivered in the shower we put her in. Her skin was so blue around her eyes, I thought maybe she’d slipped the sky in there. She looked terrified. I asked her how much she drank, she couldn’t say. I asked her how she got here, she bit her lip and shook her head. “My friends… Just left,” she said, “They just left.” Sometimes friends are like that, I guess.
In late nights, I heard Kathrine crying about the things her father had said to her. She once told me that if it was a choice between being born with her learning disabilities and being born without a tongue, she’d choose the latter one. I whispered something of an apology that fell as flat as I felt, we don’t talk about it ever again.
Skeleton hands never stop shaking me awake. Sometimes I think we’re drowning and sometimes I think we are just painted that way. There’s never an excuse not to be dainty. Someone once told me that beauty is pain.
I remember her lips and how they were bright pink, because the words out of them were sick green things. Maggie said she’d swallowed eighty-nine Tylenol two days before. She said they’d filled her with charcoal and had her spit back up the blackness that was swelling like a river inside of her. We were fourteen.
We flirted with people we didn’t know, we used other people’s hands to mess up our hair, we got home late. We towered in heels that hurt to look at. We felt fierce, on fire. We painted our lips blood red and kissed the mirror until we got a perfect mark out of it. We’d spend ages just getting ready. It was the fun part of parties, I guess.
Her spine cracked while she rested her head on my leg. She said, “Let’s never get old, okay?” and I told her that sounded great. Sometimes in the darkness, she’d sound serious about it. I wanted to ask her if she was fighting bigger demons than the ones I can raise, but before I found out, she moved away.
We belonged to a group that was all punchline. Someone says, “teen girls, am I right?” and laughter spreads like ripples through the room.
I remember the first time you find out that they hurt one of your friends, because that’s how you find out you’re not safe either. She looked so whole, and that was the problem. Her mascara wasn’t even running. I watched her tell the story five ten twenty times to officers who shuffled papers and sniffed at every other word and sighed often and looked at their watch even though they were the reason she was talking. They asked her what she was wearing, she gestured to her body: jeans, tee-shirt, hoodie. They asked her if she knew him, she said no. They asked her if she provoked him, she said no. They asked her if she told him to stop, she fell silent. After a while, she’d try to explain the fear that had crept up her throat until she had choked. They sighed. Asked for the story again. She had this look on her face that I still dream about. It looked like someone had sucked her soul out.
Kelly in the ninth grade with her shining face telling me, “One of us is the better person. Everyone always compares us.”
A waiter looking down my shirt and saying, “Just a water for you, huh?”
Ballet class with pin-thin shaking hands and bathrooms that smelt like a bad dream. A teacher who said, “Don’t eat unless you faint, darlings.” You get used to cigarettes in the hands of young girls. You get used to the backstage addictions of “only nine hundred more crunches to go.” You get used to seeing this stuff until one day someone asks you why you know all the calories in a grapenut.
The television saying, “Lose weight, feel great.”
The television saying, “Girls mean nothing.”
The television saying, “If you’re not pretty, you’re not worth discussing.”
The television saying, “If you’re pretty, your personality is awful.”
The television saying, “Spend your money.”
My father telling me: there’s nothing wrong with this system.
If I’m ever not a girl anymore, I’ll always remember that I was a girl once. This sounds like it could have been written by any one of the people I spent my Friday nights with in high school. I don’t like to think about them anymore. But this piece of writing makes me grateful for the experiences I learned from. The experiences I’m still learning from.
I want you to imagine a ten year old version of yourself sitting right there on this couch. Now this is the little girl who first believed that she was fat, and ugly, and an embarrassment.
This is groundbreaking
this is my third time rebloging this today. this is so important.
A friend of mine not from the United States said to me the other day, and this is pretty much a direct quote, “Seriously, dude, your country is scaring the shit out of the rest of us with this Donald Trump thing.” To assure him and others, a few points, covered by others to be sure but worth repeating.
1. The election is 15 months away. Relax, lots will happen between now and then.
2. And what’s going to happen is that the GOP primary voters will eventually settle down and vote for Jeb Bush (or maaaaaybe Scott Walker), who will go on to be defeated by Hillary Clinton in the general election. While it’s a quantum physics universe and anything can happen, realistically, this is how it’s going to go down.
3. But in the meantime, why shouldn’t potential GOP voters have their fun with Trump? Rich assholes are amusing, for a while. This is like that time in high school when you ditched your regular friends for a couple of weeks to hang out with that kid whose parents bought him a Camaro and let him take the speedboat out on the lake by himself and have keg parties at his house when they weren’t around. Eventually you figured out that no one at his parties was actually his friend, they were just there for the beer, and the reason he took you out on the speedboat was because he had no one else to hang out with, because he confused having a lot of money with having a bearable personality. And eventually you went back to your old friends and that was that. Which is to say: Jeb Bush, ’16.
4. But what if I’m wrong? What if Trump waltzes away with the GOP nomination? Well, first, that would be hilarious, and second, then he gets squashed by Hillary in the general, by a much wider margin than she would have against Bush or Walker, in part because then 2016 would see the largest Hispanic voter registration drive ever, and having Donald “racist against Hispanics” Trump as the GOP banner carrier would basically set back Republican attempts to court Hispanics by probably thirty or forty years. It would be entirely deserved too, so there’s that. He’d also have at least some mainstream GOP folks holding their noses and voting for Hillary, I expect.
5. All of which is to say that no one, not even potential GOP voters, expect Trump to get the nod, even as they poll him highly and want him to stay in the race. He’ll make trouble, and he’s making the GOP really uncomfortable by gleefully exposing the fact that so many members of their potential voter base lap up dumbed-down racist populism. But with the latter, Trump didn’t create the demand for dumbed-down racist populism, he’s just exploiting it, and with the former, well, again, this is the time in the election schedule where trouble looks kind of fun. But at the end of the day, most GOP voters will line up behind the person they think has the best chance of actually getting into the White House. That ain’t Trump.
6. Last point? What the GOP really hates about Trump is that if they somehow manage to push him out of the GOP voting pool, they know that means Trump isn’t defeated, he’s just pissed off. It’s entirely possible that his response to being punted will be to run as an independent. If he does, there’s a good chance he’ll peel off four or five percent of the presidential vote: Not enough to win, but more than enough to doom the GOP flag bearer, since it’ll be the GOP from which he’s taking votes. This won’t matter much in my estimation because I don’t expect whoever the GOP runs this election to win, but I wouldn’t expect the GOP to be as sanguine about it.
Basically, the GOP is screwed either way, when it comes to Donald Trump. And Donald Trump will never, ever be president. I could be wrong about this. But I really really don’t think I am.
The possibilities are these: [Sandra] Bland died from an untreated head injury after State Trooper Brian Encinia bashed her head against the pavement and police staged her suicide; Bland died from an epileptic seizure (recall that Encinia’s response to Bland telling him she had epilepsy was “Good”) and police staged her suicide; Bland was killed or died in some other way in police custody and her sucide was staged; or Bland indeed took her own life, after she informed police of previous suicide attempts and they utterly failed to prevent another while she was in their care.
There is no version of events where police are not culpable for Sandra Bland’s death.
And all because Officer Encinia was angry that Sandra Bland knew her rights and was exercising them. No matter how she died, she is dead because that man became enraged that a black woman wouldn’t unquestioningly submit to him.
One of the more difficult tasks in raising the dead is, of course, bringing the newly resurrected zombie, skeleton, or revenant to a comfortable temperature. Our Witchy Stitchy Crafty Coven department has found a simple, yet innovative solution: blankets.
“It is simple hospitality,” according to Calliope, head of the coven. “We wrap the poor dears up and offer a steaming mug of skullsbane cocoa. Peps them right up!” she added with a bone-chilling cackle.
Starting immediately, all dead raised by Evil Supply Co. will be provided a fleece blanket marked with jack-o-lanterns, fuzzy black cats, ghost icons, or any number of similar graphics.
“HELLO NEIGHBOR STEVE, I WOULD LIKE TO INVITE YOU TO BARBEQUE ON THE EVE OF THE BLOOD MOON. I FEEL WE GOT OFF TO A BAD START.”
“NEIGHBOR STEVE, DO YOU NOT WISH TO PARTAKE OF THE UNCLEAN FLESH-MEATS OF PIGS AND THE POLLUTED ESSENCES OF TOMATO? PERHAPS YOU ARE A CAROLINA STYLE MAN, NEIGHBOR STEVE?”
“PUT THE GUN AWAY NEIGHBOR STEVE, YOU KNOW I SHALL ONLY RISE AGAIN WITH THE DAWNING OF THE MOON. WE HAVE BEEN THROUGH THIS MANY TIMES.”
“LOOK AT THIS PICTURE MY SON DREW OF YOU AND CHILD TIMMY, YOUR SON. ARE THEY NOT THE PICTURE OF PACT-MATES? THIS COULD BE YOU AND ME, NEIGHBOR STEVE.”
“YOU MISSED THE UNHOLY NEXUS OF POWER THAT IS THE KEY TO MY CORPOREAL FORM, NEIGHBOR STEVE. YOU WILL NEED TO RELOAD NOW, SO I WILL GO INSIDE TO MY HELL-WIFE AND PUT YOU DOWN AS A SOLID ‘MAYBE’.“
I have the feeling that the families get along great except for Steve. Like, the wives are baking (questionable) brownies together, the kids are playing together, Antler Guy occasionally takes Son and Timmy to school (no car, just carries them in huge swinging strides through a nexus of ungoldly sights in a swirling netherworld shortcut. Sometimes they stop for McDonalds). Hell-wife gave them a potted Audrey Jr., Steve’s wife (who I now christen Sharon) gave them a begonia.
One time Steve tries throwing holy water but all Antler Guy does is thank him, saying that no, Antler Guy isn’t Catholic but it’s the thought that counts, he is so kind to water his creeping deathshade vines regardless.
For Christmas Antler Guy gives Steve a case of ammunition. To be funny/sarcastically mean Steve gets Antler Guy the world’s most hideous Christmas sweater, singing light-up reindeer included. He immediately regrets it because not only does Antler Guy love it and wears it for several months, it will never need batteries because Antler Guy powers it with his own eldritch aura.
When they come back from a holiday to Hawaii, Steve is horrified to find out Sharon bought them matching Hawaiian shirts. He is even more horrified that his wife means it that if he doesn’t wear it he will forever sleep on the couch.
SO glad my brats are WAY too lazy for this sort of nonsense.
Jeremy Husted has a Canary security camera setup in his kitchen that recently caught one of his cats sneaking around the top of the cabinets then suddenly jumping down to the center island right into the chicken he was about to put into the oven. Husted was then faced with the decision to go ahead with making the meal or not. As the video was going viral, he addressed some of comments on reddit:
This sort of blew up after I got home from work. The comments are hilarious; they seem to be divided into three areas: This was staged, Did you eat the dinner and/or the cat, and You are involved in some sort of New Yorker communist conspiracy. Truly, exactly the sort of gold I surf Reddit for anyways. My response:
No, it was not staged, my cats routinely hang out above the kitchen cabinets to avoid the dog, though this is the first time they’ve assaulted my food. Yes, my wife and I ate the delicious chicken dinner, kitty litter and all. I hope the heat (and cat saliva as the comments have informed me) killed off the germs. Finally, The New Yorker is still the best literary magazine in circulation today. I only read the fiction, but whatever. Go read it. Thanks Reddit, you made my day!
The nereid, a water nymph, sat in the call center, idly staring at her screen. “Thank you for calling IT, please reboot your computer,” she droned on in a thick monotone.
The customer, an irate old man from somewhere in the middle part of the United States, began rambling on and on about inconsequential technology well outside of warranty. And this decade, for that matter.
“Sir… yes, sir, will you please lower your voi– Sir. Sir! SIR!”
It might be worth mentioning that the product he was calling about was not made by the company the nereid works for.
In frustration, she placed the call on hold, stood up, removed her headset, and walked to the fountain in the office’s entry. “Another rough one, Samma?” the receptionist chirped.
“Yeah, I’m going to be late back from lunch,” the nereid grumbled as she dipped her toes into the fountain. “I’m going to go teach this fool some damn manners.” By the time she had finished speaking, her physical form was completely submerged in the fountain. It spluttered, just slightly, as the fey creature began her journey down through the pipes.
“Native Americans, making up just .8 percent of the population, are the victims in 1.9 percent of police killings. When the numbers are broken down further, they reveal that Native Americans make up *three of the top five top age-groups killed by law enforcement.”
She's right, it does. Not because of anything that the young man has done, will do, or even COULD do. We have been conditioned to hate each other. We are in the grip of a systematically racist society and culture. People have spent a lot of time and a lot of money making us all angry at and scared of each other. Don't blame the individuals who voice their problematic views. Point out where their views come from, and try to convince them to help us dismantle this nightmare we live in.
Y’all still wanna vote for this old white feminist thot
ewwww….
Hills, you’re the worst.
“I mean if we’re honest, for a lot of well-meaning, open-minded white people, the sight of a young black man in a hoodie still evokes a twinge of fear,” Clinton said.
Hillary’s statement raises a number of questions, first of which is: does Hillary Clinton feel a twinge of fear at the sight of a young black man in a hoodie?
Or, if you want to come at the issue from a different angle: Is she “honest?” What about “well-meaning?” Does Hillary Clinton view herself as being “open-minded?” If so, her remarks seem to very clearly suggest that she may in fact feel a twinge of fear at the sight of a young black man in a hoodie.
Then again, given the conditions she listed — honest, well-meaning, and open-minded — perhaps Hillary didn’t have herself in mind at all.
We’ve seen several fusions now, but despite Steven mirroring the audience’s desire to see them, only a few have been presented as a positive thing. All the others were demonstrated by the show and by Steven’s in-show reaction to be distinctly negative for everyone involved.
For the positive, we have Garnet, Opal, and Stevonnie (Opal is rocky, but she got the Garnet seal-of-approval in Giant Woman, and Garnet is probably our authority on healthy fusions). Garnet and Opal are seen to be quite similar, actually - cases in which her two halves’ differences balance out in a fusion, instead of compounding similarities like Sugilite.
For the negative, we have Sugilite (who shows how dangerous fusion can be), Sardonyx (who was downright mean to Amethyst - call it shade all you will, but I sure wouldn’t like my friends to form up and then talk about me like that), Rainbow Quartz (Who was a being of pure spite and completely failed the Garnet Litmus Test), and, of course, Malachite. Alexandrite gets a by because she’s too monstrous and unstable to really have a distinct personality.
So what is the difference between the positively-represented fusions and the negatively represented fusions?
Communication.
Rebecca Sugar is putting a story about consent and communication right in front of us. What’s the difference between Opal and, say, Sardonyx? When forming Opal, both Pearl and Amethyst have the same intention. They’re both know why they’re doing it (to save Steven) and they are both equal parties in the fusion. For Sardonyx, not only was Pearl lying about her motivations, she was also not viewing the fusion as a fusion of equals (I think Garnet was - she doesn’t actually think she’s better than her friends, and she seems to hate that they think she is). Same goes for Rainbow Quartz, who was again a being composed of two different motivations and no communication of those motivations (Rose just wanted to put on a show, Pearl wanted to mark Rose as her territory). Sugilite is much the same as Sardonyx. Malachite was obviously and deliberately formed with two different intentions.
Garnet has turned into a sort of relationship guru for the show. She gives people advice, seems to have good knowledge of what is healthy and unhealthy, and is held up often as an ideal relationship. She considers herself a conversation. Trust and honesty aren’t just important to her - they are literally what she is. I can’t imagine how trying all these fusions based on dishonest principles must be for her.
The importance of honest communication is the number one theme of this show. If the gems don’t start actually talking to each other sharpish, they are going to fall apart.
Hey people, please follow this person because their commentary is spot on and gets far less attention that it deserves.
All Hoon Sunwoo wanted was to drink a beer with his friend. But his friend has celiac disease, an autoimmune condition in which a person generates an immune response to gluten, a mix of proteins found in anything from pasta to soy sauce. The resulting inflammation limits that person’s ability to digest and absorb key nutrients from food. Luckily for his friend, Hoon Sunwoo is a professor of pharmacology at the University of Alberta, and he’s spent the last 10 years developing a pill that his friend could take before drinking a beer so that he wouldn’t feel sick afterward.
When a person with celiac disease takes the pill, antibodies found in egg yolk coat the gluten as it passes through the digestive tract. That way, it doesn’t stimulate the sensitive gluten receptors in the small intestine. The pill has to be taken five minutes before eating, and works for a maximum of two hours, during which the person could chug beer or chow down on pizza worry-free.
The pill isn’t a treatment or a cure for celiac, Sunwoo tells the CBC—it’s just a way to improve a patient’s quality of life.
Through a partnership between the University of Alberta and biotech company IGY Incorporated, the pill completed its first phase of clinical trials two months ago in Canada showing that it’s safe. Its developers plan to start the next phase showing the pill’s efficacy next year. If all goes well, the pill could be available commercially in just two to three years, according to some reports.
“Suddenly even hardcore law-and-order enthusiasts are realizing the criminal code is so broad and littered with so many tiny technical prohibitions that a determined enough police officer can stop and/or arrest pretty much anybody at any time.
[…]
Law-and-order types like to lecture black America about how it can avoid getting killed by “respecting authority” and treating arresting cops like dangerous dogs or bees.
But while playing things cool might prevent killings in some instances, it won’t stop police from stopping people without reason, putting their hands on suspects or jailing people like Bland for infractions that at most would earn a white guy in a suit a desk ticket. That’s not just happening in a few well-publicized cases a year, but routinely, in hundreds of thousands or even millions of incidents we never hear of.
That’s why the issue isn’t how Sandra Bland died, but why she was stopped and detained in the first place. It’s profiling, sure, but it’s even worse than that. It’s a systematic campaign to harass people, using misdemeanors and violations as battering ram – a campaign that’s been going on forever, and against which there’s little defense. When the law can be stretched to mean almost anything, obeying it is no magic bullet.”
The way I see it, “Slave Leia” embodies the objectification, sexism, and fetishization of Princess Leia in that metal bikini in Return of the Jedi, while also highlighting that she was passive and helpless at the mercy of Jabba the Hutt.
“Leia the Huttslayer” is a badass who takes matters into her own hands and strangles the life out of that disgusting sexist slug that dared to control her with the very chain he tried to leash her with. (Also, it’s way more metal, and if a girl’s gotta wear a metal bikini she’s earned a metal epithet to go with it.)
Super Opinionated.
